#who am i if not prince of cringe?

[qiacord]

okay, but sylvanas after all shadowlands mess somehow was sent back into her body at the moment she broke free of the lich king's control.

reality with one nuance. in this reality she had a secret romance with one promising kirin tor apprentice

[gruvu]

Super sad, full of despair, and my hope for a happy ever after for our heroes is dying SO to defend my fragile heart here is our frog. That heron had it coming.

[peachysunrize]

Jokes on Condal I can write a better Aemond than him

[undertheredhood]

so i'm watching the dragon prince rn, and i don't know how the other characters are listening to viren talk and not immediately burst into laughter because that man is the corniest motherf*cker there is.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

thinking about how of course billions is about people trapped in eternal battle world, and trapped because they won't ever exit, and don't want to because that's the only way they can define their idea of themself or like move through life, to the degree they have to just create or find another battle if one ends or they don't have enough going on at once or they're unhappy about anything & can only respond to that the only way they'll respond to anything: finding someone to consider a target to Defeat & being like nice, i'm so competent & active as a person, so with any other issues in my life, i'm sure it's not my fault at least

and it's been clear that to be someone at the Center of the show means needing to be inflexible enough to never leave that life, which also probably means never engaging in genuine self-reflection besides like, fuming in distress for 5 sec & then immediately searching for blame for someone else, or calling up your designated moral supporter who'll tell you you're upset b/c you're very complex & sympathetic & maybe if you do [xyz] you'll be able to Keep Winning, so like, don't worry, we'll never get too off track here. you have someone like connerty who cares so much about playing by the rules ft. ethics, but he was also someone completely inflexible who would give a shit like "ha ha you broke the law" and be Defeated b/c like yeah damn you do got him in that situation. he may then have gained the flexibility to throw a punch when he's already imprisoned but he's still just gotta retire & pursue some completely different goals

this in contrast with like, what a coincidence (surely not) that the more flexible characters are the ones who also do introspect & reflect & genuinely think about & question themselves ever, & how even beyond that, being in this world of people who overwhelmingly are thee opposite & aiming for a static sense of self & thus strategy for navigating life & all interactions & situations, the more reflective parties also tend to accept both Blame & the fruitlessness of pushing for more/different/better from the people & relationships & situations they're amongst. those willing to take on responsibility at all surrounded by people casting all of it off, always, w/the former already primed to take blame & the latter primed to be looking to find the blame in anyone else, a powerful mismatch....which allows the flexible parties to also put up with shit for longer lol like if they got fed up that quickly or recognized the dead-end here they'd just leave the show lol. like wow can't believe taylor spent their whole life already stuck having to deal with someone who's so very much like these bullshit central men & those trying to emulate them, & perhaps also then have a lifetime of experience extending endless patience & sympathy with little to no expectations for more from people who put up with such a bullshit man & his effects on everything around him, like, what do you mean taylor's mom hasn't seen them b/c douglas didn't want to see them b/c he wasn't yet motivated enough to have to exercise begrudging shows of basic respect. whilest sure seems like taylor felt more concern & basically stated their responsibility re: trying to make their relationship with their dad work / basically take on the task of making his life work for him according to his sense of himself (genius! who deserves the recognition thusly!) and doesn't seem to take on this role re: their mom, who nevertheless is just presumed to move closer to them along w/douglas. and here's taylor never truly putting their foot down re: wendy, no matter what, able to have no real positive expectations in how wendy treats them or thinks of them, but also always able to extend sympathy / decent treatment themself

thinking of like team ben out here as the Nicer axe cap or mpc people who also happen to be people absorbing the L's, blaming themselves for being at the bottom of the hierarchy & being subjected to the always negative treatment doled out to them accordingly, and, winstonesquely, still generally like extending genuine gestures of amicability, efforts of constructive actual communication, etc, & this being shut down & likely punished by all the people around them who won't handle that kind of thing. that Of Course nobody's actually supported around here, like, at best they'll get some kind of "well you're actually talented & valuable :)...." (so why aren't they already treated in a way such that they're aware of this?) "....so just have more confidence already god!" wherein (a) again that just means it's Their Fault that they're having a miserable time at the hands of others & (b) their having "confidence" doesn't really mean like, an emotional buffer between their sense of self-esteem & the message of inferiority in how they're treated, it has to mean externally acting different in some ways, more like A Winner, more like everyone else. the limits of ben trying to sometimes be a buffer for tuk as that kind of friend/mentor role, where either it simply fails or ben's Help is more unilateral "correction." that generally only any increase in aggressive hostility gets them anywhere, and really not that far.

the way dollar bill could always act however he wanted & they could always clean up his messes / save him from himself / just flatout blame other people for what dollar bill did to them or someone else; success in being a mini axe in that way for sure. dollar bill going off the rails over his literal dollar bill & that's not a problem, he's validated b/c he's upset, & b/c rudy knew he'd be upset it's really all rudy's fault....who just so happens to be more of a loser, what with his glasses & possible masturbation ever and all. whilest even when dollar bill is like every season being shit at his job & life, well, just find a loser to trounce while everyone ignores this, cheers you on, takes on responsibility for fixing things for you, blames the person targeted probably. dollar bill couldn't even do in office transphobic hate crime physical attacks, or that but while yelling the r word at the autistic guy he's already harrassing & threatening, without it being really basically the target's fault, & hey, as long as no investors are watching. and we're still dragging dollar bill back to the office b/c uhhh yeah!!

& then of course there's winston, who, like a loser, says things in real efforts for real communication with others, that they winningly can only bring themselves to respond to as "he's not allowed to talk, that's out of line, i have to punish/deny this to reassert our respective status" except for, sometimes, taylor actually communicating in turn, or even simply receiving the information. winston in a duo with the very winning & worthy rian, being something of a quasirival for 5 seconds but even during then, and since, trying to be amicable to establish an actually positive dynamic, trying for actual communication, engaging flexibly & actively based on her feedback & her terms & etc to try to find some more success; versus rian completely inflexible, unwilling to respond to efforts to communicate, unwilling to have an actual relationship with any flexibility & genuineness in turn, or see winston as a person of course, and engage with real emotions. which is hardly an exclusive response of hers, like, everyone else is just the same, she's just also the one interacting with him more often and personally bullying him & standing next to him & immediately responding with clear contempt when he tries things like earnest expressions of "hey rian could you not do what you just did b/c it makes me feel like shit, probably b/c that's what you're trying to do" and "hey that was cool what you just did b/c it makes me feel like—" b/c like, what a loser. real winners cannot handle engaging with another person as a person. when you can just make up & stick to a narrative about "oh but i don't hate winston, who i feel is inherently beneath me. i wouldn't wanna feel bad about killing him, not when i could feel fine about administering more of a death by a thousand cuts with some other people helping out & hey maybe it was their cut that did it after all....but also if you're like 'pwease' then eh sure" or that winston's got a lesser inner existence anyways, some classic dehumanization, no complexity there, & hurting him isn't real, & it'd never be you in his position anyways! especially the more you're buying into "yeah i'm more of a person / more deserving / more real & sympathetic & correct than him :)" & being cheered on as you act that out. pretty cringe of winston to be earnest, flexible, openly trying & wanting & needing things, sounds bad & silly. unlike the winners around him who really cannot handle him or any of these things about him. of course near equivalent in loserness, tuk, is the person with the realest most amicable relationship with him. both of them too incompetent to realize their mutual failings in this, ha ha, real winners are repulsed & fleeing & can't handle a basic exchange with either of them. and the imbalance re: how little others are willing to give them in interest, consideration, time, words, etc, while they're always trying Too Much re: the disinterested others, totally proves their unworthiness

winston and tuk always having to stay at the bottom of the hierarchy, winston only able to be shitted on even as he extricates himself, ending up surrounded by people who will only act "correctly" according to their superior roles & this mf wags only processing anything as "did that reinforce my being a correct/winning person???" & only responding by trying to reassert to others how much of a winner they are, which requires establishing a loser, and crushing them. winston having recognized / gotten fed up with a bullshit scenario & had realistic expectations of those around them & spent those years being treated like shit yet never crushing an enemy to restore his ego & also spent those years trying to communicate and work with others and share actual info and make actual connections & now independently choosing to make a big shift in his life so that things can be different? is definitely the contemptible loser here while everyone else looks very good faffing around for an episode getting some temporary ego boosts & being very "correct" in every response to winston, even pointing out that rian even noticing something genuine & positive from winston in the absence of it anywhere is first & foremost incorrect, which rian will Also immediately drop in the face of that "well yeah it's more correct to prioritize Anything else. like that he's pathetic & mpc 5ever" like wuh oh rian being doomed from 5x08 "time to embrace acting more correct now" & being truly inflexible from that point on, never had a moment of conflict not resolved by [ignoring that] &/or again just getting someone more correct to declare how it'll be answered. taylor at their most flexible and Taylorest and most juxtaposed with central men & static ossified "winners" when they are also at their best in engaging with winston. taylor Like winston & vice versa in so many substantial & interesting ways, despite their relating to / sympathizing with / devoting much more effort & interest to people more like the central men. that here we are, when taylor might have to give up on Being A Winner, someone who'll walk away with status & resources & a seamless transition into some established business foundation, to really get the wins that matter, against pince, &/or to clock out of a sunk cost factory, &/or to not have strangled every part of themself that can be in conflict with this general situation into eternal dormancy. don't You dare blame latency lol, the taylor who gets to exist outside the conditional "well i guess you're a winner who's very useful to me, like dumping work on you & blaming you if it goes awry. and you can act like a Real winner in the ways that really matter (crushing people)"....is also a taylor who can be rejected & shut down & shut out & have their value denied & be treated shittily despite even knowing they'd be / are good at this shit, superlatively even, & could never feel okay just being regarded as a tool stashed away at someone's disposal. & Has been treated shittly & is liable to accept blame, unilateral responsibility for other's selves & feelings & actions & lives, & marinate in self-loathing. while people who refuse any introspection, questioning, responsibility, awareness, etc, & refuse to handle the least of genuine interactions/relationships with others as real people, are glad to scoff at them & dismiss them & imply or assert their superiority, like, wow have You got a lot to learn, or maybe you can't b/c you're inherently inferior. all just like re: winston!

tl;dr shoutout to the flexible characters who like can & do reflect & change things up actually, just so happening to always be Losing for this in the [only way to win is not to play] arena of fake winners seeing if they can consider themselves superior to everyone else & only even possibly correct always & forever, in the pyramid scheme of social hierarchy & also capitalism

[imminent-danger-came]

I'm like. I'm deranged. I'm deranged on here. I need to dial it back (< won't do that in the slightest)

[solxamber]

Starstruck || Malleus Draconia

After debuting with a gothic, fantasy-inspired theme, you somehow managed to hit Malleus Draconia’s exact vibe. Now, the fae prince has single-handedly appointed himself your Number One Fan—and he's taking his job very, very seriously.

It’s finally happening. After years of grinding it out in practice rooms, singing until your voice was raw, and dancing until your legs felt like spaghetti, the moment of truth has arrived. The managers want you to decide on your debut concept.

In front of you are two choices: school theme and gothic fantasy. You glance over at the school uniform option and cringe a little inside. At your age? No, thank you.

You’re not about to spend your precious debut years waving around pom-poms and trying to look sixteen. Gothic fantasy, on the other hand? Now that’s got some style. Dark cloaks, intense lighting, elaborate costumes—it’s exactly the drama you’ve been craving.

Your manager stands beside you, flipping through a spreadsheet with an expression that can only be described as financially preoccupied.

“Listen,” he says, in a tone that suggests he’s already decided, “school theme has a mass appeal. It’s relatable. Kids these days love a little campus vibe. And you know, uniform sales have great margins…”

“I’m doing gothic fantasy,” you reply, crossing your arms with a confidence that could stop a truck.

He blinks at you. “Okay, sure, I get the allure. But are you sure? Think of the numbers, the opportunities to connect with the youth. Imagine the adorable school scenes, the casual sports day outfits, the innocent love plots…”

“Imagine the smoke machines and black roses,” you counter, eyes gleaming.

He tries another angle. “Well, just consider the feedback from market research. School themes are—"

“Gothic. Fantasy.”

He sighs deeply, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, “These artists and their egos,” but gives in, albeit with a look of absolute resignation. “Fine. Gothic fantasy it is. But you’re taking full responsibility if it flops.”

Release day arrives, and your first single—complete with a dramatic, shadow-filled video and costumes that look like something out of a Victorian vampire drama—hits the internet. The reactions are… intense.

Sure, maybe it’s not an overnight sensation, but it’s more than enough to get people talking. Your fans? They’re not your typical “bought it for the vibes” crowd. They are deeply invested.

You’re talking about people who can recite your lyrics like a spell. You even see fan forums cropping up where people dissect the symbolism of your music videos. There’s a post dedicated to the exact shade of black eyeliner you’re wearing, and someone actually counted how many flickers each candle has in the video.

One day, as you’re scrolling through the comments, a particularly poetic fan post catches your eye: “The ethereal aura this idol has given us with their gothic artistry is like a dark gift from another realm.”

Okay, maybe the fandom is a little… intense. But you can’t help but grin.

It all starts innocently enough.

One day, Lilia’s showing Malleus some music videos he calls "classics" (pretty sure some of them are just 20 minutes of bats screeching over synthesizers, but to each their own).

But, as fate would have it, Malleus stumbles across your latest release. His eyes widen as the screen fills with your dark aesthetic, the intense melodies, the dramatic lighting, the black roses swirling around you like a misty dreamscape. He’s hooked.

The video ends, and he turns to Lilia, awestruck. “Who is this human?” he asks, as if you’re some kind of ancient artifact discovered under a full moon.

“Oh, that’s a new artist. Apparently, they’re pretty talented.” Lilia raises an eyebrow, amused by Malleus’s reaction. “Why? Fancy yourself a fan, young master?”

“A fan?” Malleus looks scandalized. “Lilia, I am enchanted.”

Malleus’s enchantment quickly turns into an obsession. He spends the next few days discovering every song, music video, interview, and even those mildly embarrassing “What’s in My Bag?” videos where you show off your essentials (you had no idea one video about your favorite scented candles could attract such intense devotion).

He watches one interview where the host asks if you’re afraid of fae, and you reply with a casual, “Nah, I’d love to visit them one day.”

This is what seals the deal for Malleus. This human is not only a talented artist but also respectful, brave, and curious about the fae world. He has found his idol.

He decides it’s time to support you. And, because he’s the literal prince of the Briar Valley, he does what any fae royalty would: he orders some of your albums.

One hundred of them, to be exact.

In Malleus’s defense, he has absolutely zero concept of money. To him, it’s normal to go big. So he clicks “order” without even thinking, and in his mind, it’s done. Simple.

A few days later, when the delivery truck pulls up with boxes upon boxes upon boxes, Malleus’s reaction is… complicated.

He stares at the delivery man, then back at the wall of albums now stacked in front of him, and mutters, “I may have made a mistake.”

But Malleus Draconia is no quitter. So he devises a new plan: he’ll distribute these albums across the Briar Valley. Anyone who even mildly expresses an interest gets an album handed to them with an enthusiasm that’s both heartwarming and slightly terrifying.

It doesn’t take long before every fae in the valley knows your name, and soon enough, your music is echoing through the mystical woods. You, a mere human, are now an icon among the fae. The legend of the human idol with the beautiful music, who’s brave enough to express curiosity about fae life, spreads like wildfire.

Meanwhile, you’re in the middle of a heated argument with your manager. Despite your loyal fanbase, your concert venues are… sparsely filled, to put it kindly.

“I don’t know how to make this any clearer,” your manager says, waving his phone around for emphasis. “We need more fans, more sold-out shows, or it’s not going to be viable to keep booking these venues!”

You’re about to respond when his phone dings. Then again. And again. Suddenly, it sounds like he’s strapped a vibrating blender to his hand. Ding, ding, ding, dingdingdingding.

“What the…?” He stares at the screen, his expression shifting from annoyance to shock. “I—it says you’ve sold out every single venue. Wait, wait—there’s a waiting list for tickets that haven’t even been put on sale yet?”

He looks at you, blinking in astonishment. “I never doubted you for a second!” he declares with all the sincerity of a used car salesman. You roll your eyes. “Sure, pal.”

Later that night, you decide to check the fan forum for yourself. And something strikes you as… odd. Suddenly, all these usernames sound like they belong to a fantasy RPG. You scroll through names like “Elder_Oak_Watcher,” “Pixie_Phenomenon,” and “Darkthorn_Dreamweaver” and can’t help but wonder if your fandom has fully committed to your fantasy vibe. You chalk it up to hardcore fans. Nothing suspicious, right?

The agency celebrates by booking more venues, announcing a new merch line, and—wait for it—a raffle event for a day with you. You’re thrilled but mostly relieved that things are finally looking up.

Cut to the Briar Valley, where Malleus gets wind of the fan meeting announcement. His eyes practically sparkle with delight.

“I have a chance to spend time with them?” he murmurs, clutching the announcement poster like it’s a sacred artifact.

“Of course, you do!” Lilia chimes in, grinning. “And if you’re really eager, I could help improve your odds.”

Silver, overhearing, asks. “Are we really doing this?”

“It’s for young master Malleus!” Sebek hisses, practically vibrating with devotion. “If he wishes to meet this human, we will ensure he wins that raffle! Even if I don’t understand why he’d—” He pauses, scowling. “—lower himself to that level for a human.”

Lilia waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, Sebek, let Malleus enjoy his hobby! It’s rare to see him so enchanted. Besides, a bit of human culture never hurt anyone!”

Silver shrugs, giving Malleus a supportive smile. “If this makes you happy, Malleus, we’ll all enter on your behalf.”

Sebek bristles. “Very well, if it is the young master’s wish, I, too, shall enter—though I don’t understand this human obsession.”

Lilia claps him on the shoulder. “Consider it a show of loyalty to the crown.”

Sebek mutters something about “weird human tastes” but agrees nonetheless. And with that, your raffle odds have just quadrupled, courtesy of the most enthusiastic and unhinged fae entourage you never knew you needed.

Malleus beams, and for once, the usual silence in Briar Valley is replaced with something very unexpected: the excited murmurs their prince getting ready for his ultimate fan meeting.

It’s your first “Unboxing Fan Mail!” livestream, and you’re bubbling with excitement as you tear through letters and packages. You’re halfway through reading a pile of cute fan letters when one catches your eye: an envelope with a hand-drawn gargoyle. This thing has personality.

“Whoa…,” you mutter as you carefully open it. Inside, you find a letter, written in such flowery, old-fashioned cursive you almost need a magnifying glass. Clearing your throat, you read a part of it aloud:

"Your craft has brought light and delight to the shadows of our realm. It is rare to encounter such reverence and elegance in a human. Know that your courage and respect have earned you an esteemed place in the hearts of those from lands beyond mortal reach. Enclosed is a token of my admiration—a rose from my homeland, blessed to be as timeless as the admiration I hold for you.

Sincerely,

M.D.”

It takes a second for the words to fully sink in. Your gaze drifts to the box sitting beside you, which you unwrap with careful fingers. Inside lies a single Briar rose—its petals dark and lush, radiating a faint magical shimmer that tells you this is no ordinary gift. The rose feels alive, pulsing softly with ancient magic. You gently lift it, brushing a fingertip along the petal’s edge, feeling the cool, unyielding softness.

And suddenly, you feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Oh… wow,” you manage, voice wavering. You blink back tears but don’t quite succeed, pressing a hand to your mouth in a mix of joy and disbelief. “Thank you so much, M.D. This is… this is beautiful. I don’t even have words.”

Back in the Briar Valley, Malleus is watching the livestream playback with his usual calm demeanor… until he sees you crying. His face falls, and he looks at Lilia, horrified. “Did I… upset them? My letter was meant to honor them, not… bring tears.” He’s practically pale. Well, paler than usual.

“Oh, don’t fret,” Lilia chimes in with a laugh, patting Malleus on the shoulder. “They’re just happy! Look how much they loved it. You brought them pure joy!”

Malleus blinks. “So… I have not offended them?”

“Far from it! In fact,” Lilia says with a knowing smirk, “I think you’re officially their number one fan.”

Malleus’s eyes narrow with sudden, unshakeable determination. “Of course, I am,” he says, as if this is the most obvious truth in the world. “Who else could claim that title?”

You have no idea what you've gotten into.

It’s your first concert. The crowd is buzzing, their voices creating a low hum that vibrates through the walls, yet you’re backstage with a knot in your stomach that feels about the size of a boulder.

You shift from foot to foot, hands clammy as you grip the mic, wondering if this is actually a good idea or if you should just make a break for it now and head for the hills.

A voice echoes through the earpiece: “Three minutes, everyone!”

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself as the band gives you encouraging nods. All those years of training, of dreaming, of rehearsing until your feet felt like they’d fall off—this is what it was for.

Your fans are out there, waiting. You can already hear some of them chanting your name. And slowly, your nerves start to melt away, replaced by a surge of adrenaline.

The lights dim. You step onto the stage, heart pounding, and the audience erupts. Thousands of people, waving lights and singing the opening notes of your debut song back to you.

The energy washes over you, filling every corner of your soul, and suddenly there’s no room left for doubt.

The music pours out of you, and the crowd’s response is instant, electric. They're clapping, cheering, and singing along. You almost forget to breathe as you realize—they know every word.

It’s in the middle of your second song, during a moment where the lights are shining right on the front row, that you spot something peculiar.

Wait… Are those… fae?

Not just one, but three of them. And they’re not your typical, “blending in” kind of fans, either. One of them—the tall one with the horns—looks like he’s just stepped out of some mythical kingdom (which, granted, he kind of has). There’s an unmissable aura around him, and his eyes are fixed on you like you’re the most mesmerizing sight he’s ever seen.

The other two fae are close by, each one unique but unmistakably not human. And a very sleepy human is nodding off standing there.

You try to keep performing, but your heart’s pounding for a new reason now. The tall fae—he’s so intense. There’s something captivating, almost otherworldly, in the way he’s watching you, like he’s fully captured by your music. It’s a bit like he belongs here and also… really doesn’t. Yet somehow, he makes it work.

Finally, you reach the interaction part of the concert, the moment where you get to pick a “lucky fan” from the crowd for a backstage pass at your next show. Your mind goes blank for a second as you look over the crowd, but the sight of those fae at the front makes your decision easy. You raise a hand, pointing directly at the tall one, still staring at you with that intense look in his eyes.

You can feel the collective shock from the crowd as you exclaim, “You! Yes, at the front! You’re the lucky winner!”

The tall fae’s eyes widen ever so slightly, a look of pure delight crossing his face as his friends react with either shock or something bordering on exasperation. He steps forward a bit, visibly thrilled, and nods to you as if he’s just received the highest honor imaginable.

Lilia, standing beside Malleus, gives a knowing chuckle. “My, my, our prince has been blessed by fortune,” he teases.

Sebek, looking utterly scandalized, hisses, “The Young Master? At a human’s concert again? With a… backstage pass?” His voice drips with disbelief.

Silver, with a half-smile, murmurs, “Well, he does look happy. That’s what matters, right?”

And Malleus, basking in the moment, seems too happy to notice their reactions. He meets your gaze, nodding as if to say, Yes, it is I, your devoted fan.

And suddenly, you’re beaming, too, because in this moment, you realize—you’re not just performing for humans. You’ve captured the attention of beings beyond the mortal world, and something about that feels… magical.

It’s the day of your next concert, and you’re backstage, mentally preparing yourself. You’d think after the first show, the nerves would be easier to handle, but that flutter of excitement is still there. Just as you’re rehearsing a few last lines, your manager bursts in, a mix of terror and wild enthusiasm lighting up his face.

“You… you’ve got to see this,” he stammers, pulling you toward the edge of the curtain.

“Uh, okay?” You’re confused, but you follow him to peek out onto the crowd.

What you see is not what you expected.

The venue is packed. And not just with your usual audience—no, tonight, the crowd is full of fae. Like, really full of fae. A sprinkle of beastmen, a handful of humans (who look varying levels of petrified), but the overwhelming majority? Fae of every type.

You spot wings, horns, a few floating orbs of light that might just be small fae spirits, and an array of gleaming, wide eyes that are laser-focused on the stage.

In the front row, you catch sight of a familiar face. The tall fae with horns who won your backstage pass last time—he’s here, and still utterly entranced. On impulse, you give a little wave, feeling a bit silly, but somehow unable to resist.

To your surprise, he just stands there, looking stunned, until the black-haired fae next to him nudges him with an elbow. Then, almost shyly, he lifts his hand and waves back.

From Malleus’s perspective, everything is perfect. His people have fallen under your spell just as he has. Watching you emerge to greet the crowd, he’s already enraptured.

You look out into the audience, and then—to his amazement—you look right at him and wave. He freezes, utterly smitten, until Lilia nudges him. After a second, he waves back, his heart doing something he’s quite sure it’s never done before.

The concert begins, and it’s an experience beyond anything you’ve known. The fae audience is surprisingly intense—they’re quiet during the softer moments, like they’re absorbing every note, and then wildly enthusiastic during the high-energy parts.

For a second, you wonder if your music has some kind of magic in it, too. Their reaction fuels your own performance, until the final note echoes out and the crowd erupts in applause.

Then comes the moment of truth: the backstage pass winner’s meet and greet.

You’re resting in the designated room, savoring a post-concert cookie when you hear… raised voices?

“Only the winner is allowed in!” your security guard insists, sounding exasperated.

“And I’m telling you,” someone snaps back, “I won’t allow my master to go in alone to meet a human!”

Curious, you step out to find the same quartet from the front row having a tense standoff with security. The tall one—the same one who keeps catching your eye—looks as serene as ever, while his silver-haired friend seems half-asleep despite the commotion. You raise a hand. “It’s okay! Let them all in.”

The guard reluctantly steps aside, and the four file into the room. There’s an awkward pause as they stare at you, clearly debating who should introduce themselves first. The tall one steps forward, and you offer a small smile.

“So… we finally meet. What’s your name?”

“Malleus,” he says, his voice deep and slightly reverent. “Malleus Draconia.”

You’re about to respond when he holds out a hand—a hesitant, almost formal gesture. Before you can shake it, the green-haired fae scowls, clearly offended. “That’s His Highness to you, Don't causally touch him human!”

You freeze mid-motion. Highness? Fae Royalty?

“Yes,” Malleus says mildly, “though I’d rather you not call me that right now, Sebek. This is a personal occasion.”

“Oh, you’re… royalty.” You take a very controlled breath, willing yourself not to faint.

Malleus nods, completely unfazed, though Lilia snickers under his breath and gives you a little wave. “I apologize if that was not clear before. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You regain your composure. You're a professional. “Right, royalty. Got it. No big deal.” (It’s a huge deal, but you can scream into your pillow later.)

That's when it clicks. M.D, Malleus Draconia, Fae Prince.

In an attempt to break the tension(and to not spiral), you say, “By the way, I loved the little gargoyle you drew on the letter you sent me. It was cute.”

Malleus blinks, visibly taken aback. “You… liked the gargoyle?”

You nod, smiling. “They’re nice to look at.”

For a second, Malleus just stares, and it feels like his entire face is starting to glow. “You appreciate gargoyles?” he says, in a tone that sounds like you’ve just admitted you’re secretly royalty, too.

“Uh, yeah. They’re kinda cool.” You laugh, and Malleus looks like he’s been blessed by every possible deity.

Meanwhile, Sebek mutters something vaguely exasperated, and you catch a snippet: “This human has actually caught the his interest…”

Lilia laughs, giving Malleus a playful nudge. “Well, isn’t that something? I guess you truly are their number one fan, Malleus.”

Malleus nods seriously. “Of course. I am honored to be recognized as such.” His eyes gleam with utter sincerity.

You chat a bit more, exchanging small talk, until you mention offhandedly that your company has been discussing hosting a concert near Briar Valley due to the recent increase in fae fans. Malleus immediately perks up.

“Oh, well, you should simply perform in Briar Valley,” he says, as if offering his personal venue is as easy as lending a pen.

“Wait… seriously?” You look at him, not sure if he’s joking.

“Of course,” Malleus replies earnestly. “I would be delighted to arrange it. As the prince… and your number one fan.” His eyes are so bright and genuine, you can’t help but laugh.

“All right, I’d love that,” you say, heartily amused and impossibly charmed.

As they start to leave, an idea pops into your head. “Hey, Malleus, do you want a picture together?”

He blinks, clearly surprised. “A picture? I… would be honored.”

You take out your phone, getting into position, and then, on a whim, you lean over and kiss him on the cheek right as you snap the photo.

From the doorway, Sebek lets out a scandalized squawk, and your manager looks like he’s about to pass out. But Malleus? He’s wide-eyed, staring at you like you’ve granted him the greatest gift in existence.

With a wink, you murmur, “Consider it a special gift for my biggest fan.”

For a second, Malleus just stands there, wide-eyed, and then, slowly, a delighted, utterly smitten smile spreads across his face.

The concert in Briar Valley turns out to be way more fun than you could’ve ever imagined. You were nervous at first—after all, you’re literally performing in a hidden fae realm with the kind of audience that probably doesn’t even need speakers to hear you.

But once you get started, the vibe is incredible. The fae are enthusiastic, cheering and applauding in that slightly mystical way they have. Their clapping sounds like wind chimes, and every so often, you think you see little trails of magic light in the crowd.

And right in the front row, like always, is Malleus Draconia. He’s the picture of regal elegance, standing out in his official Briar Valley attire, looking like he’s attending some kind of royal ceremony. You’d almost laugh at the contrast—Malleus, dignified and regal, surrounded by a crowd absolutely hyped for a pop concert. And, because you can’t resist, you give him a cheeky wink mid-song.

Malleus doesn’t miss a beat; he looks like he’s been struck by some sort of enchantment himself. His cheeks faintly color, but he doesn’t look away, a faint, dazed smile on his face. He’s living his best fanboy life, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy every second of his reaction.

After the concert ends, Malleus insists on personally escorting you around Briar Valley. You’re beyond thrilled—after all, it’s not every day that a fae prince offers to give you a tour of his homeland. Sebek and Silver, ever loyal, trail behind, with Sebek grumbling under his breath every five seconds about “proper decorum” and “human interactions.”

Meanwhile, Lilia is there for the pure entertainment of it all, throwing you little mischievous grins whenever you glance back at him.

As you’re strolling down a cobblestone path lined with Briar roses, you feel the first drop of rain on your cheek. “Oh no, I didn’t bring an umbrella…”

But the second you say it, there’s a flurry of movement. Malleus, Sebek, Silver, and Lilia all open umbrellas in perfect unison, like some kind of magical boy band choreography. Sebek even has an extra umbrella on standby, which he’s holding out to you with a solemn look.

But before you can notice it, Malleus shoots him a look that could probably summon a thunderstorm, and Sebek reluctantly withdraws, muttering darkly under his breath about “Etiquette.”

Meanwhile, Lilia, never one to miss an opportunity, flings the extra umbrella into a bush with a casual flick of his wrist before you can even notice.

He turns to Silver and Sebek with a bright grin, “Come now, let’s give the two some space! Isn’t it so romantic?” Sebek looks horrified, about to argue, but Lilia’s already dragging him and Silver away, leaving you alone with Malleus.

So now it’s just the two of you, standing in the rain, with Malleus holding his large, intricately decorated umbrella over both of you. The umbrella’s big enough that it shields you from the rain easily, but that doesn’t stop Malleus from stepping a little closer, just to be sure.

There’s an awkward, giddy silence as you continue to walk side by side. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, and your hands brush against each other occasionally. Finally, he clears his throat and says, “Did you enjoy the concert? Briar Valley’s… first, of this sort.”

“Oh, definitely!” you say, grinning. “It was amazing to see so many fae enjoying the music. And you were right up front! You didn’t have to—”

“It was… my pleasure,” Malleus replies, his deep voice a little softer than usual. “I wanted to see everything as closely as possible.” There’s an endearing awkwardness to him that only makes him more captivating.

From the moment you met him, you thought Malleus was just a really dedicated fan—sweet, if a bit intense, but ultimately adorable. Sure, he’s got that tall, dark, and slightly terrifying vibe with the horns and the whole royal aura, but he’s also so polite and gentle that you can’t help but find it cute.

But now, as you walk under the same umbrella, his warmth just inches away, it hits you with sudden clarity. Oh, I am so, so screwed.

Because you might like him a little bit. Scratch that—a lot a bit.

Malleus glances at you, noticing the sudden shift in your expression. “Is something amiss?” His voice is gentle, genuinely concerned.

“Oh! No, I’m fine. Just, uh, a little tired from the show,” you say quickly, brushing it off.

Malleus doesn’t look entirely convinced but accepts your answer with a soft nod. Then, almost shyly, he extends his hand. “Here. It’s quite cold… if you’d like…”

You stare down at his offered hand, feeling your pulse jump. It’s such a small, polite gesture, but it sends your heart racing. You slip your hand into his, feeling his warmth seep into your skin, and a small smile tugs at your lips.

As you walk together under the umbrella, Lilia, peeking from behind a corner with a very exasperated Sebek in tow, smirks to himself. "Ah, young love," he sighs dramatically, as if he were watching a play unfold.

Back under the umbrella, Malleus is telling you about the history of Briar Valley, his voice gentle and filled with pride. You don’t catch half of it because you’re too focused on the way he looks down at you, his eyes soft and completely captivated. Every so often, he leans in a little closer, as if he can’t help himself.

Eventually, you reach the end of the walk, the rain easing off, and Malleus turns to you, looking slightly hesitant. “I hope this evening has been enjoyable for you… I wished for you to see the beauty of Briar Valley, but I… I fear I may have monopolized your time.”

You laugh softly. “Oh, trust me, I think you’re doing a great job of showing me around. Plus,” you add, “it’s not so bad sharing an umbrella with my biggest fan.”

Malleus’s expression lights up, a rare, breathtaking smile breaking across his face. “Yes,” he agrees softly, almost to himself. “Your… biggest fan.”

Before they leave, you impulsively pull out your phone. “Hey, Malleus, would you like to take another picture together? You know, as a memory of Briar Valley?”

Malleus’s eyes widen slightly, but he nods. “I would… like that very much.”

You pose, holding up your phone, and just as you snap the picture, he looks at you with a strange spark in his eyes, he leans over, just barely hesitating, and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek.

Now you’re the one who freezes, absolutely flustered but trying very hard to play it off. You clear your throat, laugh a little too brightly, and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear as if it’s no big deal. “W-Well, um, I guess we’re even now!” you stammer, hoping he doesn’t notice the warmth creeping up your face.

Malleus gives you a small, satisfied smile, clearly pleased with your reaction, while Sebek is beside himself, practically vibrating at a frequency that could power one of your concerts, as he splutters, “YOUNG MASTER, THIS IS—YOU CAN’T JUST—A HUMAN—”

But Lilia just laughs, giving Sebek a playful whack on the back. “Come now, Sebek, it’s all in good fun!"

Sebek looks torn between yelling and fainting, muttering to himself about propriety and why, oh why, would the young master be so entranced by a human?!

You just barely manage to keep it together until they leave, but the second you’re alone, you collapse onto the nearest couch, burying your face in a pillow with a ridiculous grin plastered across your face. Because Malleus Draconia, fae prince and possibly the most loyal fan you’ve ever met, just kissed you on the cheek.

Somehow, you know this is just the beginning.

The fan forum has always been your little comfort zone. You’ve got your dedicated fans, who post lovingly questionable fan art, some surprisingly deep theories about your lyrics, and even the occasional meme thread.

Today, though, you’ve decided to go on a bit of a lurking spree. You want to see what people really think—especially the critics. And you do find critics, of course, all happily airing out their grievances. But what you didn’t expect is the replies.

Each negative comment has an oddly formal, razor-sharp response that’s practically dripping with eloquent disdain, all signed "M.D." You read on, completely baffled until it dawns on you: this is Malleus.

This prince has taken it upon himself to haunt your comment section, like a very sophisticated, slightly unhinged ghost. You try to keep from snickering too loudly as you scroll through his hilarious, painfully dignified rebuttals.

I-like-snails: “I don’t understand the hype. This idol is all looks, no talent.”

M.D.: “Your failure to comprehend excellence in its truest form is unfortunate. To imply that this individual relies solely on appearance demonstrates an astonishing lack of insight. Consider expanding your understanding of ‘talent.’ Signed, M.D.”

real-idol-fan: “I’ve seen cooler concepts than this ‘gothic fantasy’ nonsense. So pretentious.”

M.D.: “Ah, but what is more pretentious, dear critic? To appreciate grandeur or to boast of one’s ‘cool’ concepts with all the subtlety of a loud footstep in the night? Gothic fantasy, as you call it, possesses a depth your mind has yet to comprehend. Signed, M.D.”

aura-aura: “This idol’s lyrics don’t even make sense. They’re just trying to sound deep.”

M.D.: “An intellect as shallow as a millpond would indeed struggle to navigate profound lyrical waters. I urge you to revisit the lyrics in question after reading a book or two on metaphor. Signed, M.D.”

You have to clutch your sides as you scroll through the thread. The idea of Malleus, a literal prince, defending you with words like “millpond intellect” and signing every single comment with his initials—it’s ridiculous.

Ridiculous and, at the same time, ridiculously touching. You’d never asked him to do this, never even thought he’d care about what random people thought of you, but here he is, waging a dignified, solo war in the fan forum trenches.

After several minutes, you take a deep breath and manage to calm down, even though you know you’re never going to look at your fan forum the same way again.

It's interview time and things are going smoothly. You’re answering questions about your latest song, about the creative process behind the music videos. All very normal stuff—until the interviewer grins, pulls out a picture, and holds it up for you to see.

You squint and realize, with dawning horror, that it’s the photo. The one of you and Malleus standing close under the same umbrella, him looking at you like you hung the stars and you, very clearly, smiling back at him. Whoever took it managed to capture a moment that looks... well, almost romantic.

"So," the interviewer says, leaning in with a gleam in their eye, "is this someone special?"

You’re ready to laugh it off, to dismiss it casually with a polite “no,” but... you freeze. Looking at that photo, at the way Malleus is watching you, something catches in your throat. “No, of course not” dies on your lips.

Your mind rewinds to all the times he’s shown up, how he’s silently supported you, those comments on the forum—and suddenly, you can’t deny it, not even to yourself.

“No comment,” you manage to say, but it sounds weak, even to you.

The interviewer’s brow arches, and they chuckle knowingly. Meanwhile, you’re scrambling internally. Oh no. Oh no, you’re in trouble. You’re in deep trouble.

The raffle winner is announced, and your mouth drops open when you hear the name. “Malleus Draconia!” Your eyes scan the crowd and—yep, there he is, beaming in a way that could light up an entire stadium, looking like he’s won the lottery.

Well, technically, he has, but there’s something about his expression that suggests this is the best moment of his life. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you feel the universe smirking, because it knows exactly what it’s doing by sending you this unattainable, royally handsome fae prince.

You’d had some time to think since that interview. The photo, the “no comment,” the dawning horror in your gut as you realized that yes, you’re down bad. Horrifically so. In the week since the interview, you’d come to accept it. The only issue? He's so out of your league, it’s practically laughable.

Meanwhile, Malleus is practically vibrating with excitement. As soon as his name was drawn, half of his kingdom exploded in celebratory fanfare. (To be fair, most of the Briar Valley population had entered the raffle in his name. “Statistical advantage,” Lilia had called it.)

By the time he gets home, he’s already lining up outfits, preparing what he calls “appropriate tokens of affection.”

“Perhaps... a small gargoyle?” he muses, clutching a miniature stone sculpture that weighs about as much as a small human child.

Silver clears his throat. “Maybe... consider something less... heavy?”

Undeterred, Malleus sighs but places the gargoyle back, moving on to his backup plan: a solid gold gargoyle instead.

Lilia, in the background, chimes in with, “Just give them a rock and say it’s a Briar Valley special!” Malleus ignores him.

The day arrives, and you’re waiting at a cafe for Malleus. The producers are buzzing around, setting up lights and cameras for some wholesome footage to share with your fans. You’re running through the usual script in your mind, but then Malleus walks in, looking... well, looking like Malleus. Tall, regal, glowing with excitement, and completely out of place in the modern cafe.

You’re trying to keep your cool, reminding yourself that he’s just a fan here to meet his favorite idol, but when he brushes his hand against yours as he takes his seat, you’re thrown into chaos. Wide-eyed, flustered chaos. In fact, you’re so visibly affected that one of the producers has to muffle a squeal.

You glance at Malleus, and for a second, it’s like the two of you are in your own little world, oblivious to the cameras. You’re laughing, he’s smiling in that polite but endlessly fascinated way, and it feels like the meet-cute scene in every cheesy K-drama ever made.

After the cafe, the producers decide to set up at a bowling alley. It’s cute, casual, and definitely low-stakes—or so you think. You explain the game rules to Malleus, who nods in solemn understanding. Then, you hand him a bowling ball and stand back, figuring he’ll get the hang of it soon enough.

Except... Malleus does not get the hang of it.

He lifts the ball with such enthusiasm and raw power that when he bowls, it lands with a thunderous bang. The ball rockets down the lane like it’s been launched out of a medieval trebuchet, shattering the pins with explosive force and completely obliterating the machinery behind them.

The bowling alley is plunged into silence. Even the producers are speechless.

You, however, are not. You burst out laughing so hard, tears actually stream down your cheeks, and you double over, clutching your stomach. Malleus, meanwhile, looks at the wreckage he’s caused with a sheepish expression and asks, “Did I... do it wrong?”

You’re still laughing too hard to answer. His expression is priceless—equal parts apologetic and baffled. For all the confusion on his face, he’s smiling too, in that warm, captivated way, like every sound of your laughter is worth all the destroyed bowling alleys in the world.

One of the crew members has to remind you both to stop standing in the wreckage.

After the... eventful bowling alley scene, you suggest something calmer, like feeding ducks at the park. You arrive with a bag of crumbs, ready for a relaxed, picturesque afternoon.

Malleus seems thrilled at the prospect of feeding these “quaint little birds.” He declares “I will bestow upon them many crumbs.”

But, as it turns out, ducks seem to be as unnaturally drawn to Malleus as your fanbase is to you.

The ducks start waddling toward you, sure, but when Malleus bends down to offer a handful of crumbs, they completely mob him. You watch in bewildered amusement as the ducks clamber onto him, flapping and honking, climbing his shoulders, even perching on his head like he’s the world’s fanciest scarecrow.

“I... seem to be... a duck magnet,” he murmurs, looking helplessly at you, as if apologizing for attracting every duck within a ten-mile radius. He’s totally overwhelmed, but also somehow completely fine with it. If you find this amusing, then it’s a noble cause in his mind.

They hop onto his lap, perch on his shoulders, and one brave little duck even nestles itself on his head, honking proudly as it looks down at him.

You’re giggling again, snapping photos with your phone as he stands there, a bemused fae prince turned accidental duck king. Malleus, standing there covered in feathery chaos, looks up at you, his expression softening at the sight of your laughter. You think you see the smile on his lips, and you’re certain this day can’t get any better.

Dinner with Malleus feels like the culmination of every daydream you’ve ever had and every moment you tried to ignore the thrill he gives you. The restaurant is all soft lighting and quiet music, and you’re seated across from him, barely able to touch your food because you’re too busy trying not to stare. Or at least, not to make it obvious you’re staring.

But it’s impossible not to. Malleus, in the soft glow of the candles, looks ethereal in a way that’s borderline unfair. He’s taken off his usual high-collared cloak, and he’s looking at you with an openness that feels both heart-wrenching and unbelievably warm. His eyes hold that steady, unwavering gaze that has you feeling more exposed than any stage spotlight.

You’re talking about something light—music, maybe, or the utterly ridiculous game of bowling earlier. But the words are just filler, a flimsy attempt to distract yourself from the absolute burning feeling in your chest, a feeling you’re starting to realize is a little too big to be brushed aside.

It’s love.

It’s as terrifying as it is exhilarating. You’re looking at him, and it’s all you can do to not reach across the table, grab his hand, and say something incredibly unhinged like, “Hi, you don’t know it yet, but we’re soulmates.”

He leans in, head tilted as he listens to you with that pure, undivided attention. And then, his lips quirk into a faint smile, and you’re done for. Absolutely, completely done for.

Dinner wraps up, and he offers you his arm as you both leave the restaurant and step into the cool night. You take it, fingers curling around his elbow, and feel the warmth of him through the fabric.

The street is quiet, and the moon is hanging low, casting an almost dreamlike glow over everything. And you—well, you’re looking at him like he’s the moon itself, like he’s the only thing worth looking at in the whole universe.

You’re walking slowly, so slowly it feels like the moment is stretching forever, but somehow that’s not enough. You can’t stand it; you can’t stand just holding his arm and pretending this feeling isn’t eating you alive. So, finally, you stop, turn to him, and without even a thought to what this might mean for your career or the scandal it could stir, you say, “Malleus?”

He looks down at you, eyes soft, waiting.

And you just… go for it. You lean up, heart pounding so hard it’s a miracle he can’t hear it, and kiss him.

The world stands still. For a second, you wonder if you’ve overstepped, if maybe he’s going to pull away or question you or—

But then he’s kissing you back. Immediately. Thoroughly. His hand rises to cup your cheek, and he leans in with a gentleness that completely undoes you. You feel the warmth of him, the tenderness in his touch, and it’s enough to make your knees weak.

When you finally pull away, breathless, you look up to find him watching you with an expression that’s somewhere between wonder and the same sort of ache you’re feeling.

And right now, the only thing that makes sense is to kiss him again.

So you do.

This time, it’s softer, slower, like you’re both savoring it, letting the world fall away until it’s just you and him in the middle of the quiet, moonlit street.

When you finally pull back again, there’s a lingering silence. You don’t know what to say. How do you explain to someone that you’re completely undone by them? That you’re staring at him and barely restraining yourself from saying things like, “Let’s make matching T-shirts,” and “You’re my favorite human being, even if you’re technically not human.”

He’s still gazing at you, lips curved in that barely-there smile, looking utterly unphased yet somehow entirely aware of the fact that you’re melting. He’s looking at you like you’re something delicate, something precious, and it’s honestly making you want to pull him down and kiss him senseless all over again.

But instead, you just laugh, quiet and breathless. He raises a brow, a faint smirk playing at his lips. “Are you laughing at me?” he asks, in a tone that’s half curious, half amused.

“No,” you say, “I’m just… realizing something.”

“And what’s that?”

You look at him, eyes shining, and feel that burning again, that truth too big to ignore. “I’m completely in love with you.”

He doesn’t look shocked; instead, he just leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. And in that moment, you feel it again—the absolute certainty that you’re screwed. Because here’s a man who looks at you like you’re his whole world, and now that you’ve had a taste of this—of him—there’s no going back.

Masterlist

[retroaria]

hello! if you're not busy, then may i please request an interviewer!reader x the blue lock boys? in which they become enamored with their interviewers charm. a few specific characters i want are: sae, rin, nagi and kaiser. but feel free to add or remove characters as you'd like! you can do this in your free time, no pressure. thank you, and take care!

a/n: thank you for requesting!! i’m so sorry please don’t hate me for how long this took i am NOT a professional :x

⋆˙⟡ interviewer!reader x - rin - nagi - kaiser - ⋆˙⟡

• | BLUE LOCK M.LIST | •

nagi seishiro ᯓᡣ𐭩

*totally lovestruck*

nagi has always struck me as someone who considers himself to be “out of the league” for most people he finds attractive, so he doesn’t put himself out there and doesn’t really know how. if he was in a situation where he had to interact with someone he genuinely was enamored by, he’d be a mess.

and so he stands there, dopy, clueless, not even looking correctly in the camera and seemingly staring at…you? No, he’s definitely staring at you. his eyes are dull and dim, but they seem to be a little hazed, glossed over with a sheen of fascination. he shakes his head and nods and mumbles, unbeknownst to whatever it is you’ve actually been asking him.

this is not the look nagi ever intended to have when speaking to someone he finds this attractive, but he truly can’t help it. his minds gone blank and he isn’t sure if you’re standing perfectly under a spotlight or if you’re an angel naturally glowing in his presence. his internal dialogue is stuck between cringing at himself and taking mental note of every single feature he can gather with his eyes on you - all over you, i should say.

nagi would be way too excited to actually ask you out (also definitely not after staring you down like a creep), he’d be too afraid of losing his cool. but he would absolutely remember your name and ask around when he has the chance - would ask reo for help with this lol. through some industry path of team managers to stadium staff to news reporters, he eventually finds you again. would 100% stalk you on social media and follow you just to see where that goes .

just like rin, he’d try to be in the right place at the right time and do the right things to get you to strike some sort of non formal conversation with him in the hopes that’ll it’ll create an opening for him to ask you out :x

rin itoshi ᯓᡣ𐭩

*blushes and looks away…*

rin hates interviews. he doesn’t like open ended questions and he hates having a camera shoved in his face. most of the reporters that run up to him on the edge of the field just holler questions and statements at him that can often feel degrading and presumptuous.

when he was stopped just outside the stadium by you and your small crew, you spoke to him with a lack of crassness that he hasn’t been on the receiving end of in ages - so he agrees. his answers remain cold and striking, as they always are, but his demeanor is more loose than usual.

rin initially doesn’t feel anything for you other than respect and gratitude for treating him like a human unlike the other reporters he’s encountered. he was sure to get your name and properly thank you. he’s the type to think about you and hope that you’ll cross paths again. wouldn’t go out of his way to find you, but at every game and every event he scans the crowds in search of your smile that had welcomed him so tenderly before. not to mention your face has popped into his head almost everyday since he first met you and it’s freaking him the fuck out.

when he does see you again he accepts your interview request immediately, bullshits through all the questions, and sticks around a little longer to talk to you. he’s painfully awkward and even more painfully unaware of it, but once you notice the slight blush on his face you can steer him in the right direction lol

michael kaiser ᯓᡣ𐭩

*prince charming*

when you introduced yourself to kaiser in hopes of getting an interview you certainly did not expect the offer to be accepted so enthusiastically. kaiser isn’t necessarily bothered by interviews, but he hates having to think of answers on the spot.

he’d throw out some cheeky lines like “If I smile at the camera can I get a date?” and a classic for him, “Whatever you say, beautiful.”

you’re asking him questions he surely has been asked before, questions he’s probably been trained to answer, but his answers are boastfully and flirtatiously directed at you and you alone. your camera man leaned over and asked if he should just cut all the footage. you entertain him a little more, trying to see if you can get him to break his prince charming act and actually talk about the game he just played.

eventually he lets up and you get the interview done. as you and your crew are about to leave the stadium, he grabs your hand and lifts it up, planting a soft kiss to your knuckles (you think maybe this could be considered assault, but you’ll let it slide for him this one time).

unlike the other two, kaiser doesn’t have a bashful bone in his body in this situation. i’ve always felt that he isn’t as much of a manwhore as everyone thinks he is, which i still stand by!!! but if he sees you and is truly enamored by you he knows how to make his feeling apparent.

[mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess]

Most iconic Xie Lian moments according to me

Contains spoilers!!!

"Xie Lian didn't know whether to laugh or cry"

Keeping every memento of his worst time ever as a reminder of why being kind and forgiving is worth it

When he runs off after he gives Hua Cheng CPR that one time pretending he's looking for his hat

When he keeps roasting Xiao Ying's looks even as she's dying

When he was a prince and he was told his future looked dark and he said that can't be cause he only wears white

Eating food off the ground

Building his own temple, we love a girl boss

When he pet E'Ming like a little puppy after being explicitly told not to ever touch it under any circumstances

Putting Banyue in a pickle jar

When Wuming said he would follow Xie Lian to the death and Xie Lian went "youre already dead"

Breaking rocks on his chest for money

Being trampled to death as general Hua, doormat core

The whole Fangxin Guoshi arc, whew 🥵

Carrying around a big ass bag of scraps everywhere

When he became jealous of Hua Cheng's special someone not realizing the very obvious fact that he was Hua Cheng's special someone actually

Slapping tf out of Qi Rong for making fun of Hua Cheng being blind in one eye

Pretending he had no idea who Nan Feng and Fu Yao were

When Mu Qing and Feng Xin were freaking about how creepy the Ten Thousands Gods Cave was whilst he found it incredibly romantic

Being a bit too into pretending to be Hua Cheng's puppet on Mount Tonglu

Feeding into E'Ming's praise kink

When he disguised himself as a pregnant lady to be possessed by the evil fetus spirit and it worked

When he disguised himself as a woman so badly he looked hideous and needed help to not look like that

When he spent the entirety of the Xuan Ji capturing business in his wedding dress disguise, including meeting Pei Xiu like that

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts-

When his response to the sex pollen was to kill himself

"I do not worship god, i am god!"

Every single sweet and tender interaction with Hua Cheng's butterflies that everyone else is terrified of

When everyone ignored him in the communication array because he was cringe

Getting drunk on a tombstone with little ghost fire Hua Cueng after his life fell apart

Controversial but i think his calamity era was also iconic and very sexy

When Heaven's Eye said his lips are exuding evil energy and he turned bright red

And then later when Heaven's Eye said the evil energy is inside him and he immediately changed the subject

Recognizing literally everyone despite their disguises but keeping quiet about it not to embarrass them.

Calling Yin Yu boring and forgettable looking to his face

Defending Hua Cheng, evil ghost king, in front of the whole entire Heavenly Emperor

When he was working in the rice field with Hua Cheng and he kept staring

Being poor

Having ridiculously bad luck

Ascending three times

Big daddy issues even with his dad still alive

When his life had just fallen apart and he didnt know how much a lantern could cost because he had been ridiculously rich all his life

Holding up a massive temple from falling apart???

Kissing Hua Cheng for spiritual energy in front of literally everyone more than once

When he could hear rats talking???

Adopting children

Not iconic Xie Lian behaviors

His abhorrent cooking

Trying to kill himself???

[jamespotterismydaddy]

Gilded Whore

Traded possession pt 2

A/N: for everyone who requested pt 2!

TW: smut, dubcon, exhibitionism, jaces monster cock

word count: 841 words

You never know when the prince will request your presence and he doesn’t call on you everyday and you are most definitely not held in the same high esteem as you were when you belonged to Aemond. You don’t know if you even miss the way he treated you because you know what you were, a gilded whore. No amount of pretty jewels could make you a princess and he was never going to make you his wife. At least with Jacaerys, you know what you are.

You walk into the young prince’s chambers. You aren’t dressed in rags but there’s no extravagance to what you wear. He’s lounging in a chair with a goblet of wine in his hand when he sees you.

“Good.” He looks at you. It’s strange, the emotion in his eyes. You can’t place it. You wonder if he treats you in a way that is common for a whore to be treated but you don’t think so. You don’t think he or Aemond treated you ‘normally’.

“May I be of use to you, your Grace?” You ask him. You don’t miss the way he cringes. He feels wrong about the way you are used.

“Go stand on the balcony.” He says and you follow his wishes, looking out into the city as you do.

You can hear his footsteps as he walks over behind you and then hear his breath when he’s only inches away.

“What do you think?” He asks.

“Of the city?”

“Yes.”

“I think it must be a depressing place to live.” You say simply.

“All the people that live down there fear me. Do you fear me?” He asks as his finger trails up and down your back. Your breath hitches in your throat.

“Aemond used to ask me that.” It’s hard to tell what he thinks of that answer because he doesn’t get mad right away. He doesn’t lash out on you.

“I have something he doesn’t have.”

“Me?” You say quickly and you’re a little embarrassed when he chuckles. You could never be so important.

“Love.” Jacaerys answers. “The people down there also love me. You need both to rule well.” You’re silent as he speaks, listening to his lesson but not understanding why he teaches it. “I am - and will be - a good ruler.”

Who’s he trying to convince?

“I don’t like the idea of owning people.” He says as he presses his front to your back. You can feel his hard cock through his breeches. “But I like owning you.” His hand runs through your hair and then down before he rucks up your skirts. “I understand the kinslayer’s infatuation.” Your small clothes are yanked down and you gasp softly. The two of you are high up but not so high up that someone couldn’t see you from the ground. “Hold the railing and bend over.”

You bend at the waist, feeling his thick cock rubbing between your thighs. He groans as his hands squeeze your hips. He pushes the head in and you try not to wince.

“M-My prince…” you whine when he’s fully in.

“How can you not be used to me? Perhaps I need to fuck you more often.” He pulls out and thrusts back in, the force of his hips pushing yours to the railing. The same railing that you feel like you are gripping on to for dear life.

He languidly pushes his cock in and out of you for a moment so you aren’t so overwhelmed, so you don’t moan out loud for the whole city to hear. It doesn’t do much to keep you quiet.

“Seven hells, you’re a cock drunk little thing aren’t you, slut?” His hands reach around to the front of your bodice. “You shan’t be so loud if I do this.” He tears the bodice down the middle so your breasts spill out. “If your sweet little mouth doesn’t stay shut then anyone who hears your sounds and looks up, will see all your nakedness as well.”

You may have been a whore to two princes but that doesn’t make you a voyeur. You blush like a virgin at the prospect of being seen as you’re fucked over the balcony. The prince speeds up his pace once he’s satisfied that you won’t be drawing attention. You squeeze around his hard cock, your knuckles turning white from your harsh grip on the railing.

“Fuck, I’m going to cum already. Your tight little cunny makes me act like a cuntstruck boy.” You whine in return as he pummels into you, going deeper… and deeper… and deeper inside of you before freezing and spurting out thick ropes of cum into your already dripping cunt.

“Jacaerys…” You whisper out his name like he’s a deity. Every man who says Targaryens are closer to gods than men are right and you know it.

“Angel.” He breathes out as he turns your head to face him. All of you faces him. “Take that ruined gown off. You’ll sleep in my bed tonight.”

taglist (comment to be added): General: @valeskafics @urmomsgirlfriend1 @girlwith-thepearlearring @darylandbethfanforever9 @lovellies @juhdoche @papichulo120627 @watercolorskyy @ophelialaufey @aerangi

[moonlightsapphic]

Look, I just need you guys to understand how important queer coming-of-age forbidden romances on internationally accessible platforms like Netflix is, especially to youth in countries where homosexuality still hasn't been legally decriminalised or socially accepted.

That was a mouthful, so let me explain. You, a white American adult with a liberal family, may not relate to a fictional anxious teen Swedish prince grappling with strict familial and societal expectations versus his first love. You may not find anything special in a bunch of queer British teens discovering themselves and figuring out complex relationships that are honestly rather simplistic, in retrospect. It might be a little too trite for you. Like, just a little vanilla without any extra drama. Perhaps corny—cringe, even. Too wholesome.

But you know what that is to me, a desi queer young adult? It's representation, in an unlikely place. My country certainly isn't making movies or shows where I see my secret relationship between me and my girlfriend portrayed. I don't see that happening in the next couple of decades, either, sadly. But you know who’s telling our stories? Alice Oseman. Lisa Ambjörn, Lars Beckung and Camilla Holter. Through fictional storylines that might seem kind of boring to you, I am finally able watch my lived experiences play out on screen.

American media has done such a disservice to queer coming-of-age stories. I want to scream this from the rooftops. Y’all, I’m glad to see more out quirky queer side-characters—I can’t get enough of them—but why is it so rarely their story, in sharp focus, about how they found themselves? I want to know how they overcame internalised homophobia. When was the moment they knew? What is the cost they have to pay for being out? For not being out?

And no, I don’t want it to be dramatic. I don’t need to see violence or betrayals or victorious kisses in public, really. I’m happiest with the teenagers behaving like real teenagers. Innocent, vulnerable, nervous. I want it to be heartfelt, and excruciatingly slow, and authentic. I want to see the small wins and the subtle losses. The quiet mental toll of how much you have to give to a queer relationship—especially your first queer relationship—and how hard that can be to separate from your Identity itself.

Give me that "am I gay?" quiz and genuinely crying at 3:00 AM because you're in a rabbit hole about LGBTQ+ rights in a country where you actually don’t want to be gay and you don’t even know if you ���count” anyway. Show me that moment where you're going back and forth from forbidding yourself from seeing the one person that sees and understands you and it's to protect your mental and physical well-being but it's driving you insane. Give me ALL THE YOUNG ADULT BI+ AWAKENINGS where one person strolls into your life and changes everything. No, it’s really not the same as most cis-heterosexual insta-love movies out there, even if it looks that way to you. It doesn’t even cut it close.

The happy ending, the acceptance is only what I can dream of, not what I can expect. The wholesomeness is actually radical to me.

No, we’re not past the need for basic star-crossed queer romances. For most countries in the world (including for many white American teenagers!), we need them as much as ever.

[j-k-writes]

The Bronze Targaryen - 11

Summary - War is brewing in Westeros, but Rhaenyra is determined to avoid it for as long as possible (to the frustration of her husband).

Warnings - General HOTD warnings, canon character death, minor violence between family members ((Y/N) and Daemon)

The end of season one! I'm putting this series on a bit of a hiatus while I figure out my plans for season two (thank you, Ryan Condal, for making my life miserable) but do not fret I have stories to hold y'all over in the mean time.

“What is our standing?” 

“We have thirty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three hundred men at arms.” Daemon spoke, “Dragonstone is relatively easy to defend but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves much to be desired. We have sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch. I’ll have some support there but I cannot speak to the numbers.” 

“We already have declarations from Celtigar and Staunton, Massey, Darklyn, Bar Emmon.” 

“As well as Coldwater, Sheet, and Tollett.” (Y/N) turned to Rhaenyra, “Runestone stands behind you. I have no doubt Lady Arryn will as well, the Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin.” 

He watched as Rhaenyra gave him a grateful smile and placed a marker on the table. 

“Riverrun was always a close friend to your father, your grace. With Prince Daemon’s acquiescence, I’ve already sent raven to Lord Grover.” 

Both (Y/N) and Rhaenyra paused at Maester Gerardys’ words, they both looked up at the Prince. (Y/N) narrowed his eyes at his father, who did not look the least apologetic as Rhaenyra spoke, “Lord Grover is fickle and easily swayed. He will need to be convinced of the strength of our position and that we will support him should it come to war.” 

“I am going to treat with him myself.” (Y/N) raised an eyebrow at his father’s boldness, watching as he and Rhaenyra glared at each other from across the room. His father had been falling into tendencies (Y/N) had hoped he’d grown out of these past days, and the new Consort was unsure how to feel about it. 

“What of Storm’s End and Winterfell?” 

“There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath. And with House Stark the North will follow.” 

“Lord Borros Baratheon will need to be reminded of his father’s promises.” Rhaenyra said, voice tight. More markers were placed around the table, the promise of war becoming stronger and stronger with each clang against the wooden table. “What news from Driftmark?” 

“Lord Corlys sails for Dragonstone.” Rhaenys said. 

“To declare for his Queen?” (Y/N) asked. 

“The Velayron fleet is in my husband’s yoke.” (Y/N) frowned, unable to stop the hot flash of anger in his chest at her words. “He decides where they sail.” 

“We shall pray for both you and your husband's support. Just as we prayed nightly for the Sea Snake’s return to good health. There’s no port on the Narrow Sea that would dare to make an enemy of the Velaryon fleet.” Rhaenyra spoke before (Y/N) could open his mouth to speak his offense at Rhaenys’ answer. “And our enemies?” 

“We have no friends among the Lannisters. Tyland has served the hand too long to turn against him. And Otto Hightower needs the Lannister fleet.” 

“Without the Lannisters we are not like to find any allies west of the Golden Tooth.” Both (Y/N) and Rhaenyra frowned. 

“The Riverlands are essential, your Grace.” Daemon spoke. (Y/N) cringed inwardly at the knowledge that Daemon was making good points for all of his boldness and made eye contact with Rhaenyra from across the table.

“Pray forgive my bluntness, your Grace. But talk of men is moot. Your cause owns a power that not has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria. Dragons.” 

“The Greens have dragons as well.” Rhaenyra responded. 

“They have three adults, by my count. We have Syrax, Vermithor-” (Y/N) winced at his father’s words, taking in a deep breath as his father continued on his rant. “-Caraxes, and Meleys. Your sons have Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes. Baela has Moondancer.” 

“Daemon none of our dragons have been to war.” 

(Y/N) grabbed his father’s arm, bringing him in close so that his words did not go any further than their small shared bubble. “And need I remind you, we do not have Vermithor until I am recovered.” He bit out, face hot as he spoke. 

Daemon ignored him, causing (Y/N) to throw his head back and sigh, “There are also unclaimed dragons. Seasmoke still resides on Driftmark. Silverwing dwells on the Dragonmont, still riderless. Then there are the three wild dragons, all of whom nest here.” 

“And who is to ride them?” Rhaenyra sounded as exasperated with Daemon as (Y/N) felt. 

“Dragonstone has 13 to their 4. I also have a score of eggs incubating in the Dragonmont. Now…we need a place to gather, a toehold large enough to house a sizable host. Here, at Harrenhal.” Daemon spoke, ignoring his Queen’s question. “We cut off the west, surround Kingslanding with the Dragons and we could have every Green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns.” 

“Your Grace.” Ser Erryk spoke up, and (Y/N) relaxed, grateful for the interruption. “A ship has been sighted offshore. A lone galleon flying a banner of a three-headed green dragon.” 

(Y/N) straightened in his seat, grabbing his cane as his father shouted out commands to the men around them. He stood making his way toward his wife, she was frowning as Daemon exited the room flanked by guards and lords. 

“Follow him.” Rhaenyra said, “Make sure he doesn’t do anything rash.” 

“And you?” 

The smile she gave him did not reach her eyes, “Just go.”

(Y/N) kept one hand on his cane and the other on his sword as he watched Otto Hightower and his posse of Knights approach. Otto looked between (Y/N) and Daemon, chin up in the air and posture straight as the oak branch up his ass. 

“I come at the behest of the Dowager Queen Alicent, mother of King Aegon, Second of His Name, Lord and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms.” He spoke. “I’ve been directed to deliver her message only to Princess Rhaenyra. Where is the Princess?” 

Otto and his men were startled at the sound of Syrax’s screech overhead, causing (Y/N)’s lips to curve up in a smile. Syrax’s landing caused stones of the bridge to crack and fall off the side, and the she-dragon continued to growl and screech at the men as Rhaenyra dismounted and walked through the crowd. She took her place between (Y/N) and Daemon, turning to face Otto. 

“Princess Rhaenyra.” 

“I’m Queen Rhaenyra now. And you all are traitors to the realm.” Rhaenyra spat. 

Otto took her statement in stride, continuing on as if she’d never spoken. “King Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name in his wisdom and desire for peace-” (Y/N) scoffed, but yet again Otto continued on. “-is offering terms. Acknowledge Aegon as king and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne. In exchange, His Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It will pass to your trueborn son, Jacaerys, upon your death. Lucerys will be confirmed as the legitimate heir to Runestone-” 

“He is my legitimate heir.” (Y/N) stepped forward, but Rhaenyra shot her arm out, blocking his path. 

“-and all the lands and holdings of House Royce.” Otto looked smug as (Y/N) begrudgingly heeded his wife and stepped back. “Your sons Aegon and Viserys will also be given places of high honor at court: Aegon the Younger as the King’s squire, Viserys as his cupbearer. Finally, the King, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his ascent.” 

“I would rather feed my sons to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken usurper cunt of a king.” (Y/N) said, hand flexing around his sword. 

“Aegon Targaryen sits the Iron Throne. He wears the Conqueror’s crown, wields the Conqueror’s sword, has the Conqueror’s name. He was anointed by a septon of the faith in the eyes of thousands. Every symbol of legitimacy belongs to him. And then there is Stark, Tully, Baratheon. Houses that have already received and are at present, considering generous terms from their king.” Otto spoke, causing (Y/N) to laugh. 

“Generous? You have offered us things we already have.” 

“Stark, Tully, Baratheon all swore to me when King Viserys named me his heir.” Rhaenyra said, and (Y/N) could see the anger deep inside her bubbling to the surface. 

“Stale oaths will not put you on the Iron Throne, Princess. The succession changed the day your father sired a son. I only regret that you and he were the last to see the truth of it.” 

“You are no more Hand than Aegon is king.” Rhaenyra moved toward the man before (Y/N) could have time to respond. She rushed the man, seething, grabbing the silver hand pinned on his chest. She ripped the pendant off, tossing it over the side of the bridge. “Fucking traitor.” 

Once again Otto was undisturbed by the show of anger, “Grand Maester.” 

“What the fuck is this?” He heard his father ask as Otto grabbed a folded-up piece of parchment from the Grand Maester, handing it to Rhaenyra. (Y/N) could not see Rhaenyra’s reaction from where he was standing, but his stomach turned at the sight of her angry posture softening ever so slightly as she looked at the paper. 

“Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love you once had for each other. No blood need be spilled, so the realm can carry on in peace.” Otto said softly to Rhaenyra. “Queen Alicent eagerly awaits your answer.” 

“She can have her answer now, stuffed in her father’s mouth along with his withered cock. Let’s end this mummer’s farce.” Daemon and the knights around him drew their swords, and (Y/N) smiled as Otto’s knights tensed. (Y/N) took a step forward, not bothering to draw his sword. (The scabbard was really only by his side for show, for he was practically useless with it until he could manage to bring his arm above his head without aggravating the wound in his shoulder.) “Ser Erryk, bring me Lord Hightower so I may take the pleasure myself.” 

Syrax roared, causing the stones they were standing on to shake and the men behind Otto drew their weapons in retaliation. Before anyone could make a move Rhaenyra turned on them. 

“No.” She said, and the men around him stood down. (Y/N) raised an eyebrow at her, but she did not look at him as she continued. “Kingslanding will have my answer on the morrow.” 

(Y/N) gaped as Otto Hightower and his crowd of traitors walked away completely whole. Daemon huffed and puffed in frustration the whole way up to the keep, but (Y/N) paid his grumblings no mind. His shock was aimed wholly on Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra would not look at him as they walked, or limped in (Y/N)’s case, and (Y/N) feared the worst. He bit his tongue as the council resumed, sorting through his scattered thoughts before he said something rash in front of the council. 

He’d only wished his father could have the same sort of self control. 

“It’s no easy thing for a man to be a dragonslayer. But dragons can kill dragons. And have.” Daemon spoke. “The simple truth is this: we have more dragons than Aegon, even with (Y/N) recovering.” 

“Viserys spoke often of the Valyrian histories. I know them well. When dragons flew to war-” Rhaenyra sighed, “Everything burned.” 

“War has its casualties whether dragons are involved or not.” He mumbled from his seat. His voice was merely a whisper but Rhaenyra heard him anyway and shot him a subtle glare. 

“I do not wish to rule over a kingdom of ash and bone.” She said it to the room, but it was clear the words were directed to her husband and uncle. 

“Are you considering the Hightowers’ terms, your Grace?” (Y/N) straightened to attention as Lord Bartimos asked the question at the forefront of his mind, on everyone's mind, apparently. 

“As Queen, what is my true duty to the realm, Lord Bartimos? Ensuring peace and unity? Or that I sit the Iron Throne, no matter the cost?” (Y/N) sighed at her words, frustration building as Daemon responded. 

“That’s your father talking.” 

“My father’s dead. And he chose me as his successor. To defend the realm, not cast it headlong into war.” 

“They have already declared war, Rhaenrya.” (Y/N) could not help the bite in his words. His frustration and exhaustion finally boiling over despite his attempts at holding it down until he and Rhaenyra were in private. 

“Clear the room.” The lords looked between the two warily but they left without complaints. As soon as the door shut behind the last lord Rhaenyra rounded on (Y/N), practically sneering. “Does the promise of war excite you?” 

“I just ended one war, Rhaenyra. My last wish is to start another, but you cannot bend the knee to the Hightowers.” (Y/N) sighed, collapsing into his chair. The action brought attention to the wound in his shoulder, and he swallowed a groan of pain. He was dreading this war, but he was not going to sit in denial. Unless they were to take the Hightower’s terms, and (Y/N) would die before he let that happen, war was inevitable. 

“If you could take the Iron Throne without putting Otto Hightower’s head on a spike, would you?” (Y/N) could not help but scoff at her question. 

“Are you not angry?” 

“I should declare war because I’m angry?” 

“No.” (Y/N) said between gritted teeth, “Because it’s your duty as Queen to crush rebellion.” 

“My oath reaches beyond our personal ambitions.” Did she not understand? How could she not understand what this slight meant for their family? 

“Personal ambitions? Rhaenyra this is your birthright and they have stolen it from you the same way they tried to steal it from Luke. To bend the knee now-” 

“Shut up and listen to me. You are acting like your father.” (Y/N)’s mouth shut with a click, his words dying on his tongue. Rhaenyra continued on, ignoring the rising anger in her husband. “My father told me something when he named me heir, The Conqueror’s Dream.” 

“A dream?” (Y/N) scoffed, but Rhaenyra ignored him. 

“A Song of Ice and Fire, a coming war against the darkness in the North. The realm must be united if it is to survive, so you must understand why I am so reluctant to plunge it into war.” She spoke with such certainty that (Y/N) almost wanted to concede to her. 

Almost. “You are in denial, Rhaenyra.” He said, forcing his voice level. He was not his father and he would not take his frustration out on his wife, even if she was part of its origin. “There is to be a war over this. I do not want it, but I have accepted it and so should you.”

(Y/N) felt himself drifting off in his chair as the lords argued around him, barely letting Rhaenyra get a word in. His body throbbed, a few new bruises added onto them courtesy of his father’s drunken anger. 

He’d sought the man out last night, too keyed up from his argument with Rhaenyra to go to their bedroom. He’d knocked on Daemon’s door hoping to drown in the wine his father no doubt had already brought up from the kitchens. Instead he’d found himself thrown into the wall after a particularly nasty screaming match that had multiple guards running into the room.  

One snide comment about Rhaenyra's choices was all it had taken for (Y/N)’s already simmering anger to rise to the surface. Rhaenyra could frustrate them both to the grave, but she was still their Queen, and Daemon needed to give her his respect, especially in the presence of the other lords.

His father had not seen it that way. 

“The Lord of the Tides, Lord Corlys Velaryon, and his wife, the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.” (Y/N) snapped to attention at the sound of Ser Eyrrk’s voice. 

“My lords.” Lord Corlys nodded to the lords around them as he limped down the steps and toward Rhaenyra. He looked well despite his injuries although the grimace he gave with every step betrayed just how healed he truly was. 

“Lord Corlys. It brings much relief to see you hale and healthy again. I extend my deepest condolences for the loss of your son, and heir.” Rhaenyra said. 

“I’m very sorry about your father, Princess. He was a good man.” Corlys looked around the room, gaze falling on (Y/N) for a moment before he spoke again. “Where is Daemon?” 

“There were other concerns which demanded my father’s attention.” (Y/N) responded, and Rhaenyra pursed her lips, having heard about these other concerns from a concerned guard the night before. She had not been happy at his father’s regressions in anger management, even less so with his decision to take his frustrations out on his already injured son. 

Corlys hummed, obviously too familiar with Daemon’s temper. “Your declared allies?” 

“Yes.” 

“Too few to win a war for the throne.” 

“Well, we would also hope to have the support of Houses Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark.” 

“Hope is the fool’s ally.” (Y/N) frowned at the Sea Snake’s words, the lord of the tides was correct in his statement but that did not mean (Y/N) had to appreciate the sentiment. 

“House Arryn shares blood with my house, but all of them swore oaths to me.” Rhaenyra was losing her patience. 

“As did House Hightower, if I remember.” 

“As did you, Lord Corlys.” 

The room went silent at Rhaenyra’s statement, but (Y/N) simply smiled. He hid his soft laugh behind his hand turning in his chair to get a better view of Lord Corlys as the Lord seemed to ponder her unspoken question. 

‘To who are you loyal to?’ 

“Your father’s realm was one of justice and honor. Our houses are bound by common blood and common cause. This Hightower treason cannot stand. You have the full support of our fleet and House, your Grace.” Lord Corlys bowed his head to Rhaenyra who sputtered. She recovered quickly, turning to look at Rhaenys who simply nodded with a smile. 

“You honor me, Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys.” She straightened, letting her demeanor shift back to that of Queen. “But, as I said to my bannermen, I made a promise to my father to hold the realm strong and united. If war’s first stroke is to fall, it will not be by my hand.” 

“You do not mean to act?” 

“Taking caution does not mean standing fast.” Rhaenyra shot him a subtle yet harsh look as she spoke. “I wish to know who my allies are before I send them to war.” 

“The consequence of Laenor’s sacrifice and my near-demise in the Stepstones is that we now control them. I took care to fully garrison the territory this time. A total blockade of the shipping lanes will be in place in days, if not already. The Triarchy have been routed. The Narrow Sea is ours. If we further seal the gullet we can cut off all seaborne travel and trade to Kingslanding.” The mood of the room immediately brightened at Corlys’ words. 

“I shall take Meleys and patrol the Gullet myself.” 

“When we drain the Narrow Sea, we can surround Kingslanding, lay siege to the Red Keep, and force the Greens’ surrender.” 

(Y/N) smiled at the sudden mood change amongst the lords of their council. Rhaenyra herself was not immune to the feeling and (Y/N) watched as her mouth curved up in a small smile as she watched the room. “If we are to have enough swords to surround Kingslanding, we must first secure the support of Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Storm’s End.” 

“I’ll prepare the ravens, your Grace.” Maester Gerardys moved to leave the room but Jace interrupted before he could. 

“We should bear those messages.” Everyone turned to look at the young prince. “Dragons can fly faster than ravens and they’re more convincing. Send us.” 

(Y/N) smiled at his son, “He’s right.” 

“Very well.” Rhaenyra caught his eye from across the table and smiled. “Prince Jacaerys will fly north. First to the Eyrie, to see my mother’s cousin and his father’s liege Lady, the Lady Jeyne Arryn, and then to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. Prince Lucerys will fly south to Storm’s End and treat with Lord Borros Baratheon. We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore. And the cost of breaking them.”

The gods, old and new, gave him no warning that day. There was no warning, no omen, for him to heed as they said their goodbyes. As he looks back on that day he wonders what he would have done differently if there had been. 

“It's been said that as Targaryens, we are closer to gods than to men. And the Iron Throne puts us a touch closer, perhaps. But, if we are to serve the Seven Kingdoms we must answer to their gods.” Rhaenyra spoke. “If you take this errand, you go as messenger not as warriors. You must take no part in any fighting. Swear it to me now.” 

“Under the eyes of the old and new gods.” (Y/N) added as the book was presented to his sons, and Jace smiled at the obvious disdain in which (Y/N) regarded The Seven. (Y/N) looked over his boys as they swore, locking eyes with their mother as they did so. Jace was as confident as (Y/N) had expected a boy of his age to be. He was still green and eager to prove himself to the realm. 

“Thank you.” Rhaenyra turned to Jace. “Cregan Stark is closer to your age than to mine. I would hope, that as men, you can find some common interest.” 

“The North follows the Old Gods as House Royce does, Jace.” (Y/N) added, smiling. “Do with that what you will.” 

Jace smiled back at him, head held high. “Yes, your Grace.” 

Luke was less confident, which brought a small frown to (Y/N)’s face. He did not comment on it, remembering himself when he first began to fall under the pressure and critique of the court. Luke was younger than he was when Rhea died, and Daemon brought him to Kingslanding, and he no doubt felt more pressure than (Y/N) could have imagined at his age. 

“Storm’s End is a short flight from here. Lord Borros is an eternally proud man. He will be honored to host a prince of the realm and his dragon. I expect you will receive a very warm welcome.” 

“Yes, Mother- your Grace.” Luke stumbled, and (Y/N) gave him a reassuring smile. 

He touched his shoulder gently, bringing his voice to a whisper so that only Luke could hear him. “Do not worry, tresy. You are simply going to remind Lord Borros of his oath, if you cannot convince him he is already lost to us.” 

Luke nodded, and (Y/N) kissed his head. He grabbed Jace next, who only gave a small protest as his father laughed and kissed his cheek. All three Royce’s turned to look at their Queen who nodded. 

“Go to it then.” 

(Y/N) had not thought to be worried as he watched his eldest sons fly off. It was only a few days later, when they received a raven assuring them of Jace’s safe arrival in the Vale, that (Y/N) began to worry about his younger son, and even then, he brushed it off. He told himself that perhaps Luke had just forgotten to write, and he did not know Lord Borros, but he would not put it past the man to not bother sending a raven. Rhaenyra began to worry immediately, watching the sky at every opportunity as if Luke would suddenly appear on Arrax to assure his mother of his safety. She would not hear (Y/N)'s excuses, and months later, in his grief, (Y/N) realized he was simply doing what he had yelled at Rhaenyra for doing not days before. 

Living in denial. 

They were in a council meeting when Daemon received the news. (Y/N) was immediately on edge at the look on his father’s face as he took both he and Rhaenyra aside. Rhaenyra and (Y/N) watched as his father struggled to find the words, turning his body so that he did not have to look at them as he spoke. 

(Y/N) did not need Daemon to speak to know what the raven had said. 

He vaguely remembers Rhaenyra’s gasp as Daemon finally got the words out. She turned away from both men as she processed the words, doubling over and clutching her stomach, sobs began to rack her body. (Y/N) stumbled as the voices in the room faded from him and his vision tunneled, Daemon reached to steady him but (Y/N) pushed his father away. He threw his cane across the room with a shout as the tears began to fall. His hands met the council table with a loud slam and he swept the nearest items off the table. The clatter of the items meeting the stone floor was not loud enough to drown out his curses and pleading words. 

His father approached him when his body finally gave up on him, his legs unable to support his weight without his cane to steady him. He held him up, pulling him close to his chest. As (Y/N) sobbed, fists pounding against his father’s chest, Daemon leaned in close. 

“An eye for an eye, a son for a son.” Daemon cupped his cheeks, forcing (Y/N) to look at him through his tears. “Your son will be avenged.”

---

Translations -

Tresy - son

[affableramen]

They return home drunk ~ genshin impact men x you, the reader

Suitable for characters: Neuvillette, Pantalone, Ayato.

Tags: gender neutral reader.

Notes: I dunno what this is. Very silly.

You heard the door open into your house and you identified it was your long-expected s/o. You have been meaning to call him as you got occasionally worried. However as soon as the door was shut with what seemed a lazy motion according to the silent noise, you realised it was actually nothing to worry about. Your boyfriend just appeared to be silly.

“Darling?” You tried to reach him with your voice.

The door was finally shut, and the next sound you heard was a groan of disappointment. “Gah!” His heavy body fell against the wall. You walked out of your room and went to the stairs to have a proper look. You tried to suppress your laugh when you saw him in such a ridiculous state.

“Darling! What—”

“…No one loves me. I am so lonely. So poor and pathetic”, he said as he started approaching the stairs but of course, he had to not notice the first step and naturally bumped into it. The fall could not be called gracious as your man did not foresee the barrier. You immediately started going downstairs to lend him a hand yet he raised his palm and stopped you.

“I’m fine, I can take care of myself”, he glared at you with the eyes full of annoyance and shifted his weight to the side. “I don’t need help of some… heroes”, he spat.

The colder man held onto the staircase for a few seconds, heavily breathing, rubbing his nose and muttering something unintelligible before he moved up. There was such distance, such melancholy in the aura around him, that was quite a sight. You were left to wonder where and with whom he had to gulp so much. Seeing that the man did not need your help you returned to your room and laid in the bed. It was quite late, in fact. You grabbed the book you paused in and looked forward to seeing more cringe from your beloved, but incredibly drunk person.

There was dim light in your room- you had a weird habit of reading if not in a complete darkness. After all, too much light was bad for migraines, you thought. And just when you relaxed you heard heavy, long footsteps approaching your room. You put your book to the side and met the man with a curious gaze.

“I thought you did not want to talk?”

“I don’t want talking”, he barked briefly. His eyes, even if alcohol-hazed, were gloomily glowing in the darkness.

The man was going straight into the room, heading to your bed and as he finally crawled to the area, he unwrapped his outer coat and revealed his shirt, (unbuttoned on the top as if he was feeling hot, made him look sexier).

“Why do you look disheveled? You been with someone?”

“You fool”, he climbed onto the bed and shifted his weight on top of you, grasping you tightly and gently at the same time. “Of course I wasn’t. I just felt hot. How could I cheat…” gasp, “…on a gorgeous little prince/princess like you.”

You pulled your hand into his hair and played with some locks. A satisfied moan escaped his dry lips as his face muscles gave up and he relaxed in your embrace.

“I thought you were unhappy with something.”

He moved away for a sec and looked into your eyes deeply, and caressed your cheek.

“I am most unhappy with myself… Take a look at me closely. I am so loser, am I not?”

“No”, with a swift motion you got into a sitting position where both of you were in front of each other. “Not at all. Let me hold you, would you like it?” You were tenderness itself when you were with this man. It was only for him.

“Very much, hold me please. I only allow you to see me like this. You’re the one who accepts me. I cannot imagine my life without you anymore.”

“There, there… It’s the alcohol saying in you.”

The man shook his head.

“No, I mean what I say. No one out there understands me, not one… except for you. But loving you is my torture AND bliss; I hate that I have feelings for you. I know that I should not. I am used to distance myself from the people, I have long forgotten what it is like to trust… Being affable and friendly on public has nothing in common with being not hostile internally. I despise so much around me, yet I never let it be displayed. My people have to witness a perfect image… a designed, refined statue such as I present to them. And sometimes, this façade makes my inner feelings boil even more. Because I know how deep down I despise those I smile to…”

“Pookie… You are forcing these silly thoughts attack you again. I told you to get more sleep, but you always do as you please.”

“See? I am so selfish.”

“I did not mean that. I am only saying that you should consider my advice… once in a while.”

“You are too caring, baby. You deserve a better man, less troublesome.”

“Let me choose for myself”, you brushed his cheek with the back of your hand. “Besides, if you had these pent-up feelings, you know you can always come to me for a little chat.”

“I see… But I did not wish you to tolerate the pathetic condition that I am in,” he laughed at himself. “Well, this one ain’t better. This one might be even worse.”

“I don’t mind your ‘pathetic’ condition. You look rather charming, love.”

The man leaned towards you placing his head on your shoulder, his cheek rubbing against you. As you put your hand over his hair, caressing it once more, you heard silent, yet calm breathing.

“Uh, the alcohol got him.”

Attempting to not disturb the peaceful sleep of your darling, you deliberately pushed him back onto your bed, making sure the pillows were comfortably enough beneath his head, and covered him with the duvet.

“We’ll talk again tomorrow. Sleep tight.”

[weepingtalecowboy]

The dress was necessary for…reasons

Fanfic prompt : The adventure of link supposedly began when the greedy prince was denied the right to the triforce by his father. He then asked a wizard to put his sister—the only one other than his father who knew where the pieces of the triforce were hidden—into a deep sleep.

But history changes with time.

Memories fade, and people forget what truly happened.

So how can the world be sure that was what happened?

After all, the prince supposedly loved his sister.

The fair maiden’s brother would certainly have reason, wouldn’t he?

But only Zelda herself would know.

As the centuries passed, a new hero was chosen to finally wake the princess.

Why did she remember the truth differently?

Why did she call him Hyrule of the Chain?

Why did she name herself after the hero of legend?

Was she truly the princess?

Or legend and fable took a try at the princess switch trope because Legend wanted to protect Fable and chill with Hyrule.

The amount of salt he produced when he realized that everyone thought that the prince was an asshole was something else entirely,

He sacrificed himself thank you very much people for this wonderful gift .

Also Fable was a perfect prince. (Fuck everyone who disagrees)

Aurora waking up from his coma : “…”

Link who just woke the princess : “Hi…how are you….?”

Aurora *starts straight up weeping in sorrow*

Link :( : “… I am not this ugly”

When Hyrule eventually went on linked universe the sole reason Aurora was even found out was because Legend thought he failed his sister,

And certainly not his sister looked back at him …

He did off cringe,a painful and embarrassing death.

Zelda two art even shows Zelda with pink hair lol

[sweetwolfcupcake]

Swords in the Court: Drums of War

Secret Garden

Yandere Don John x Reader

Word count: 7k+

Part 1

Warning: Violence, description of sexual assault, violence against women, the implication of violence against children, threats of violence, implication of sex and sexual activities

Note: This story is set in a fictionalised historical setting. Though there are clear inspirations drawn from the real world and history, this tale in no way tries to explain, change or state any historical, political, communal, geographical or religious 'facts'. Kindly treat this short-series as it is, a fiction

Unedited and poor attempt at medieval-world description

The knock on your door is heavy and urgent. You sit up on the bed and look around your room, it is plunged into the darkness that comes with a moonless night. Exhaling, you feel around the bedside for a candle, most of them are burnt out. With no choice, you wrap a robe around yourself and climb out of bed.

“Who’s it?”

“It’s me!” comes the muffled but familiar voice from the other side of the door

With rushed movements, you unlock the door and sigh in relief at the sight of Madeline with a lit-up candlestand.

“I received a message from the south. You need to go to the Queen with this?”

“What?”

“My cousin lives there, two nights ago, they saw ships landing there. Through the bay, they came, in the middle of the night. The Queen’s cousin has laid claim to the throne, he has the support of the enemies.”

“Wh–What?. Two nights ago, does the King know of it?” You ask her, ready to rush to the Queen.

“If they have attacked any of the provinces, or plundered any village, hopefully, yes.”

“Do you think the Spanish will help?” You ask Madeline, grasping her hand.

“If the Prince has made up his mind... They have brought some soldiers.”

“I must let the Queen know before she hears it from someone else.”

You put on something decent in a rush and take the candle stand from Madeline 

------

“Go back to your room, and do not let anyone know. Go now,”

Once you have made sure that Madeline has slipped away safely, you make your way to the Queen’s chamber. And of course, the royal guards are on your way.

“Please inform her, I must see her.”

“The Queen is resting, woman. You cannot barge into Her Highness’ chambers!” The knight hisses.

“This is an utmost delicate matter that I ought to bring to her attention, I must meet her—”

“Listen here.” He seizes your arm with a bruising force “Lowborns like you may have won the Queen’s favour, but you must never forget your place, or you shall lose your head!”

You glare at him, hissing with an edge in your voice, growing restless with each delayed moment  “I shall lose my head, anyway, Ser, if I do not get to see the Queen right now!”

“Listen you Blacksmith cunt!” the spray of spit on your face makes you cringe, and the ‘Knight’ mistakes it for fear and grabs you by the hair “Perhaps you forget—”

“Is this how all the Royal Knights treat ladies here or are you an exception Ser?” Ser Lorres unhands you quicker than you can gain your balance. 

A witness to the mistreatment of any of the Ladies-in-Waiting for the Queen is not good for Ser Lorres, or any royal knight for that matter. You staggerer back, trying to regulate your breathing and keep your simmering rage under reins when you bump against a solid torso.

“Lo-Lord Juan! Uh–Duke—”

“Don't bother. I believe the Queen would not be pleased to hear how you treat her Lady-in-Waiting.” 

Lord John makes a dismissive gesture while Lorres is already on his knees, the metal of his armour clanking unceremoniously against the floor. He is warm, you notice, and there is the district fragrance of spice mingled with the tinge of wine.

“Are you hurt, my Lady?”

It is bad news, he had most definitely heard you plead to see the Queen and a man of his stature must not have missed it.

“I am, I thank you for your kindness, My Lord.”

 You step away and turn to him, but you are close enough to notice he is tall, slightly taller than his brother perhaps, it is not for the plain sight until one has the kite’s eyes. For a moment, you think of coming up with an excuse, but you have no time, you instead, seize the opportunity in hand and turn to  Lorres, still on his knee.

“May I have an audience with the Queen, Ser Lorres?”

—---

“The bay, you said?” The Queen’s chamber is well-lit, while she pours herself some wine 

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“My cousin has no real claim to the throne. His House has been exiled!”

“He has laid claim regardless, Your Grace. He has the Kingdom's rival supporting the claim.”

“Of course he has. The French would want a puppet of a King and perhaps some disgruntled Barons and Earls are ready to take up arms as well?”

“W-will we have a war then? Is it inevitable?”

“Not if the Crown Prince weds the Princess. As soon as possible.” She sighs, emptying her glass with a swig.

“What does Spain have to gain from this alliance?” You ask, feeling the trepidation.

“We share a common enemy, with the Kingdom’s port at its service, the Spanish ships shall have the upper hand if conflict breaks out, and an eye on the continent.” She explains

“But is it enough to marry our Princess? He is the Crown Prince of an Empire.”

“Power is earned, child, your birthright can take you only so far. Do you think, with Don Juan in the picture, his crown is safe? He needs an heir. My daughter is young and beautiful, and I have many children, she is my first-born.”

You frown at that, remembering Maddy’s words  “But, did he not pledge his loyalty to the Empire the day he was publicly accepted in the court?”

The Queen scoffs, “Loyalty to the Empire? There is no loyalty in a court, Girl. They want nothing but power. Don Juan has risen up from nothing. Ostracised since childhood, he has faced many attempted assassinations for a reason. He is feared, for a reason.  And here he stands, on the verge of Dukedom. Do you think the Spanish Crown sleeps on that? They need him, Spain knows that war is imminent, they need men like Juan.”

“So, he is a foe, then? " You ask. The answer, though, is quite.

“He is a threat until the Princess marries the Crown Prince and gives him an heir.”

“We need the Spanish, right now.”

“Yes.” She pauses to take a moment and turns towards you “Yes, we do. The threat of war looms nearer than a bastard’s possible claim on the Spanish throne. If they block the main route of supplies, people are going to starve here.”

“What shall be done then?”

“My cousin knows the routes, his father was the Earl of Esterwood for ages, and he will make this move. Fetch me my writing supplies, we must write to our friends. The Spanish came for a wedding, not war.”

“They brought some ships, as gifts.”

“The King shall be dealing with the Emperor, right now, we need the enemies surrounded in our land. I need to write to the East and the North, the West is closer but we have many sympathisers for my cousin’s House. The Duke of Reinckalf is our closest ally right now. And if we have the blessings, we would not need ships at all."

You nod and get to work.

—--

It is almost bewildering how a single night has changed the air around the palace. Once beaming with lights and chimes of wedding echoing, the palace is now preparing for a possible war, which can be avoided, if the Spanish agrees to send help. You have no clue though, neither the Prince nor his bastard brother has been seen since the break of dawn, you have slept a wink preparation for a battle is in full swing.

Hope flares in you, when you are sent by the Queen to serve refreshments to the men discussing battle plans. In her absence, you are her ears and eyes.

“The Emperor has been sent a letter. I have written personally to him.” The Spanish Prince sits in front of the King.

“I do not believe we have time to wait, now, My Prince.” Lord Juan speaks up. “The vessels landed on the shore two nights ago, this morning, a soldier has reported three villages plundered. They have the supplies, which tells us that they are preparing for a long conflict. He has the French support, through him, the French are going to test the King’s defences. It’s a gamble, especially after the news of the upcoming wedding is spreading like wildfire.”

“But the Prince’s life is not cheap, brother.” One of the princes speaks up with a sharpened tone.

“Of course, it isn’t. That is why I shall take the charge and lead the arms.”

“I appreciate your bravery, Juan but you cannot act without the permission of the Emperor.”

Don John looks into the Prince’s eyes, a distinct gleam under the light makes it seem like there is a slow-burning fire within dark orbs.

“I shall ride as a man of my own doings. I shall carry no Spanish banner under the sun, not until the Emperor sends a nod.”

The Crown Prince whispers something in Spanish with an edge in his voice, but Don John remains undeterred. He replies, betraying nothing of what might be unleashing in his mind. 

In this delicate moment, you wish you had learnt Spanish, but you were so tired of keeping up with the mannerisms that had to be taught to you from scratch ‘a lot of work’ you appointed governess had complained to the Queen. You always had your own ways, thankfully, the Queen liked that, and she still does.

At last, the Crown Prince sighs and Don John turns to the King

 “I shall be joining with my men and leading this battle along with your sons. I shall carry no Spanish banner. But I assure you of Spain’s support to your Kingdom, this is merely what traditions demand.”

“We shall forever be grateful, My Lord.”

“Please, Don John would do. Besides, my brother is to wed the Princess. Let us send a message, without murking up the diplomacy, we can do it, can we not?” He turns to the Crown Prince, who nods, despite the flicker of hesitance in his eyes.

The wedding is bound to happen, right?

For a brief moment, Don John’s eyes meet yours across the room, but the dark orbs are gone as swiftly as they caught your gaze, now moving towards the King as they engage in battle strategy.

“They should have come from the South, it was closer.” One of the men in the room comments.

“Yes, but the East has many who still harbour sympathy for his house.” the King responds.

“Tell me everything, my Lord. I must know the battlefield I am going into.” Don Juan urges.

—--

Your time in the chamber has been tedious but fruitful. You have all the right pieces of information for the Queen. As you bring her tea to her chamber, you provide the pieces that you have collected.

“I do not understand why he would want to lead the army to a battle that is not even his.”

“Should we worry, Your Grace?” You ask, frowning.

The Queen sighs, thinking “I need you to get to the Healer’s place and give him this letter. I need to know everything about the King’s court. And what do the masses think of this if they even know that the villages have been plundered? Are there any secret recruitments underway? This can decide much of the war, Girl. Visit the town’s brothel under disguise, if Katherine knows anything, she shall let you know—any new face, any discourse of concern. I need to know.”

“Is that how wars are won, My Queen?” You cannot help but ask.

She looks at you and ushers you closer, once closer, she stares into your eyes, her piercing stare sees you right through the deepest, darkest parts of your soul and reflects that in her orbs.  

“I see the fire in you, Girl. One day you are going to be much more relevant. I know you want that. So here is a piece of advice I will give. This is exactly how wars are won. Knowledge is power. Men who go to the battlefield depending on their swords are fools. Battles are won with strategies, not swords.”

You can only nod.

—----

The brothel is bustling with soldiers, merchants and nobles—drinking, laughing, and gambling with half-naked women on their laps.  With a dark hood protecting your identity and your hair braided tight you move past the roaring tables.

“Katherine of Waileswere.” You ask a barmaid who gestures towards the shut door.

Evading the drunk patrons, you walk towards the door, taking the shadows to be as discreet as possible. You knock on the door, but another girl answers the door instead of Katherine. The translucent cloth over her torse does little to cover her, but she does not seem concerned. 

“Is Katherine of Wailswere inside?” You ask her, the fluttering curtains hinder your view. However, the faint whispers along with giggling give you the answer. 

“She’s occupied at the moment.”

“This is urgent. I need to see her.”

“But the patron is a noble…” You do not care, walking right in.

“Noble from the court?” the girl opens her mouth the answer but you add anyway “Does not matter, I shall wait.” 

You will never admit but you regret the moment you say it because the moans and gasps of pleasure along with a peal of hushed, honeyed but deep laughter fill the room. The opaque curtains keep the section of the room hidden but only in sight. You cannot help the heat that warms your cheeks.

 The girl chuckles at you “As you wish, My Lady” she shrugs and walks into a quieter section in the chamber. 

For a fleeting moment, you catch a glimpse of a lean but athletic torso and a supple, feminine thigh against the deep red walls through the opaque curtains. You frown, but make no movement to come out of the shadows or take your hood off. Even though you are curious, you know better than to get caught here. 

As a Lady-in-Waiting for the Queen, you have certain decorum to maintain, especially when you aspire to be a part of the court someday.

People will laugh at you if they come to know that. But you do not care. You have dared to dream and here you are, having the Queen’s favour. Your ambitions are beyond that, they always have been.

Lost in musings, you never notice Katherine walking out. She notices you before you realise.

“Do we have a guest here?” 

Her alluring voice matches with her tantalising and enchanting aura. You understand why men go mad over a night for her—lovers, husbands, nobles, merchants—anyone who can pay the hefty prize that comes with the moments of molten gold over her golden skin, and yet it is she who shall be called the whore, no those men. It’s a good thing that she works for the Queen, she is an excellent source of information and gossip.

“Katherine, I….” Your gaze shifts behind her as the man she has been with saunters out, and you realise you have been too quick to remove your hood.

His glistening body is something that pulls at the gaze. It is tanned to a beautiful bronze, radiant under the daylight filtering inside. He is lean but the hard lines of muscles give away his experience on the battlefield, along with the deep scars. One, in particular, stands out, mapping almost the whole of his stomach in a straight, deep-hued line—healed but not vanished. You wonder what awful things he has stood witness to before your eyes meet his, and you can tell, many.

Recognition flashes in those deep pools that you fear, can cage your soul before he raises a questioning eyebrow, brushing his tousled hair back with his fingers.

“My, my, what do we have here? A lady from the Queen’s chamber?”

You gulp, trying to gather your bearings, well aware of the possibly grave mistake you have made by exposing yourself to the gaze of a man whose intentions are still unclear.

“I-I have come with an invitation from the court for the evening’s events.” You hate the stutter that accompanies your lie and you’re afraid that a man like John sees right through you.

“And they send the Queen’s Lady-in-Waiting? No soldier? This can be a dangerous place for a lady.”

His words confirm your fear.

“Katherine is well-acquainted with the court. This place is not for everyone.” You counter.

Lord John’s head tilts with a scoff and you cannot help but admire the way his hair, otherwise always set to perfection has turned damp with a few strands falling alluringly on his forehead.

“Every man is a monster when given the opportunity.” He says, fastening his pants and your gaze drops to the corner. You can practically feel his gaze on you.

To distract yourself, you turn to Katherine “From the…court.” You offer her the letter from the Queen, she understands and only nods. 

Suddenly, the door opens and a girl rushes in “The knights are here, they say they want to have a word with Katherine.” 

The urgency in her voice makes your blood run cold. You do not even realise it but your gaze gravitates towards Lord John, who easily reads the panic flushing through you by your eyes. You almost expect him to mock you—your lie has been exposed, after all. But instead, he quickly advances and pulls you towards the room.

“What are you—-”

“Here, you can escape through the window, quick!” 

His voice is hushed and urgent as he pushes you towards the low window—it is the ground floor, you do not even have to jump. Despite the questions running through your mind, you comply, quickly making an escape, just as you hear the room’s door burst open. 

You know you should leave, but you cannot bring yourself to. Instead, you put on the hood once more and wait behind a building. What feels like hours later, you watch the knights march past you angrily as you hide in the shadows.

They seem to have not been able to get what they want. You frown but as soon as you turn to find your way out of the place, you come face to face with the familiar tanned chest peeking behind the linen cloth.

“Just as I thought,” he comments as you look up and realise how tall he is. Towering over you with his amused but watchful gaze “Lady, if anyone sees you here, you will be in grave trouble.”

“I was worried.”

“About me?” 

“About Katherine.” You narrow your eyes, although while you say that, you realise that it might not be entirely true.

“Uh-huh? She is safe, they won’t dare challenge me, I must admit though, I expected the knights here to be braver.”

“They would not challenge a royal guest.” You begin to walk ahead, but he catches up with you.

“And I thought she received an invitation from the court itself.” The mockery is clear in his voice and the sharpness makes your cheeks heat up slightly, you have nothing to say “Do not sweat though, you little secret shall remain with me.” 

You glare at him “I do not understand… what do you want? You have no reason to fight yet you volunteered and now you helped me escape and saved Katherine.”

“What if I have a good heart?” His dark eyes gleam with the kind of sharp cynicism that lets you know that none of his words is true. 

“Everything has a price.”

You recall one of the most valuable pieces of advice the Queen has given you “So, what possibly could you want, Lord John?”

For a moment, you brace yourself for a biting retort with the way his face hardens but he catches you off guard once more with his response-

“Everything.”

—-----

You know that you should tell the Queen about your little encounter, and what Don John said. But you cannot bring yourself to. When you let the Queen know of what happened at Katherine’s Merriment House, you cut out the conversation with Don John, after your narrow escape from the Knights. Of course, Ser Lorres was the one heading— even though he is to serve the Queen.

“I gave him no orders, the King gave the orders?”

“It is apparently in his name, yes. However, Your Grace, forgive me, for asking why would he?” 

“Then one of his trusted advisors did. I have received some news regarding Earl of Walden’s increased participation.”

“Lord Beecham?”

“Why would he whore away his daughter then?” She asks sharply and you nod

“The King…So much burden to hold but all the wrong people to share it with. Listen here, child, can I trust you?”

“Yes, yes, My Queen, I serve you, and you alone.” You mean it, if not for her, you do not even want to imagine where you would have ended up.

“I cannot wait for a response from Katherine. You must ride away to Reinckalf immediately. Carry a letter of recognition and they will let you have an audience with the Duke. Hand my letter to no one but the Duke. I do not trust the Council and I want him to know that. Do you understand how important it is?”

You nod as she hands you over the letters.

“Guard it with your life, Girl.”

“I will.” You promise, clutching them tightly between your fingers.

—--

All his life, John has been called ‘Juan’ except for his mother who called him John with a tenderness he has never found again. What he found in the palace, was humiliation, betrayal and the twisted ways of the Empire’s palace. The Emperor did not acknowledge him as his bastard son then. But it was an open secret.

All his life, John has been ostracised—he has known shame, humiliation, he is a ‘disgrace’, a ‘mistake’ and his mother was a ‘whore’. 

The mother who did everything to keep him fed and clothed. The mother who taught him to never bend his knee to this twisted world. The mother whom the Emperor used as he pleased and then cast her away. She was not from his land but worked in the palace—chambermaid of no social standing. 

He wonders, often, how she managed to give birth to him, how she managed to live so long. It is a miracle, that he lived, right in the snakes’ nest, he lived. Maybe he was sent to a battle at the age of twelve for the very reason. But he lived then, and in every other battle he was a part of. One of the commanders even took him in as a squire, and he learnt the best ways to handle weapons—it was a privilege, he was not supposed to be as good as any prince, or noble and they never let him forget that. 

After his mother passed away, he left the palace, to travel, but deep down, he knew he simply wished to be as far as possible from the twisted place.

He thought he could escape—-his reality, his truth, the burden he carried since his birth, the burden he played no role in. John has been to places, to courts—travelling, serving as a sellsword all those years, meeting and knowing many, befriending a few, but trusting none.

John has been shaped into the man he is today, through his experience, but most of it has been a long, unending dance with death. At times, he wanted someone to succeed in pitting a sword through his stubbornly beating heart, slice an artery and make him bleed till his heart ceased to beat. But alas! The bastard John lived on, grew better, quicker, cleverer.

But one day, he woke up, looked at the beautiful woman in his arms, some fellow soldiers lying around, naked, clothed, drunk, snoring after a decisive victory, and decided that he wanted to live after all. Death would come anyway, it was so certain. Life, so far, had been full of surprises—tumultuous, stern, exacting and thrilling surprises. 

By then, he was twenty and seven, he decided to return to Spain. He had acquired some recognition after these years, and the then commander was willing to take him into the Empire’s army.

The interesting thing about the arms is that despite the bias towards nobles, it provides opportunities, even to bastards like him, to rise. He led battles, he aided in military treaties, and strategies and two summers later, he was leading the men in battles. The Empire needed men like him, John knew that, and he had learnt the game. 

John wanted to live, but not as a disgrace. He wanted to rise to honour—that was all he had dreamt of, and being officially recognised by the Emperor as he stood at the cusp of thirty and two, was the closest to what he aspired to be. But John has always been ambitious, for all he has suffered, right under his father’s nose, he wanted more than just recognition and military leadership. He continued to strengthen his position in the court. From Juan, the bastard, he became, Don Juan, 

When the Crown Prince’s marriage was fixed as a strategic alliance with a Kingdom a good sail away, he decided to join the men who would reach there first, in disguise to ensure that the wind was indeed in the Empire’s favour. To him, it was nothing more than responsibility, another step on the ladder. And it had been so until he wandered into the unassuming woods to bask in solitude and clear his head. 

Until he wandered near a creek, for his beloved stallion to quench its thirst, and there, he saw you—floating so carelessly through the streams, while two of your friends chatted a distance away. He wanted to be closer, but he stepped back, hiding behind the thicket, so he could watch you, and the way hair moved along, the manner you swam on your back, eyes closed under the tender autumn sun. John’s heart had been beating in a stubborn, steady rhythm for a while, but after a long time, he felt his heart pick its pace.

He thought he might never see you again, but there you were, in the Grand Feast, and he had the most striking gaze fixed on him—not out of malice, or the arrogance he had expected, but with pure curiosity—and this time, his heart skipped a beat.

And you have been on his mind, as much as he frowns upon it, this is an undeniable truth that thrums with every beat of his heart. For now, he is aware that the Queen puts her trust in you–-the letter meant for Katherine in his hold tells him so.

—---------

“Deus adiuvet in proelio”

John bowed his head, letting the Bishop bless him and his sword before handing the naked steel back to him. 

—--

The world around you is a blur as your trusted horse rides through the forest. The cold gusts whip against you, like inhaling ice as the night rolls on, but you cannot stop to rest, you must reach Reinckalf before it is too late.

—-

“We ought to safeguard the route for supplies first, lest they capture the main route the capital shall perish. Have you sent the message to the provinces?” John enquires as he reaches his stallion—a black beauty, almost invisible in the dark.

“Yes, My Lord, their soldiers are on their way, some from the nearest provinces have joined us tonight.”

John nods.

“We must ride through the night.” He states before getting on his horse “Come on, boy.” He whispers to his trusted companion before tightening his hold on the reins.

As if his eyes developed a will of their own, his eyes turn towards the nearest tower, where some court ladies stand, most of them, to bid their loved ones a good fortune. A part of him hopes to see you among them. But he returns his gaze to the road ahead with a tinge of disappointment before squeezing his legs as his horse begins moving, followed by the rest of the men.

—--

The room is quiet, except for the crackling of the fireplace and the rustle of the Duke’s clothes as his eyes take in the contents of the letters the Queen has sent you all the way to this place. You have ridden through the night and dawn, finally reaching the gates of the Reinckalf.

As soon as he raises, you follow.

“My men shall meet the King’s army eastward. The maids shall lead you to a chamber, you are free to ride back to the capital, My lady. A battleground is no place for a Lady.”

“Yes, my Lord, I know so. But I have vowed to return to the Queen only with a pleasant word.” You bow before meeting his eyes.

The Duke stands as if studying you briefly before nodding  “As you wish.”

—-------

“The Eastern Provinces may sympathise with the fallen King, and since George, the Queen’s cousin, is the only male heir, they may refrain from sending their men to fight against him, at best.” The Earl of Easterwood states as he stands with John in his chamber. “If forces are joining, Esterwood castle walls can hold them for only so long. But since the army has arrived from the capital, we are relieved.”

“John eyes the layout along the table-sized map.” 

“How many of the barons fought with the previous King?”

“The previous earl was armed by more than a handful of them before they reluctantly surrendered.”

“And how many men do they have right now?”

“I’m afraid, we have no exact numbers, My Lord.”

John’s gaze is sharp as he glances up, but he says nothing and returns his focus to the map. “How many days will it take for the Northerners to reach?”

“If they are fast as they claim, two more days, My Lord.”

“But we have less time if George is marching forward.”

“They say the French have provided them with some of their best troops, two sakers.”

John sighs “I see. Prepare your men, put them on guard for the castle.” 

“At your command Lord Juan,” the Earl bows as John walks past him. 

—-----

“I believe that you are well-acquainted with the histories of this land?” The Duke asks as you ride beside him, two bannermen trotting ahead on their horses while his troops ride behind you two.

“I have, as a lady must, my lord.”

“Then you must have noticed that tis a cycle, my lady. A King is crowned, then comes another,  and another, cities burn, villages are plundered, hundreds die until an empire crumbles to ashes.”

“Then comes another.” You add in a hushed tone, speaking more or less to yourself. “But we must do our duty.” You conclude, raising your chin.

“People have walked through blood to reach the throne, My Lady. I have seen the Queen’s father rule over this Kingdom, and I am seeing her husband rule over this Kingdom—there is no duty—there is only blood.”

You eye him, wary, intrigued and confused “The Queen tells me that you are her friend.”

“I assure you of my allegiance with the Queen. We have been friends since we were children.”

“I would not dare to question your loyalty, My Lord.” You assure him. Offending a man of his stature is the last thing on your mind.

“When we face the enemies tomorrow, My Lady, you shall see my loyalty anyway, and let the Queen know, that she has friends, true friends still.” He states as they continue through the trodden road.

—---

“John, will you tell us what is going in your head?” Borachio and Conrade follow John as they ride deeper into the woods.

“For now we are taking cover. I do not wish to be dead anywhere other than the battlefield.”

“So honourable and glorious.” Conrade comments with a chuckle

“You think I am honourable? Do you think I seek glory?” John scoffs, glancing at his friend. "They're all built on lies."

“Why are we here?” Borachio asks

“Because nothing matters in a war, only victory,” John responds as his stallion stops at a point. They can now see the enemy camp but are perfectly hidden from sight.

—--

It has been a long day for the soldier. Other than the village, they plundered on their way, and they had no rest or food.

 ‘Rest’ is not the way to describe how he and his friend barged into one of the many cottages. It was dark inside, but there was unmistakably a woman there. His friend threatened her with his dagger while he grabbed some fruits and bread.

He does not remember her face or know her name, but now, as he lays in the tent, guarding the cannon balls and some steel, her cries haunt him. His friend held her down by the neck while he tore her clothes and thrust inside her. And after he was done, his friend took his turn before he cut her throat and left the cottage to burn. 

He closes his eyes, feeling much lighter without the armour. Sleep is not far away either. He is tired and they have been travelling. Tomorrow may—

The sudden smell of smoke catches him off guard. He springs on his feet, frantically looking around. His eyes widen as he sees one of the tent walls in flames, nearing the containers for explosives and canon balls, placed along with a pile of others.

“N—!” 

But it is too late, as the tent explodes with a deafening boom, throwing the camp into a burning, bloody and miserable chaos. It gives way to many more explosions and fires like cards inevitably falling one after another.

And amidst the havoc, three men slip away into the woods, unnoticed. 

—------

“Good Lord! How did you know they have already reached?” The realisation and fear dawn upon Borachio as the adrenaline wears off while they ride through the woods.

“Before we reached here. Lord Beecham said that he had information regarding the route they had taken. He most obvious lie I have heard here. Lord Beecham is no friend of the King.”

“What is it to you? Why do you risk us, yourself for this?” 

John turns to Borachio, as their horses trot through the woodland “Because I want to.”

“You never walk on a whim.” Conrade pushes.

There is no trace of pride in his eyes for what he has done. He simply has done what was needed to be done to gain the upper hand.

“Then you know me.” That is all the explanation John provides them with as they ride back to the palace.

“Be prepared for tomorrow.” He breaks the stretched silence during their ride back once the horses are back in the stable.

—----

The early arrival of the George, backed by the French Army at Esterwood catches most off guard. 

The battle has been decided tomorrow, why not today?” The earl wonders aloud as he shows John potential battlegrounds.

“Because they are not prepared yet,” John replies before putting a paperweight over a shallow hill on the map.

“The Northerners are yet to arrive, we are short of men. If Esterwood falls, it shall be a blow to the Crown---a humiliation! George will win.”

“I understand, My Lord, and that is why, we take downhill.”

“What? You baffle me good Lord, why take such a disadvantageous position?”

“You have a great knowledge of the geography here?”

“I assure you, I do.”

“Then prepare your men and send them the message to meet us tomorrow at the uphill.”

“But that gives them momentum.”

“That is what I want. Here,” he raises the paperweight and points near the hill, “if I am not wrong, is a bog. I want the troops to start working on the spears”

—---

The sun rises with two royal sigils against each other on the battleground. 

“Take positions!”

John commands and the men behind him point their spears. 

“Archers! Take positions!”

He commands again and the archers positioned strategically ready themselves and their bows.

“Lord Commander, who gave you information about the troops?”

“I believe a handful of barons holds sympathy for the Pretender.” The older man sighs, eyeing the expanded enemy troops, holding up the sigil that once stood over the capital of the Kingdom.

“Where are the Northerners?” 

“On their way, I assure you. The enemies have reached long before the estimated time.”

John gives him a sharp glance before straightening up.

“Either way, we must fight. And we must win” 

With that, he puts on his helmet, and the heavy metal clanks against his armour as he positions his sword over his horse, the men on foot have already taken position around the bog. 

Finally, the Lord Commander raises his sword and the horns blow.

—--

From a vantage point of view, it might look like ants rushing down a slope, pointed and organised initially, until they reach the bottom and their horses fail. Like a pile of cards, they fall. And that is when the men around the bog charge with arrows raining down.

Speas, swords, blood, dirt and mud, all become one on the wet ground. Those who manage to escape the bog—-on foot or on horse, are met by John and other men on their horses. But that is not enough. With a command to charge them on foot, John gets off his stallion and charges towards the incoming enemies with his naked sword.

The epics and the ballads sing of such scenes as glorious, something heroic. The plays, the paintings, the history records—all paint them in golden light. 

In reality, there is nothing heroic, or glorious about battles—it is simply men trying to survive. And there is only one way to survive on a battlefield without humiliation–to fight, to keep fighting. John’s breaths come out as gasps as he pushes, cuts, punches and wrestles through the armoured men.

It is a brutal chaos. Fight and live, or fight until you die.

His sword clashes with another's, he is swift on his feet—he has fought worse. He stands his ground, swiftly using his shield to protect himself against the incoming blows before attacking again. His sword meets his rival’s shield thrice before another armoured man attracts. But John is swift to move away and take position again. Using this shield, he hits one on the head, destabilising him before taking off his metal helmet and hitting one with it. It gives him enough time to push him onto the ground and swiftly push his sword through the gap, the blood and the sounds of the flesh being pierced are drowned by the man's short-lived but blood-curdling scream before he falls limp while John blocks another hit from the other man with his shield. His hands shake under the attack but he refuses to budge.

So much within a span of a moment. His attention shifts to the other man’s raised sword before John blocks with his shield again before getting back on his feet. He quickly attacks one of the approaching horses, cutting off the strap as the man on it falls on his current, bloodthirsty rival. Giving the fallen soldier no time to think, John takes his dagger and stabs the man in his eyes through the gap in his helmet before forcefully pulling off his helmet and stabbing him through the neck. He barely even looks into his eyes before pushing the body away and finally holding the man he has been fighting down, kicking his shield away and hitting him with his armoured head with his helmet until it bends. Finally, he takes off the helmet and hits his enemy’s bare and vulnerable head with his helmet with gritted teeth and lips curled up in a snarl until his face is marred with his rival’s blood and his rival, dead underneath him. 

But the battle is far from over and victory is not near enough. Back on his feet, John pushes and punches through armoured men, grabbing one in an armlock before hitting his head with the back of his sword. He throws him on the ground, where he is stomped over by the rest of the fighting soldiers and frightened horses.

Breathlessly, he fights through, until he hears horns at a distance. His eyes move to the source as relief washes over him at the sight of Reinkalf’s sigil along with the Kigdom’s. There is cheer, uproar and newfound vigour as the men fight.

“The Northern army!” Another man roars. 

From the other side rides down a large, imposing army from the north, scattering and completely overpowering the rest of the French troops. Their horses and swords cut through the enemy forces swiftly.

This indeed is his day.

John can’t help but think as a rare laugh bursts out of his bloodied mouth before he pushes against and attacks the enemy soldiers with newfound vigour.

It is a decided battle now, but his eyes search for George. As he fights through the men, reaching the middle, he misses a swordsman rising on his feet before it is too late, he is hurled on the ground, mud in his eyes and a heavy, armoured hand comes for for his jaw. John spits out blood, disoriented, half-blinded but swift enough to block another blow with his hands. His hand grabs a fallen helmet before he swings it on the man over his with full force. Breathless and bloody, he spits out again before snatching swinging the helmet again, and again, and again. Until the man falls beside him. Swiftly, John climbs over him and continues to hit him with the helmet until it breaks. Taking his dagger, he plunges it through the gap of the helmet.

Breathless and exhausted, he reluctantly takes off the armour protecting his torse—it is slowing him down. This man almost had him. He turns to swiftly block another incoming sword with his. Now much lighter and quicker, he easily manoeuvres through the battlefield. His sword slices through metal and flesh, leaving it dripping with warm blood.

 He can almost taste victory along with the mud and grass until he feels the sudden piercing of a dagger on the left of his torso. He growls and turns to the attacker.

He is not wearing the enemy’s armour.  

But he has no time to think through as the armoured man hits him with his shield, throwing him on the ground. John moves as fast as he can, rolling away deeper into the fighting ground spitting blood, and feeling the warm liquid flowing down from the side of his face.

The horns of victory blow, but it is all muffled by John, who finds his breath slowing as his vision dims.

*****

Phew! A long, boring chapter. But do not worry, things will pick up pace in the next.

[thought--bubble]

A Temporary Respite

Daemon Targaryen X Stark Reader

Word Count: 1,999

For the 12 days of smuffmas (Prompts by @ewanmitchellcrumbs)

December 14th - blizzard and blowjob

Smuffmas Masterlist

Daemon Targaryen Masterlist

Full Masterlist

Banners by @arcielee

Warnings: Infidelity, Dubious consent, Alcohol, Daemon being a massive jerk.

The snow crunches under Daemon's heavy steps as he walks up to the Winterfell gates. His face is stoic, and his jaw is clenched. He shivers profusely from the snow whipping around him. He cannot understand how people choose to live in such a place.

“Open these gates for your king!” he screams, hoping his voice will carry over the roaring winds around him. “Right now!” he barks, annoyance wrapped around every syllable.

The gates open, and he hurries in, the guards leading him into the rundown castle. It is, of course, better than Harrenhal, but not by much. He lifts his lip slightly in disgust. This place is hardly suitable to house a dog, let alone a noble family.

“Prince Daemon,” a man with dark hair and a commanding jaw, wrapped in luxurious brown furs, makes his way toward Daemon.

“King. That is King Daemon,” Daemon shakes his head, willing the cold flakes to fall out of his hair. “And you must be Lord Stark.”

“Yes. Why have you come?” Cregan keeps his eyes on Daemon, a weary expression on his face.

“And where is Prince Jacaerys? He's been here for quite some time, and still, no raven has been sent announcing your loyalty to Queen Rhaenyra.” Daemon ignores Cregan's question, choosing to look around the large hall instead. “Whatever is causing such a delay?”

Cregan scrunches his nose and breathes in deeply before replying. “Prince Jacaerys and I are still in negotiations.”

“Negotiations!” Daemon barks back, a cold laugh erupting from his chest. “Negotiations? What negotiations? There were never meant to be negotiations, you see. Either you announce your fealty to Queen Rhaenyra, or you are announced as a traitor. It is quite simple, really.”

“Daemon!” Jacaerys’ voice booms across the hall, a small yet pretty girl wrapped in furs by his side.

“Jacaerys! Finally, you make an appearance!” Daemon smirks and allows his eyes to rove over the girl.

“And who may this be?” He steps in closer before Jacaerys halts his movements. “This is Lady Stark, Lord Cregan's sister.”

Daemon clicks his tongue. “If these negotiations include a betrothal, I regret to inform you that all of the princes who are of age to marry are already betrothed…”

Jacaerys puffs out his chest. “Daemon, I am handling this.”

Daemon lifts his head to the sky and barks out the most condescending laugh the young prince has ever been subject to. “Handling? You are needed at the front lines. Your dragon is needed at the front lines, yet here you are! Unable to obtain the loyalty of the North, who are, if history is to be believed, the most noble of us all.”

Jacaerys' face flushes with embarrassment as the Stark siblings watch the two dragons war for dominance. “We will speak when I return. For now, you can head back.”

Daemon rolls his eyes, not at all trying to hide his annoyance. “Head back? In this?” Daemon pulls a clump of snow off of his shoulder. “No, I think I shall stay the night. I am sure Lady Stark could lead me to some accommodations that would suit the King?”

You freeze at the sudden attention on you. Why me? is what you think, but for some reason, “Follow me, my king,” is what comes out.

You cringe as you turn your back to Daemon, ready to lead him to his rooms, and lock eyes with Cregan, who is clearly holding back a laugh. Your brother would laugh at you as you make a fool out of yourself in front of the king regent, you think while huffing. “Just this way.”

Daemon, before leaving, turns to Jacaerys. “You will meet me outside of my rooms at the hour of the owl, and bring Lord Stark.” Jacaerys opens his mouth to protest, and Daemon stops him. “Do as I say.” He then nods at Jacaerys, following behind you.

You move quickly, hoping to get Daemon to his rooms as fast as possible, hoping beyond hope that Daemon is too annoyed or angry to strike up a conversation with you, but as with all things lately, your luck seems to be non-existent.

“So you have lived here your entire life?” Daemon asks, feigning interest, or so you assume.

“Yes. I am a Stark, after all,” you answer quietly and quickly.

“For a wolf, you act rather like a mouse, quietly scurrying about.” He moves his hand, imitating a small creature. “You have not even told me any of the history hanging upon these walls,” he gestures toward the large paintings and quilts that adorn the long hall you are passing through.

“I would, if I believed you had any interest in knowing.” This response elicits a chuckle from Daemon.

“Clever girl. No, I suppose I do not care much about what the Starks have done as much as I care about what they are doing.” Daemon takes long strides, bringing him up to your side.

“Well, I am not privy to that type of information,” you say softly, keeping your eyes trained ahead. “Your rooms are just this way.”

“Ah. Well… these will do, I suppose. For one night anyway.” He pushes past you into the room.

“If there is nothing else?” You start to take slow steps backward to exit.

“There is. I require some company and some wine.” Daemon sits in the plush chair by the fireplace. “Also, if someone could light this. It is quite cold for a dragon.”

“I will have wine delivered and your fireplace lit,” you turn to leave.

“And the company?” Daemon asks.

“We do not… keep those types of women here.”

Daemon lifts a brow and laughs. “I am not speaking of that type of company, Lady Stark. Although it is interesting that your mind seems to be in such a place.”

Your entire face flushes, hot embarrassment all the way down to your chest.

“I apologize, my lord,” you stammer, words escaping you.

“My king. I am not a lord,” Daemon gets up from his chair, leading you to the chair beside him. “I will ask the servants to come with the wine. You seem… confused. You just sit here.” He smirks before strolling out of the room, leaving you feeling like an idiot.

Staring into the empty fireplace, you laugh. Have you actually made such a fool of yourself in front of the king regent that he doesn't trust you to give orders to your own servants?

When Daemon comes back, he sits across from you, silently in thought as maids flutter about with a cask of wine and kindling for the fireplace.

“I should go, Your Grace. It is not proper for me to be alone with you.”

Daemon doesn't respond to you, instead turning to the maid making her way out. “Leave the doors open.”

The maid nods and leaves the room, the two big, thick doors left ajar.

“There. Now no one will question your virtue.” He takes a sip of his wine, staring into the newly lit fire.

“I—” you want to protest but haven't a clue what you should say.

“Now. I have some time, so tell me everything about the Starks.”

Your jaw drops, and you look at him incredulously. “Your Grace?”

“You are a Stark, after all. Tell me what that means.” He hands you a cup of wine. “Drink. I do not enjoy drinking wine alone.”

Not knowing what to do, you sip the wine and start as far back with Stark history as you know. Daemon listens intently, and as hours pass, he pours cup after cup of wine for you.

As the wine flows, you get more and more comfortable with Daemon, speaking to him candidly.

“Lady Stark… Is the North the same as the South? Or are the ladies up here… more… free?” He asks with a lecherous grin on his face.

“I do not know what you mean,” you giggle, your face flushed with heat, be it from the wine or his proximity; you aren't entirely sure.

“Come here.” He holds out his hand, helping you off of your chair and seating you on his lap.

“Now, in the South… this would be improper.” He grips your hips and starts to slightly grind against you.

Your breathing picks up pace. This is wrong, but the wine in your system doesn't seem to care. “It would be improper here too, Your Grace.”

“Oh, then we mustn't.” Daemon chuckles as he rubs his growing hardness against your backside. “I suppose that means we should stop, huh?”

“Mmmm,” you mumble, rocking back into him.

“Seems my good little wolf does not wish to stop.” Daemon suddenly stands you up and turns you around, all while staying seated in his chair.

“You will be a good girl for your king?” he asks while unlacing his breeches.

You nod while giggling, slightly swaying from side to side.

“Get on your knees. Right here.” You plop down to your knees, and he pulls you into place. “Now do as I say, and everything will be grand.”

You nod absentmindedly as he slides his breeches down to his ankles, stroking his hardness slowly. “Sweet girl, come here.” With his free hand, he reaches into your hair, pulling you to his cock and sliding the dripping head along your lips.

“Open up.” You open your mouth, and he purrs. “You learn so fast. You will make someone a wonderful wife someday.” He pushes his cock past your lips and into your mouth. The sensation is odd but not unpleasant.

He grunts and gets a better grip on your hair, dragging your head along his shaft. “Now you do it just as I showed you.” He guides you up and down a few more times until you get into the rhythm, taking him slightly deeper with each pass.

“Perfect,” he groans and leans back, his hand gently resting on the back of your head. “Keep going. Take more. Go all the way down.”

At his instruction, you push your head down as far as it will go, the head of his weeping cock pushing against your throat as you struggle slightly.

“Yessss… choke, little wolf.” Daemon holds your head there as you sputter, pushing himself in and out of the tightness of your throat.

Your eyes water, and the spot between your legs tingles, the sensations all wrapping together in a symphony of carnal pleasure.

Daemon grunts, thrusting, his movements growing sloppy. You grip his thighs and feel his muscles tense under your touch.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Your brother's voice booms through the room, and you try to pull your head back in mortification.

Daemon holds your head in place and grunts loudly as he spills his seed down your throat. He continues to hold you there until you swallow in a bid to breathe.

“Daemon!” Jacaerys yells across the room, his steps hurried as he reaches the side of Daemon's chair.

“Ah, Prince Jacaerys! Lord Stark.” Daemon smiles while slipping himself back into his breeches.

You look down at the floor, absolutely terrified to look up at your brother. You were ruined.

“I asked you to come here so we could speak,” Daemon continues, apparently unfazed by the turn of events.

“You come to my house!” Cregan starts, his voice laced with hatred.

“Now, now, Lord Stark. That is not the way to talk to your king.”

“You think I would raise my banners for your cause after this treachery?” Cregan seethes.

“I do. For I would never sully the good name of a lady of an allied house…” The room goes silent, and you finally look up at Daemon.

“Now… if it were any enemy house… a house that, say, raised their banners for the usurper… I would spread the news far and wide.” He takes his wine goblet and sips it before looking back at Cregan.

“So, Lord Stark, tell me… who has Winterfell raised their banners for?”