#you are a targaryen that's all that matters!!!!!!!

[luvsfics]

LADY OF THE LAKE — House of the dragon

Aemond Targaryen x Tully!Original character

Description: The one-eyed prince is betrothed to a Tully. A fish and a dragon, a horrid match. Perhaps, with time, the two find they fit each other well after all. A dragon rules the skies, while the fish rule the sea.

Chapter warnings: mentions of arranged marriages.

Authors note: it’s been forever since I’ve posted, let’s hope I’m not too rusty. I tried to keep on theme with the Sesame Street names and I didn’t really like ‘Abby’ for a Tully so Natasha it is!

As beautiful as the maiden herself, many said about the daughter of Elmo Tully. Long locks of auburn hair and eyes as blue as the ocean, the perfect image of effortless beauty and innocence. Yet, beauty wasn’t all that mattered to the one-eyed prince. A pretty face isn’t all he wanted in a wife. What if she was dull, or just plain dumb?

“An alliance with the Tully’s will be a great opportunity for us, Aemond.” His mother explained, her face painted with annoyance. His eyebrows furrowed, why must he suffer the same fate of a loveless marriage just like his mother and father? Many thoughts raced through his mind.

He would’ve much preferred the solace of never marrying and becoming commander of the city watch. Many women have expressed behind closed doors their distaste for the prince, how hideous his scar was, or how he would never have time for a woman with his studies and training. why would he want to condemn anyone to such a fate of being wed to the maimed prince?

Yet, sometimes, late at night, he imagines what it would be like to have a wife. Someone to hold close, someone to protect, someone to start a family with. Nothing like the marriage between his parents, he would be good to his wife unlike his father.

“It is not up to you, anyway. You will meet the girl and you will serve your part as prince of the realm.” Alicent said, huffing out a sign of anger.

His nostrils flared. Aemond stormed out of the council room where few lords sat, swiftly making his way through the halls of the castle. His head swirling with anger as he made his way to the training grounds to begin his practice for the day.

Natasha’s heart raced in fear. Many accounts of people have spoke of the second son of the king’s gruesome looks and rough attitude.

“It is a great opportunity and honor to be considered for this,” her handmaiden said as she laced up her corset. Her father had broken the news to her earlier that morning. They were preparing to set off to kings landing in before noon to reach kings landing by the morning.

She gulped. The horrid feeling of nausea flooding her stomach.

What if he didn’t think her worthy of him? What if he was the cruel man rumors say he is? What if he is ugly? Her thoughts racing around her head.

Of course, she dreamt of becoming a wife to a loving husband and mother to beautiful babies. Yet, it felt as if her world came crashing down at the thought of her betrothal to the prince of the realm.

“You will be a princess!” The young girl exclaimed with excitement as she tied the laces into a bow. Natasha let out a nervous laugh, attempting to lighten her own mood.

She prayed to all seven gods for their mercy, for she might need it in the days to come.

The roads to kings landing were long, with her brothers Oscar and Kermit’s immature mocking, singing of their sisters betrothal to the prince.

“Nattie will be a princess! All prim and proper!” Oscar exclaimed, Kermit laughing as if it were the funniest thing in the world.

Natasha scoffed. “So hilarious, Oscar.” She rolled her eyes.

“Imagine having to marry AND bed the prince Aemond, commonly know for his horrific looks!” Kermit was almost dying of laughter as he spat out.

“Father!” Natasha turned to her side, the lord of riverrun barely listening to his children as he shoved his nose in scrolls.

“Stop tormenting your sister, boys.”

The brother’s laughter just barely died down as they whispered jokes to themselves.

Natasha shifted her gaze outside the window of the carriage, taking in the beautiful scenery of the kings road as dawn rose. Her nerves slowly returned, nausea seeping back into her stomach as they approached kings landing.

The heavy sound of gates opening made her heart stop, they were there. They were finally there.

The carriage came to a stop. “Lord Elmo Tully, Lord paramount of the trident and Lord of Riverrun and his children, Kermit, Natasha, and Oscar Tully.” The Guard announced.

Her father stepped out of the carriage to be greeted by the hand of the king, Otto Hightower. The boys went next, bowing to the Hightower lord. Lastly, Natasha.

With her beautiful grey-blue dress with sliver embroidery to represent her house, which contrasted prettily with her Mahogany colored hair and blue eyes. Fitted perfectly to her features and picked by her hand-maiden herself.

“My daughter, Natasha.” Her father gently took her hand and presented her to the hand. She gracefully curtsied, “A great pleasure, my lord hand.”

“Indeed, my lady. The Queen asked me personally to escort you all to the Godswood where she and the Prince Aemond await your arrival.” The hand said with a soft grin.

Natasha took in a breath, which was hard with how tight her handmaiden, Elissa, tied it. The hand led the family through the keep. Elissa quickly caught up to them from the other carriage, linking her arm with her lady’s.

The beautiful weirwood tree came into view as the guards opened the doors to the Godswood. Standing under it, the Queen of the seven kingdoms and the Prince Aemond with Guards and maids roam the area.

“Please, we have refreshments over there. Help yourselves.” Otto said as he made his way over to his daughter and grandson, most likely to prepare everyone for this meeting.

Elissa and Natasha stood to the side as her brothers raided the table of food and drink. “My heart feels like it might burst.” Natasha whispered.

Her back was turned to the prince, she was too frightened to meet his gaze. “It is alright, my lady. You are kind and smart and very beautiful. What isn’t there for the prince to like?” She caressed her arms.

Elissa peaked beside Natasha to look upon the prince. His sharp looks and long silver hair weren’t completely…unpleasant to look at.

“He is actually quite handsome, my lady.” Elissa smiled.

The River-lady slowly turned her head to the weirwood tree. Her eyes meet the side of the prince. His face chiseled and strong, his long silver hair pulled half-up, his Valyrian features graced her vision.

Her gaze raked over his form. His strong arms in his tunic and small waist she was almost jealous of. He looked as if he walked out of one of her romance books. A dashing knight for her to love and to hold.

Aemond’s gaze met her own. Her heart hammered in her ribcage as if she looked upon the face of a god. His own eyes widened, mimicking her own.

Through his own eyes, he felt the same. Her long, locks of red, shining in the sunlight of dawn, almost like a halo. Her striking ocean blue eyes staring into his own, and her delicate features. She was like an angel, cursed to live her life with him.

Her dress fitting her body perfectly, though he shamed himself for the those thoughts. For all have said she was beauty of the maiden herself.

“She’s quite beautiful, is she not, Aemond?” Otto asked his grandson.

“Quite.” He hummed.

[anjelicawrites]

“Don’t go beyond, no matter how much you feel you need to, Doctor. The barrier was not made to be broken. Remember this: there is more power here than you know. It is old and always restless. Remember.”

― Stephen King, Pet Sematary 

Paring: Aemond Targaryen x dead wife!reader Synopsis: expanding this short fic based on Stephen King’ Pet Sematary. Aemond is the sole victor of the Dance, only to discover that his beloved wife has been killed. Desperate, and in spite of Alys Rivers’s warnings, he decides to fly to a place where it’s said the dead can be resurrected. There’s always a price to pay, and no one comes back the way they were. Warnings: angst, murder, gore, semi graphic description of a corpse, semi graphic description of injuries, quick reference to Luke’s death, Jahaerys’s death and Rook’s Rest, madness, Aemond survive the God’s Eye, self inflict wounds. A/N: reader is AFAB, they/them pronouns used when needed.

Rain slaps his face, relentless it pours from the sky, chilling him to the bone, wetting the layers of leather, and his thick cloak.

Under him Vhagar flies, restless. For the first time in all these years together, Aemond feels the unwillingness of the ancient beast to follow her rider’s orders; he knows it’s not the storm, nor the exploding boom of the not so distant thunders. 

Or your dead body wrapped in your shroud, that unnerves the Queen of all Dragons, the winner of thousands battles. 

It’s where he’s forcing her to fly.

NSFW (due to the themes) and 18+ only please!

Through the bond he feels Vhagar’s unwillingness, all her instincts screaming that there’s danger ahead, that she shouldn’t go; Aemond feels it in his bones, in every cell of his body that Vhagar is trying to subtly gain control and turn back to King’s Landing. His muscles spasm and flex when the old she-dragon tries to push, against his unbreakable will, his hands tighten painfully around the reins when she tries to sneakly change the course of their trip.

“Daor bisa jēda, Vhagar!” He screams over the howling of the wind. “Not this time, Vhagar!”

In his arms your body slumps and he almost loses his hold on you: it would be the Gods’ cruelest of tricks to take you away from him, again. Permanently, this time.

They had tried, when he was in Harrenhal and you, supposedly, safe in King’s Landing, with his mother and his sister.

Supposedly.

Alicent never wrote him who had smashed your head with a morning star, the blow so violent it had caved your skull in, killing you on the spot. Not that it mattered. Had it been Rhaenyra herself, or one of her men, it wouldn’t have changed a single thing: you were dead. He had survived Daemon, killing him above the God’s Eye, the thought of crawling back in your arms the reason he hadn’t succumbed to the wounds the other man had inflicted.

And the cruel Gods had taken his safe haven away from him.

Aemond has no recollection of what had happened after he had read the letter, there was a black abyss where his memories should have been, and pain, enormous, all encompassing, deafening in its power, it had bent and twisted his reason, smothering him under a layers of guilt: if he had taken you to Harrenhal, you’d be alive and well.

When his reason had resurfaced, forcing him back to the world of the living, he had entertained the fleeting thought of following you into the great unknown; perhaps, he had mused, he was supposed to die in the treacherous waters of the God’s Eye, if not on Daemon’s sword, then by his own hand.

What was left for him? The conqueror’s crown, now that his brother was dead? The richest hidden in the bowels of the Red Keep? Punishing all of the Houses who had sided with Rhaenyra? Everything paled if you weren’t by his side, all the gold turning into dust, if he couldn’t share it with you.

You were the light, where he was darkness, the gentleness to his steel: no one else would ever survive the comparison to you. Nobody would laugh softly the way you did, or feel when he needed your gentle hand in his. Why would he bother with talking to all those people who weren’t you? No one had something to say that truly interested him, nor could they understand him the way you did.

Without you the air he breathed was poisonous, the food ash in his mouth: why did the Gods punish him the way they did, when his only fault had been protecting his family and avenge his honor?

When he had resurfaced back from the pit abyss grief had carved for him, his chambers were destroyed: the bed, the drapes, the heavy trunks containing his belongings. All his clothes torn to shreds. 

The exquisitely made letter writing set you had gifted him for his nameday laid into broken fragments where his desk stood. The elegant clothes you had ordered for him, where you had sewn his initials during interminable winters, before your wedding, torn apart as if a mindless beast had gone through them. Even all the letters you wrote him, now shreds, your beloved handwriting lost forever.

When he had realized what he had done in his rage and grief, he had felt his mind slipping again, the tenuous grip he had on reality splintering as he desperately tried to hold on his sanity: you were dead, and all the markings of your earthly passing destroyed: what was left for him to hold on?

He had fallen on his knees, the boulder sitting on his chest depriving him of his breath, his vision a dark tunnel; even the physical pain of his wounds couldn’t tether him back to reality.

There’s a dark place, his broken mind had supplied, the nameless islands the maids talk about, where miracles happen.

He had forced his jumbled thoughts to focus, gritting his teeth and curling his hands into fists, the pain a flash that sharpened his mind, finally, into focus and away from madness.

He had heard the servants scurry and whisper around him, ghost tales, mad tales that had no grounds in philosophy, or reality, those ignorant people who would pale at gusts of wind they believed to be the shadows of the dead or fear the depths of the woods around the cursed place that was Harrenhal.

Could they be right?

The sharp turn Vhagar tries to make jumbles Aemond back into the present, where wind and hail slap his face and he is so cold he can barely force his muscles to work.

With a pained wince he grabs the brindles with stiff fingers, the muscles of his shoulders screaming when he rears back to force Vhagar to go straight.

“Gaomagon hae nyke vestragon! Do as I say!” He shouts; through the bond, Vhagar growls, but submits.

Only another time Vhagar had gone against his will: the faithful night when he had killed Lucerys.

He had laid in your embrace, still wet from the storm, shivering, his teeth chattering with how cold he was feeling. He had poured his heart open to you, confiding to you the truth he couldn’t reveal to the rest of his family: that he didn’t mean to kill the young man, that Vhagar had a mind of her own.

He had curled in your arms when he had told you he couldn’t feel any remorse for what he had done that, perhaps, Vhagar had acted following the deepest wishes of his soul.

“Maybe there was a part of me that wanted him dead, and Vhagar just followed suit.”

You had hugged him closer, wetting your night garb in the desperate hope to keep him warm, as the servants prepared him a bath.

“We will face what is to come together. We are but instruments for the Gods, their path for us is known only to them.” You had answered.

Only you had been steadfast by his side, even after Jahaerys’ killing, even after Rook’s Rest, when the whole Keep thought he had tried to murder Aegon, you had taken his hand showed him your faith in him.

You did all of that for him, he must do the same for you, against reason, against all that’s known about life and death.

He had stormed the crumbling corridors of the castle, scaring the servants away with the mad look on his face, and the blood still dripping from his hands, outside, Vhagar moved and groaned, his turmoil hers to bear.

He had opened the doors of the witch’s workroom with such a strength, that they had slammed with a bang against the moldy walls, scaring her servants into scuttling into the direction of the enormous hearth.

Once again he had looked at the Strong woman, the only one who showed him no fear, only bland curiosity; he knew of her friendship with Daemon and only now wondered why she hadn’t killed him when he was defenseless in the mouth of madness. Perhaps she hoped to obtain from him what she had wanted from her late friend, as if Aemond would have given her half a glance, whatever the reason of her well masked interested had been in him.

A mystery he would have explored, if you weren’t in his life.

She had tried to say something, but he had cut her off immediately, asking where was the place of miracles, and she had paled: for the first time since he had set foot in Harrenhal, she had showed him true emotions, the fear she lacked when he had decimated House Strong.

“Such place does not exists.” She had lied to him. “It’s an old wives tale.”

Without even thinking, Aemond had grabbed both the knife she was using, and her hand, pulling at her until he could slap it on the table, her long fingers spread on the dark wood.

“Either you start talking, or I start cutting off your phalanxes. I will not stop until only bloody pieces of you remain.”

Did she talk because she was afraid of him, or because she knew she had no sway over him? Could she see the madness in his eye, or was she sending him to his death, to avenge Daemon? Aemond didn’t know, or cared; with the sharp blade resting on the tip of her little finger, he had listened to her, absorbed the coordinates that would guide him towards your salvation.

She had waited until he was at the doors.

“It is said that nobody comes back the way they were, that there is a price to pay to subvert the order of all things.”

He had stopped, but he had not looked at her.

“Then why such a place should exist?”

She had no answer.

“You wouldn’t like what you’ll see there.” She had stopped for a moment. “Sometimes, dead is better.”

He wasn’t listening anymore, his footsteps booming against the cursed walls of Harrenhal, his voice authoritative as he ordered his servants to prepare his things, and Vhagar: he was in a hurry to go back to King’s Landing, to you, before it was too late.

A flash of lightning illuminates the barren, nameless island and Aemond has to grind his teeth when, under him, Vhagar grunts and jostles her whole body, as if trying to stop him one last time, before it’s too late.

“Ȳdra daor keligon! īlon issi bē konīr! Don't stop! We are almost there!” He shouts: he’s not going to fail now that his prize is so near!

Vhagar lands gracelessly, like she has never done before, and doesn’t lay on the sand to recuperate after such a long flight, instead she sits, and keeps looking around, moving her humongous head nervously.

Cradling your body against his, Aemond feels all his hairs stand up, as soon as his feet touch the ground. If he hadn’t such an important task to carry out, he would follow the voice in his head that’s screaming at him to run away, before it’s too late.

With a grunt he tries to ignore the panic he feels surging from the depths of his being, the fist that’s curling around his stomach, making it hard to take the first step towards the inland, where the ancient burial ground lays: his body seems to revolt against his brain’s orders, his legs almost hammered on the wet sand, his muscles turned into stone.

Behind him, Vhagar roars.

He had arrived in King’s Landing wearing the same bloodied clothes he had worn during the battle against Daemon. He had ignored his mother’s fearful stare, and her pitiful attempt at stopping him, when she had realized he was heading for your burial.

“No Aemond!” She had grabbed his arm. “You don’t want to see them like this, you don’t want to destroy your last memory!”

He hadn’t stop to shake Alicent’s hand off his arm, electing to carry her until she had lost her hold on him.

You were already in your tomb, the soil flattened and only needing a headstone, as per your House ancient traditions.

With his bare hands he had dug through the layers, the already butchered skin opening to bleed, his fingernails almost torn with the haste that fueled his desperate work.

Until the linen of your shroud appeared. Only then he worked carefully, making sure the soil wouldn’t rain on you, moving your heavy body gently, with the same care and love he had always used with you, his delicate love.

His hands had trembled when he had open the shroud to see your beloved face again hoping, against all hopes, that you would open your eyes, and smile at him, the same way you did every morning, when he was getting ready for the day.

The Maesters had done a good job at trying to put together the broken pieces of your skull and of your eye socket; there was still a dip in your skull, probably where the morning star had hit you; he could touch the stitching keeping your skin together and the bald patch, where your hair used to be. The eye on the damaged side slightly bulged out, as if it didn’t perfectly sit in the socket; it didn't matter, none of it truly did, he’d love you in any shape and form. 

The rest of your face was you, though, even in the endless slumber of death, he could recognize the peaceful expression he used to wake up to every morning, the elegant curve of the lips he loved to kiss, the light laugh lines that showed the world how much you loved life.

He couldn’t fool himself, you weren’t truly asleep, you were dead, too cold and still for this to be anything else but the end of your life.

“We had to bury them.” Alicent had said. “We couldn’t wait any longer.”

Aemond wasn’t truly listening, he didn’t care that they thought you were gone forever, because he had the chance to bring you back.

With infinite care he had wrapped you back in the shroud, hesitating for a second when he had to cover your face again.

“Only a little while longer, issa jorrāelagon, my love.” He murmured against your lips, leaving a fleeting kiss that chilled him to the bone. “You have to be patient for a little longer.”

He had paid no mind to his mother’s voice, at her words when she had seen him carry your body bridal style away from your tomb.

She had tried to scurry behind him, to keep his pace, but he was already sitting on the saddle of his horse, with you safely in his arms, when she had managed to reach him.

“We shall be back.” He had told her, not seeing the pure horror on her face. “And everything shall go back to normal. Prepare for our coronation. It shouldn’t take me too long.”

Around him the servants and soldiers, the stable hands and maids tried not to look at him, fearing his reaction and made way when he had headed for Vhagar again.

Aemond has to walk half blinded by his hood and the fury of the elements around him, on his back he had strapped the shovel he had ordered the servants to ready for him, in his arms your shroud is wet and heavy with all the hail and rain pelting both your bodies.

For a fleeting moment he wishes he could protect you more from the storm, that the clothes you will wake up wearing wouldn’t be soaked; he should have bought something else for you to wear, than the wedding dress you were buried in. You can’t feel the cold that’s seeped in his bones, you will be shivering during the ride back though; he hopes his mother will have the fire ready in your shared rooms, it would be useless to bring you back, only to lose you to a stupid illness.

Under his boots the terrain starts to rise in a slope that becomes steeper and steeper as he trudges along; around him the wind howls and a part of him fancies he could hear the screams of ghosts trying to stop him from doing what’s right, what he couldn’t do when you were defenseless in King’s Landing.

“Nyke jāhor daor qringaomagon arlī! I will not fail again!”

He howls, and the dead steal his words, shred them into pieces carried by the wind. On the inside he shivers, and it’s not the cold, it’s not Vhagar’s uneasiness he can still feel in his mind; it’s the animal living inside of him, the instinct that had told him not to strap himself to Vhagar, in preparation to his fight against Daemon.

There’s a knot where his stomach is, all of the fine hairs on his body stand to attention as he almost loses his hold on you; there’s a part of his mind whispering old, dark tales his nanny used to tell him to scare him, that sees monster in every shadow painting this derelict place.

Is someone walking behind him?

He whips around and all he can see are the black clouds shielding the sky: there’s no one else but him here, and the little light the moon can bestow to show him the way.

By the time he arrives on the top of the hill, he can’t feel his feet anymore, nor his hands, his teeth are chattering violently, all his muscles are trembling, and it’s not the cold, or the strain of the walk against a wind that’s still trying to topple him backwards.

It doesn’t matter: if the witch’s words are true, he’s arrived where he’s supposed to be, the land that will, miraculously, bring you back.

He loathes that he has to lay you on the sparse, wet grass, but he has to dig now.

“Nyke jāhor daor qringaomagon ao arlī. I will not fail you again.”

He murmurs against your lips, the shroud is so wet not that it sticks against your face, revealing the vague shape of your lips and closed eyes.

“Sepār syt mirrī while, pār īlon jāhor sagon biare arlī. Just for a little while, then we will be happy again.”

His whole body screams in pain when he starts digging the hard terrain. No amount of training has prepared him to the physical exertion that is driving the shovel against what feels like rocks, their weight as he throws the soil away in a haphazard pile away from where you lay; his arms are as stiff as stone, his hands can barely grasp the handle, slippery in his dead fingers. It’s only his obstinacy that keeps him going, even when he falls on his knees, the pain of his back taking the breathe away from him for a handful of seconds.

Tears mixed with rain wet his face as he keeps working with his hands now, desperate he keeps digging. If he’s bleeding, he doesn’t feel it.

On his hands and knees he crawls to you, the pain in his lower back and arms almost unbearable when he has to lift you; it doesn’t matter, he will not drag you around like a dead animal.

He staggers to the hole blindly, all of his muscles screams at him, the hail is pelting his uncovered head. He trips against a rock and falls in the temporary burial with you, your corpse deadening the fall; amidst the pain and the stench, he wails how sorry he is, that he didn’t mean it, the same way he didn’t think that leaving you behind would kill you.

On his hands and knees again he fills the hole. He’s burning through whatever sliver of strength he has left, he uses it to cover your body, until the soil is compact again, and he can crawl back to the beach: the witch had be adamant that the miracle should work in solitude, that you should raise from your tomb alone.

He doesn’t care that he mostly rolls and crawls down the slope, he’s too tired to notice how the rocks and sparse bushes tear at his face and clothes, he just wants to go home, with you.

Vhagar is still sitting on her haunches, her massive tail whips the sand nervously, yet she simply lifts one of her wings to protect him from the rain, and lets him abandon his tired body against hers, guarding his uneasy sleep.

In his dreams he keeps chasing you. He doesn’t know where you two are, you’re running through a dead forest, the skeletal branches of the trees grab at his clothes and hair, making it hard for him to catch you, no matter how hard he tries; sometimes he loses the sight of you in the mist, sometimes you’re so close to him, yet your slip through his fingers like air. He knows there’s danger ahead, but you wouldn’t listen to him, you keep running and laughing, egging him on, until he sees the glint of the morningstar: it’s too late.

He wakes up with a scream, confused by his surroundings and by the nightmare, then he remembers everything with a pang of pain in his chest: how long was his uneasy slumber? Above him Vhagar is still nervous, her own alertness seeps into his conscience and makes all the hairs on his body stand.

Still on his hands and knees he crawls out in the open, in his bones he feels Vhagar’s unhappy growl, and her mad desire to take to the skies. Not yet: he’s here for a reason, now his only fear is that the witch might have lied to him, and that you’d be gone for good.

He doesn’t know how he looks now, probably as bad as he feels, his body stabbed by pain with every small movement he makes. Even climbing back to his feet is a feat he can only manage by using Vhagar’s massive body for support and still he can’t extend his back in his usual ramrod stance, the lower portion of it hurting so badly he has to hunch a little.

Over him the sky is still a blanket of dark clouds that let slivers of moonlight through: he shouldn't have slept for too long, then.

The Gods must have blessed him because the storm has calmed and now there’s only an ice cold wind whipping his broken body; anxiously his eye starts scanning the beach, looking for you. How long does it take for a miracle to happen?

“Aemond.”

Fear bolts down his back as he turns around, facing the path he had taken to the slope.

“Aemond.”

It’s your voice calling him, yet all his instincts are screaming that he needs to run away.

Aemond forces himself to stay where he is, his eye trained on your approaching figure.

You’re walking with a slower gait than the one he’s used to, your wedding dress is in tatters and the wind slaps the flying scraps of fabrics against your body. Your, once, beautiful hair is now a ruined mess of blood and soil, the tresses hung down your back like dead things.

And your face.

He’s forcing himself not to look at you, to keep his eye trained away from what he had loved to look at the most. He can’t. He knows he’ll be turned into stone if he dared.

“Did you miss me, Aemond? I did. You were gone for so long.”

Unconsciously he takes a step back, trying to retreat back into Vhagar’s safe embrace: your voice is so wrong. It’s not the tone, not the lilt of your accent, but there’s something… off.

“I waited for you. Prayed the Gods that you’d be back. Did you to the same for me?”

He did. Every night spent away from you had been a torture he survived thanks to the hope to get back to you. He even came here because the idea of living without you was too repulsive to even form in his mind.

I don’t want to that thing to touch me. He thinks, with horror. I would die if that happens. Then why can’t he scramble on Vhagar’s back and fly away? Why are his feet planted on the barren shores of this nameless, cursed place?

“Don’t you want to hold me close, Aemond? I was so cold without you where I was.”

No! No! No! No! His mind screams. Behind him, Vhagar is growling, her fear, new and petrifying mixes with his own. Yet you’re approaching, unstoppable like a bad omen, your feet carry your undead corpse closer and closer.

There was a price to pay, the witch had said. No one comes back the way they were.

He had been a fool in bringing you here in the hope to restore his life the way it had been. A cursed fool, now he understands! That thing uneasily walking towards him is simply wearing your body, is using your voice, it’s not you, it’s a puppeteer, ancient, more than Old Valyria ever been. Perhaps the thing had been cursed to live here, and he has freed it, perhaps it’s Death itself that’s finally come to collect his cursed soul. Perhaps it’s the witch’s revenge.

Oh Gods please no! His mind begs, but you’re not stopping, you’re so close he can smell the stench of death coming from you: why hadn’t he before?

He can’t help but look into your eyes, dead and so, so cold, like they’ve never been before, they put him under a cursed spell that cancels everything around him: the wind, Vhagar’s fear, his own. There is a hell staring back at him, inescapable and that he has bought upon himself with his own desperation.

A pained whine escapes his lips when your ice fingers brush his cold cheeks, and then there’s the abyss of madness overtaking him, once again, and forever.

Aemond taglist: @fan-goddess, @xcharlottemikaelsonx, @qweencrimson

Ewanverse taglist: @vhagar-balerion-meraxes @zaldritzosrose @thought--bubble

[thatonetargaryen]

The Wolf and the Dragon

Masterlist

Part 7: An exception

cw; explicit language, mentions of extreme exhaustion, not proofread

……

Valaena stood stiffly in line with the many other women in training. Sweat collected on her brow as she waited in anticipation. All the women were staring straight forward—seemingly looking at nothing. Despite this, every time she looked away, she felt someone’s gaze burning into her.

She was short and lanky compared to the other soldiers. Her pale skin stood out like a sore thumb—a sign of her Targaryen roots. Her hair was done in a loose, hurried bun. And her tightly blinded breast were begging to be freed.

After was seemed like hours, the sound of footsteps echoed through the yard. The sound of silence was now even louder, and all the soldiers instinctively straightened—including Valaena.

When the princess caught sight of the woman, she didn’t know whether to be frightened or impressed.

She had heavily scarred, tanned brown skin. Her peppered hair was braided back into a tight bun that made Valaena wince as she gazed at it. Her lips were pressed in a firm line as her cold, grey eyes fell on each and every one of the soldiers. Her bindings wrapped tightly around her large chest and her muscles were probably the result of years of war and training. In her loose fitting pants—she could tell her legs were more toned than any man she’d ever seen.

She studied the women with a fierce gaze—yet passed them by without a word. She stopped when she met Valaena’s eye. The princess looked at her feet.

“It’s official— the General has really gone fuckin’ mad.”, her heavy Noxian accent weighed in every word she spoke.

“First, she thrust in a recruit—a fuckin’ Targaryen— when we are practically in the middle of training season. And she didn’t think to tell me until the night before. She’s practically asking for a spy to infiltrate the camp.”

The princess stayed silent, not being sure whether the woman was talking to her or herself. It seemed like both.

“She still has yet to tell me why you’re here…”

Before Valaena took a shaky breath to answer, she felt a finger press hard into her chest. The breath was nearly knocked out of her as she the woman got so close to her their noses were practically touching. She could feel her hot breath in her lashes.

“No matter. Before I teach you a damned thing—get one thing clear. Back at your little home, you’re a princess. Royalty. Here, you mean as much as the other peasants in Noxus. —if that. You have no titles, no rankings, not a damn dime to your name. When you leave, that might change. I doubt you’ll last long. But as long as you are under my command, in my camp, you are below me.”

Valaena fists tightened as she darted her gaze to the ground. Her words circulated in her mind, and the reality of the situation was finally coming to her. The woman took her finger and tapped the side of her head roughly.

“Do you understand, soldier?”

“Yes…”, Valaena trailed off, not knowing what to address her as.

The woman finally backed away, and spoke so everyone could clearly hear her. “You all already know this—but let me reiterate for the newbie. You are to address me as Sergeant Gold. Not Sergeant, not Gold—but Sergeant Gold. Any disrespect will not be tolerated and punished accordingly. The correct formation when your presence is requested is arms straight, fist closed, and feet together. Everything else you need to know will come to you naturally.”

She continued to speak, “We are four weeks into training—you’ll need some catching up to do. Hopefully one of our comrades can help you, ‘cause I ain’t slowing down. Since I wasted the ten minutes you should’ve had to do your morning drill, you’ll spend extra time with me during the evening. Thanks to your new friend…”

Groans were heard at the news of having to stay back extra time, and Valaena couldn’t feel anymore embarrassed.

“Well, ladies..why don’t we get started?”

…..

Veleana’s arms shook as she attempted to push herself off the ground. She didn’t remember how many push-ups she’d done—nor did she want to know.

Sergeant Gold went on and on about how you were ‘flimsy’ and ‘needed to gain muscles’. And the only way to do that was to do an extensive amount of exercise. The princess could feel her core burning as sweat dribbled down her chin.

It had been hours since she had a cup of water or a crumb of food. Her stomach being empty almost overshadowed the pain she was feeling.

She pushed her body back down, and up again. Her eyes darted to some of the other soldiers, who were doing exercises entirely different from hers. Obstacle courses, bare-handed spars, staff training.

“Eyes on me, soldier.”

Valaena looked back towards the Sergeant. She seems amused as she watched her struggle to pull herself back up. Her smile sends shivers down Valaena’s spine.

“Up, soldier.”

A wave of relief crashed over her—but she suppressed her sigh and resumed the expected stance.

The woman turned to the other soldiers as her voice echoed throughout the yard. “Gather ‘round, ladies. Time for the real training to begin.”

……

Valaena held two empty wooden buckets as she stood last in line. The ladies were currently filling up buckets of water. Whatever for, she didn’t know.

When it was finally her turn, she filled her two buckets. She struggled to lift them as her arms shook from the strain.

A staff was thrown as her feet. She stared at it with confusion, and looked to see the rest of the ladies were just as confused as her.

They all looked towards the General, “This is one of my favorite exercises we have here. You will place the two bucket handles on the staff, and lie the staff on your shoulders. It would do you good to remember—the water you are left with is all you are allowed to drink for tonight. Unless you want to drink your bath water, I suggest you not to waste a drop.”

The General proceeded to demonstrate what it should look like. She put each bucket on each end of the wooden staff, and placed it behind her head and on her shoulders. Despite how rough she was—not a drop spilled. She looked towards the mountains above. “We will carry these up this mountain. Then, and only then, will I allow you to drink your water. That is—if you have any. Prepare your staffs.”

The woman heeded her command as they put the bucket on the staff and on their shoulders. However, it was clear that Valaena was struggling as she tried to get the staff on her shoulders. When she finally did, she swayed side to side from the uneven amount.

The General laughed at the sight, “Stand straight, soldier.”

The command went in one ear and out the other. She continued to sway from side to side, thankfully, the General decided to ultimately ignore as she began to job up the mountain.

“Keep up, ladies!”

……

Valaena’s vision blurred as she struggled to keep up with the ladies. Her arms weakened, and her arms shook as she struggled to hold the buckets—which now held little water. She had spilled most of it.

The radiant sunlight beating down on her skin didn’t help. She was dehydration, tired, hungry, and now being cooked alive in broad daylight. She could no longer see her fellow soldiers as her legs shook.

Her vision dimmed as she finally collapsed. She fell to the hot ground beneath her as rocks embedded themselves into her skin. Her body had given out completely.

The General looked behind her as she counted her soldiers—who were all keeping up nicely. However, her movements halted as she noticed there was one missing. She huffed as she realized she saw no head of white hair amongst the crowd.

“Iqra!”, she called out. The woman’s head swiveled as she turned to the Sergeant. “Yes, Sergeant Gold?”

She motioned her head behind her, “Retrieve your comrade.”

Iqra turned on her heel as she descended down the mountain. She stopped when she found Valaena at her feet—sweat dripping from her body and frizzy white hair covering the ground around her. Even in this state, she was beautiful.

“Get up, Valaena. We’re not even halfway up yet.”, she said as she touched her with the tip of her foot.

Valaena stayed still on the ground. She groaned as her muscles and skin ached.

Iqra sighed and set her water and staff down. She picked up Valaena by one of her forearms with ease. She turned behind her, picked up the buckets, and placed the staff over both of their shoulders. She chuckled as she looked over her reddened, tired face. “Rough first day, huh?”

Valaena didn’t share her amusement. She simply nodded tiredly. Iqra smiled, “You’ll get used to it. Come on, I’ll share my water with you once we get to the top. We’ll be there before you know it.”

The princess couldn’t help but give the girl a small smile. She didn’t know how to thank her for this—but she promised herself she would.

……

“The girl is weak.”, Sergeant Gold complained as she nursed a pint of ale. She sat before Ambessa, a woman she had grown to admire—and fear—despite her being years younger than herself.

Ambessa chuckled, “She’s only been with you for a week. She’s not going to be up to your standards in that amount of time.”

Sergeant Gold gave her an unconvincing look, “Why did you even bother to put her in camp? She’s a flimsy little princess who spent her whole life having a countless amount of people wiping her arse. She could be a spy for all I know—ready to give up information to her incestuous family the moment she leaves camp.”

Ambessa shook her head, and her deep red locks moved with her. To be honest—she didn’t have a real answer to why she assigned you to training. You’d asked for it, and despite the risks, she gave you the position. It was something about the fire in your eyes are you looked at her, how it refused to dim despite who she was—and who you were to her. It was a feeling that intrigued her, yet scared her all the same. It was why she sent you off to work under her, knowing you had potential.

But Ambessa didn’t say that. In fact, she didn’t say anything as she turned away and walked out of the room.

……

Next chapter is a time skip~

I love young Ambessa 🎀

[allyriadayne]

Hi, do you think jace would have asked rhaenyra about harwin? if she loved him or something? that maybe she would have chosen him over daemon? do you think he would be brave enough to ask her if in an ideal world would she pick him over daemon?, how do you imagine what would have been rhaenyra's responses to that

hello. no, i don't think jace would've asked rhaenyra any of that. why? well because considering jace is a person that has repressed a lot of heavy emotion since early childhood, asking his mother these very personal questions is not something that he'd even consider because i'd open up a lot of wounds that haven't finished healing. asking about harwin is asking about why he feels like a failure.

when jace asks if he's a bastard in ep 6, to me it seemed like it was something he had been thinking for a very long time and that it's in that moment, when harwin is leaving seemingly forever, that he can muster up the courage to ask that. and next time we see him he still has the bastard issue bouncing around in his head, i mean, he attacked aemond with a knife for it! what i mean to say is that for jace to ask rhaenyra if she loved harwin, to ask her about the nature of her relationship with him, jace would've to be in a place where his identity issues are solved because whatever rhaenyra would say it's another prick, another slash and right now i don't think jace is ready for more.

and well, also, you've got to take into account rhaenyra might not want to discuss this with him. she barely does with /daemon/ in the beach. rhaenyra's mentality is very "out of sight, out of mind", if no one speaks about her children's father then there's nothing wrong. deny and suppress (like mother like son!). speaking to jace about harwin might also confirm his parentage which is something rhaenyra has not done! i mean, we as viewer /know/ but jace is left with the assumption.

but to answer your actual question, i can see this situation happening in very specific circumstances where maybe they are both in comfortable and secure positions both socially and politically. take your pic and well, this is mostly fic/hc lmao. let's see: did she love harwin? i'm taking my cue from the scene at the beach in ep 7 and say rhaenyra would tell jace she found joy in harwin when the times seemed bleak esp with the pressure of being her father's heir, that he was a good companion, but that jace was the love she needed in that moment. would jace ask if rhaenyra would've chosen harwin over daemon? no. but if he did, i'm not sure how rhaenyra would answer this question /to jace/. but i really don't think she would willingly choose anybody over daemon if he was available, she literally married him the moment they were both single.

[purpleserpents]

the deliberate choice to highlight the vast emptiness of rhaenyra’s bed seconds before she reunites with alicent…even though she has found intimacy with mysaria throughout the season and even though she reconciles with daemon earlier in the episode…..yeah!

[paperglader]

they really put alicent in bridgerton blue on the reunion and genuinely expected me to think that she didn’t in fact march all the way to dragonstone to get wifed up? bfr

[backjustforberena]

CORLYS & RHAENYS + physical intimacy.

[estrangedandwayward]

Okay but like do you think the flight home after driftmark was fun? Like yeah aemond just lost an eye and they're all in huge trouble but once their up in the air, all three of them on dragon back together for the first time, would that even matter? I bet they were doing tricks and seeing who could fly the fastest, yelling things at eachother and laughing. They're kids, and we know that they all love their dragons, and I just can't imagine they weren't thrilled to finally be able to fly together

[nico-drawings]

You know, you start seeing a lot of reels and posts and shorts about a series and so you start to watch it. And you see how a lot of people like one character and it is really common to see this: men relating a lot to a male character that is badass and kicks ass and them looking up to him and wanting to be like him. And 90% of the time that character is a fucking piece of shit.

Well nothing could have preprared me for the gigantic asshole that is Daemon Targaryen. It is honestly impressive how many good things I have seen said about him AND HOW MUCH OF A HORRIBLE PERSON HE IS. OH MY GOD. I have heard so much stuff about how much Daemon is a great warrior and how much he loves his brother Viserys and how much he DOESN'T want the throne. And. No. For fuck's sake no. How can people look up to this absolute garbage of a man. I can make a LONG list of the awful things Daemon has done to people.

Season 1:

Episode 1:

- Sitting on Viserys' throne (not that bad, but it shows how much he respects his brother's title)

- Called his wife both ugly AND a bitch (sexist piece of shit)

- Made fun of the death of Otto's wife (Otto is a bastard that deserves it, but he's still an asshole to make fun of someone's mourning)

- Making Otto's knight trip after asking for Alicent's blessing just to humiliate the Hightowers even more (doing so by making the horse trip, fighting dirty is a dick move)

- Made a toast celebrating the death of Viserys' death, even calling him "Heir for a day" to mock him

Episode 2:

- Stole the egg of Viserys' dead son, basically spitting on his death again

Episode 3:

- Beat the shit out of a messanger because the little brat couldn't accept the fact that he was sucking so much at a war that his big brother had to send him reinforcements (yeah he won before they arrived, doesn't change the fact that it was quite literally a reaction at the level of a tantrum)

Episode 4:

- Called his wife a bitch AGAIN and joked about her being probably infertile due to being harsh and stuff like that

- Bringing his teen niece to a brothel, grooming her and having sex with her (hey, it does not matter if morality is different in Westeros and Rhaenera is technically an adult, THAT'S HIS NIECE THAT IS HALF HIS AGE. THERE'S A POWER INBALANCE HERE. AND NO, BECAUSE OTHER CHARACTERS DO IT, IT DOESN'T MAKE IT BETTER. VISERYS CAN GO DIE IN A DITCH AS WELL FOR HIS RELANTIONSHIP WITH ALICENT FOR ALL I CARE)

- Boosting about fucking his niece to her FATHER and then proposing a marriage with her, acting like she's a prize for his success in battle

Episode 5:

- Killing his wife (of course she wasn't manipulable so she had to die)

- Mocking the cousin of his wife about having her inheritance

- Almost started to make out with Rhaenyra in front of everyone at the banquet before her marriage

Episode 6:

Wow, actually nothing in this one. They even kept him from making the same choice Viserys made with Aemma.

Episode 7:

- Fucking his niece again, he just doesn't learn I see. Oh yeah and he marries her. I'm sure they won't be toxic.

Episode 8:

Wow nothing again. Unbelievable, I am surprised. Did his two wives help him become a decent person? It has been like more than 10 years between the start of episode 6 and the end of episode 8 so it could be.

Episode 9:

Nothing again, but he wasn't in it so.

Episode 10:

- HERE HE COMES BACK WITH THE STEELCHAIR! Calling Alicent a whore and telling Rhaenys what she should have done.

- Ignoring his wife screaming for him, what a great husband (god that birthing scene, why jesus christ)

- Basically commanding Rhaenyra's council of war like it's his, just like the conversation with Otto. This doesn't make him an asshole per se, but it is a great showing of not being able to read the room. If the entire conflict hinges upon the fact that her legitimacy is being discussed you shouldn't really talk like YOU are the boss instead of HER.

- Basically saying that Vyseris and Rhaenyra aren't good leaders in front of EVERYONE. This man is not smart. At ALL.

- Chocking Rhaenyra and saying Vyseris' reign was useless. He is pathetic beyond belief.

Season 2:

Episode1:

- Wow less than 5 minutes into season 2 and he's already kicking. Giving Rhaenis orders, undermining Rhaenyra's authority and basically telling Rhaenis that Luke's death is her fault.

- Treating both Mysaria and Erryk like shit.

- Not trying to be there for Rhaenyra for Luke's death not even for a second, not one word, nothing. I understand, Rhaenyra's pain doesn't help in a war, but the war in question hasn't been going on for not even a MONTH. And with the naval blockade and the loyalty of some of the clans they already struck back. You CAN hug your wife for 5 seconds due to the death of her son, you won't lose the war if you do.

- I know some people try to defend him by saying stuff like "Oh he just ordered to kill Aemond". Why would they kill the kid then. I'm not joking, why the kid ESPECIALLY? Do people really think a random rat killer would be smart enough to kill the prince because he, one day, would get on the throne? Why would he even care? Even the guard loyal to Daemon wouldn't care about that. Hell, Haelena would be more straightforward and reasonable for a random person, since she's an adult and she saw them. But no, the MALE child specifically to destroy the bloodline. Come on, Daemon ordered it, "a son for a son", he doesn't care if it's a child. And even if he didn't, and it's a huge if, it just shows how little in control he is. He is not able to do anything right.

Episode 2:

- Throws a tantrum, lashing out to Rhaenyra, insults Vyseris in front of her and basically tells her "You're only on the throne so that I wouldn't, you don't deserve it".

Episode 3:

- Taking an offense in being called "Prince" instead of "King". You are not the king boy, pipe down. The crown isn't yours. Ego piercing the clouds, seriously.

Episode 4:

- I'll give him the benefit of the doubt because he was tripping balls, but seriously? Killing young Rhaenyra? Yeah that's not a good look.

- He told a teen to kill his grandfather, and then said to his face that his family is shit.

- So you DO know that that Psycho of Aemond is basically you but 30 years younger.

Episode 5:

- "Daemon never wanted the crown!" His literal subconscious in the form of his mother (that he was fucking) told him he deserved it more than his brother. What else do you need?

- He scoofs anytime he is remembered that the crown isn't his.

- "The true heir of Viserys" he calls himself, he seems SO loyal to Rhaenyra (that's sarcasm)

Episode 6:

- The allucination with the Viserys conversation due to the "heir for a day" comment made me realize that he never apologized for it. Not once.

Episode 7:

Surprisingly nothing, I mean yeah he killed the Lord of the rivers with Alyn's help, but the man was to going to die anyway so. I don't know if it counts.

Episode 8:

Nothing again, not denying the treason proposal was fishy but at the end he bent the knee so all good.

Now that season 2 has ended and season 3 won't come out for a year or more, the list by episodes is over. I will use this to elaborate my thoughts.

Watching Daemon Targaryen in the series and seeing his reception by the fandom made me realize how the "media literacy is dead" is yes wrong but is also very justifiable as an opinion. Because the Daemon situation is really the last installment of this behaviour, especially from men: Walter White, the guy from American Psycho, hell even Ken from the Barbie movie. How much can these characters been latched onto, been seen as incredible and as a goal, while their entire purpose in the story is to have a giant glowing sign that reads "this is a bad person and this how they fit into our messed up society" or maybe they are part of a story and they are not there to be an omen, but they are very openly written to be bad people. Daemon falls into the second category. He has a very distinct role in the series and that's to be the ambigous guy with a giant ego, always understimating everyone around him, while constantly being punished for such way of thinking and arriving, at the end, at finding purpose in being under someone and serving them. Daemon is constantly dismissive towards other people: he thinks he's beneath everyone and everything. That he can do and say anything he likes. And he gets fucked every single time for it. He thought he could insult Vyseris' child, he got sent away. He thought he could steal his egg, he had soldiers and a dragon at his doorstep to take it back. He thought he could start a war at sea and win easily and he had to use Laenor's tactic to win or use Vyseris' troops, otherwise he would have lost horribly. He thought he could have his way with Rhaenyra, he was banished for it. He thought he could command his second wife, ignore her desires and choose for her, she made her own dragon burn her alive in order to make a choice for herself. He thought he could take revenge for Rhaenyra and hurt the greens, he not only gave an order so shallow that it could have been misinterpreted but Rhaenyra was disgusted by it and it ruined her reputation throught the seven kingdoms. He thought he could make the Blackwoods kill their rivals without a problem, if the young Tally hadn't grew balls the size of Caraxes the entirety of the River people wouldn't have followed him even if the dragon was about to burn them all alive.

THAT is who Daemon is: an incompetent, egomaniac that is constantly needed to be reminded that he ain't shit.

And yet so many people think he's the most badass character in the show. They think he's a loving brother, a great husband, a genius when it comes to war and a great warrior. All of those things, Daemon Targaryen is not.

And if you enjoy him as a character, well I only have one thing to say to you: that's fine. Because Daemon is written BEAUTIFULLY. He is coherent to a fault.

You can see that he loves Vyseris, but he's a psycho that has never respected him so he constantly hurts him because he's a piece of shit.

He doesn't respect Rhaenyra because to him she's always gonna be a child because Daemon is a groomer. She is also not fit to be queen because she's like Vyseris, someone that Daemon never thought to be a good king, and he wasn't entirely wrong. Because, mind you, if Vyseris had a backbone, Daemon would have lost his head. He got too many chances.

Daemon will always envy Rhaenyra because in a way he was always seeking Vyseris' attention, he always wanted to be praised by him, but he always wanted to be praised for being HIMSELF, hence why he never tried to act as Vyseris would have liked. He wanted Vyseris to like Daemon, not the Daemon that acted like Vyseris would have wanted.

Daemon could never be in a good relantionship because he can't respect anyone else outside of himself. His first wife was his equal. In no way that woman would have bent to his will. His second wife was more accomodating, but she had pride in herself and at the end choose for herself. And Rhaenyra? She's supposed to be BENEATH him, he could never accept that.

Daemon can never shut his mouth because to him, being himself is more important than reason. My brother is mad at me for maybe having fucked his daughter? Well I'll double down, I have every right to get her- oh he banished me. The entirery of the conflict revolves around my wife's claim being questioned? Well I want to fight this war in this way, so I'll give orders, go to Harrenal to build an army and win by myself- oh one of her council members has come here to ask me to betray her and lead the war because he doesn't believe she's good enough to lead.

You can almost always predict Daemon before he speaks or acts, that's how well he was written. And it is also very EASY to see how he was written. Seriously, his actions are up there, they have been documented episode by episode, if you still don't see it I don't know what to tell you. Anyone that has seen him throw a fit for not being called King is seriously still trying to say that he didn't want the crown? HIS FIRST SCENE IN THE ENTIRE SERIES WAS HIM ON THE IRON THRONE.

ONLY. And I repeat, ONLY in the last episode Daemon has let go. Only then. Because he finally realized, due to the visions: "Okay I need to get my shit together, this is bigger than me" and it took a vision of quite literally zombies killing a dragon and marching towards the world of the living to make Daemon Targaryen lower his head.

I repeat: this is not a post about Daemon being a shitty character and me saying that his fans are dumb. It is, however, a post about how men have, once again, latched onto a toxic and objectively bad male character in a show and ignored 90% of how he was written in order to have a cool character to kin. It is also about people not being able to. Understand writing because saying "Daemon never wanted the crown" is like saying "Aegon always wanted the crown" and I think we all know he never wanted it.

Also also, this post, about making a list of all the bad things a character has done, can be done about a lot of other characters, I am aware. But no other character in this show has been read as wrongly and has been lifted so high as Daemon has.

[navree]

"it's always hating on rhaegar for rhaenys and aegon's deaths never tywin" because rhaegar was their father and had a responsibility towards them that tywin did not, stay in school

[slipperywhenwet0o0]

rhaenicent and anderperry my darling queer romances woven into the plot and draped over the story i will love you forever

[avirael]

This Home of Mine

How had it come to this?, Aviloh asked himself as the argument around him began to get louder. Somehow he had known it would all end horribly one day. He just had hoped it would take a little longer. He only had himself to blame for this, he thought as his eyes fearfully scanned the crowd that was slowly gathering around them.

There at the sidelines stood U‘khaya with a gleeful expression on her face. She knew this would happen, he realised. But A’viloh wasn’t the kind of person to blame her for what happened…

U‘khuba‘s twin sister had always been following the boys around even when they all had still been kids. She had been a brave and stubborn little girl, maybe a little mean sometimes but not more so than her brother. A‘viloh had always thought she was following them because of Khuba - twins being inseparable or something. Never had he imagined the reason would be Laqa instead.

Of course he could have guessed it. Everyone loved Laqa! Apparently Khaya wasn’t an exception in this matter.

That evening - before the argument - A‘viloh had waited for quite some while by the pond. They had always used to hide there when they still had been kids, every time the other boys had stirred trouble or teased the girls.

By now it was one of the spots Laqa and him sometimes used as meeting points when they sneaked out of the settlement together. But today the other Miqo’te had arrived so late, A‘viloh had already started to wonder if something had happened.

“There you are!”, Aviloh said relieved as Laqa finally appeared just when he was about to go searching for him. “I was already worried. Did something happen?”

The blonde Miqo’te made an annoyed face. “Just Khaya happened…”

A’viloh didn’t understand. “Khaya? What’s wrong with her?”

“Everything apparently!”, Laqa exclaimed disgruntled, which made A‘viloh even more confused.

Laqa sighed.

“She waylaid me on my way outside.”, he explained but couldn’t help to look a little angry still. “Started talking some nonsense about how impressed she was about the quarry from our last hunt and how it is a shame that it isn’t me leading the tribe instead of father.”

A’viloh furrowed his brows, still not quite connecting the dots. Laqa grimaced. “Then she threw herself at me and tried to kiss me.”

“She what?”, A‘viloh exclaimed a little louder than intended, with a mix of shock and disbelief on his face.

Laqa raised his hands in a calming manner. “Don’t worry! I of course told her that I am not interested. Like I ever would be anyway! We may be almost the same age but she is still my mother’s sister. What was she even thinking, Vi?”

A‘vi shrugged but couldn’t help to remember something one of Laqa’s sisters had once told him. “Lamana mentioned that Khaya didn’t agree with some of U‘odh‘s opinions. She thought her and Khuba were still mad with him because of their father…”

“That makes no sense! They have no reason for that! It’s not like father threw them all out!”, Laqa said annoyed. “Alone because of mom he wouldn’t have! Anyway, grandpa had been old already, if not father then someone else would sooner or later have challenged him. All of them were always treated equally. Why would they be mad?”

A’viloh gave another shrug and smiled weakly. “Maybe it’s none of that and she really just is a little in love with you… I can’t blame her…”

Laqa lightly glared at him, as if he wanted to say “this isn’t funny”, but couldn’t help to grin himself.

“It’s still absurd!”, he said while shaking his head.

“You think?”, A‘viloh asked and chuckled. “I wouldn’t be surprised if half the village was secretly in love with you.”

Laqa made a sound somewhere between an annoyed huff and a suppressed laugh. Then he stretched out a hand for A‘viloh to take. As A‘viloh did so Laqa pulled him closer and wrapped his arms around him. “Too bad for them that the only one I will ever love is you.”

All too willingly - too carelessly! - A’viloh melted into the other Miqo’te’s embrace. Laqa saying things like this never failed to give him a warm and fuzzy feeling. Just as much as Laqa kissing him always made his heart skip a beat and his mind go silent.

Gently A‘viloh wrapped his arms around the taller Miqo’te’s neck, like an invitation to pull him even closer and deepen their kiss, when suddenly a sound appeared nearby. Their ears, currently slightly drooped, attentively shot up and both Miqo’te instinctively turned to see where the unexpected sound had come from.

Without doubt, there by one of the larger rocks nearby, eyes wide and mouth agape in disbelief, stood a Miqo’te girl with dark hair and bright blue eyes.

Khaya!

This was the exact moment A‘viloh knew he was in trouble.

“Khaya…”, Laqa was the first one to find his voice again. He sounded almost as if he wanted to reassure a shy animal, but it only made the girl unfreeze, whirl around and run away. “No! Khaya, wait!”, Laqa called and ran after her. He probably wanted to explain, wanted to beg her to stay silent, but A‘viloh knew it was too late already.

With his heart hammering against his chest and his thoughts racing he stood there and just watched them go. For a second he wondered what he should do now. But he had nowhere else to go, probably no one else who would defend him apart from Laqa. So slowly he followed them back to the settlement, wishing he could just vanish into thin air.

***

“Tell me this isn’t the thruth.”, U‘odh demanded from his son. His voice was still relatively calm but there already was a tone in it, a kind of threatening sound that also reflected on his face.

For a moment the thought crossed A’viloh’s mind, that Laqa could simply have lied. That he simply could have denied everything. Maybe, just maybe, his father would have believed him.

But that wasn’t like Laqa.

“It’s true!”, Laqa admitted and turned his face a little bit to look at A‘viloh, who so far had stood a few steps behind him, trying to stay out of U’odh’s attention. “A‘vi and I are a couple.”

A murmur went through the crowd and somehow even A‘viloh felt surprised to hear him say this so bluntly for everyone to hear. U‘odh laughed, but it lacked any humor. A’viloh already looked very uncomfortable but when the nunh’s sharp eyes landed on him, he almost flinched away and cast his eyes down to the ground.

“That weak little welp?!”, U’odh spat out, speaking to his son but still looking and pointing at A’viloh. “What do you want with him?! He’s good for nothing!”

A’viloh had never quite understood this either. There were so many better people than him and still Laqa had chosen him instead. Carefully A‘viloh glimpsed up at Laqa and could see his whole body tense up against the nunh’s insulting words. Stubbornly Laqa stared into his father’s eyes and growled.

“Don’t you dare to speak of him like that! I don’t care if he can fight or not, he is kind and wonderful and I love him!”

But U‘odh simply shook his head and laughed condescendingly.

“Love?! Don’t be foolish now… you know nothing about love.”

That had been too much for Laqa.

Usually no one dared to speak up against U‘odh no matter how harsh his words sometimes were. But Laqa, in a way just like his father and in another just like his mother, never had known how to back down. The anger about the situation and also about his father didn’t help, so his next words sounded especially blunt and sharp, more so than he probably truly thought.

“More than you! You wouldn’t recognise love if it stood right in front of you! Because you are just a bitter resentful man who doesn’t know how to love!”

Shocked gasps sounded from the crowd and everybody stared at either Laqa or his father, waiting for a reaction. For a few long seconds both remained silent. But while Laqa just stared at the older Miqo’te with a stubborn, unyielding face, the nunh‘s face changed slowly but entirely. All the mockery faded from his face and instead his expression turned to an angry snarl.

A‘viloh knew he would only end up in the crossfire but if he didn’t do something now, they would certainly fight and that was the last thing any of them could want. He didn’t really know what to say but scraped up all his bravery and stepped forward a bit. Trying to divert their attention from each other he spoke up, still quiet but clearly audible against this deadly silence.

“Please stop, I don’t —“

But U’odh wasn’t going to listen to whatever he had to say. Furiously he whirled towards him and stepped closer with wild rage in his eyes.

“No one allowed YOU to speak, you pathetic little weakling! Get out of my sight, you are none of my kin and I never want to see your whiny face again! You are nothing but a parasite and I have suffered your presence here for long enough! Begone! You are no longer welcome here!”

Of course. A‘viloh had expected this but it still hurt to hear these words out loud. He tried not to cry but already looked quite miserable already, even without tears. U’odh however wasn’t done with him yet.

“Oh, how I regret the day I allowed you to stay here! I wish you had just died with the rest of your miserable family!”, the nunh hissed and looked as if he was about to attack A‘viloh with more than just hurtful words.

With tears in his eyes A‘viloh shivered in fear and flinched away. He had never seen U’odh so furious before. But before the man could loose his self-control entirely and really tried to strike at him, Laqa stepped between them and protectively wrapped his arms around A‘viloh.

Instantly everything went silent again. Everyone seemed shocked by what had happened or what U’odh had just said. Even the nunh himself seemed stunned when he saw his son’s disgusted face, staring at him. But U‘odh was not the kind of man to give in or admit his failures. Instead he quietly but sharply said, “Don’t look at me so. My word is final. He is none of our family and I want him gone by tomorrow.”

With a strange mixture of defiance and sadness Laqa looked at his father for a moment, before he spoke.

“In that case I don’t consider you my family any longer either. A place where A‘vi isn’t welcome I cannot call my home. If you send him away, I will go with him!”

Briefly a shadow crossed his face but then U’odh looked entirely unfazed again.

“Where would you even go?”, he asked and shook his head dismissively.

“Anywhere but here...”, Laqa replied coldly and turned to A’viloh. “Let’s go and pack our things.”

All of this had happened so suddenly A’viloh still could not quite believe it. No matter what U’odh had said, for him this place was still his home and the people here the closest thing he had to a family. He didn’t want to leave.

“What? Now?”, he asked and pleadingly looked to Laqa, hoping that there was some way to make everything right after all.

“Yes! I’m sure we can stay with the Flames for one night and tomorrow morning we leave.”

His decision seemed to be final, just as U’odh’s. What was A’viloh supposed to do against that?

Laqa made a point of taking A‘viloh’s hand so everyone could see it and knew to whom his loyalty belonged. Slowly he let his gaze wander over the crowd of curious faces giving them one last chance to speak up but they all remained silent.

With a last disappointed look at his father he turned around and walked away, unconcerned that they all stared at them as they left.

[dragonsneversharetheirtreasure]

Imagine picking a side and thinking it's okay to slander someone for not picking the side you want

[allyriadayne]

Hook, line and sinker: Larys and Alicent // Larys and Aegon

[throwawayasoiafaccount]

hotd never fails to disappoint

[dirtytransmasc]

You don't follow, it's not a question of own. Ofc alicent didn't own nothing to rhaenyra BUT since rhaenyra is the heir and viserys didn't seems to change his mind it would be a little more wise being friend with her than enemy

said this once before, not even gonna put my effort into this post.

Rhaenyra showed Alicent over the years that she would step on anyone to get ahead. friend, family, husband, court, kingdom, father, even her own children (having legitimate children after her bastards put both sets of children in massive danger, not only against each other, but towards the masses. also she robbed her stepdaughters of their own claims to Driftmark to ascend her bastard sons and then betrothed them to Jace and Luke, putting them in danger. she doomed them all). it wouldn't have mattered if they were friends, if Rhaenyra needed to step over her or her children, she would, nothing would stop her.

she knew it was pointless, she knew it wouldn't save her, so she didn't try. its also quite hard to befriend someone who flew off to dragonstone and never returned home once for at least a few years, if not once since she left.

and overall, stop expecting abuse victims to kiss their abusers feet. was it a better political move? I don't think so, but I guess you could argue it might have been. do I understand why Alicent couldn't do it, why she couldn't kiss up to Rhaenyra, why she couldn't just play nice anymore? yeah, she got fucked over every time she tried to be nice to her, and she was tired of it, anyone would.

stop blaming alicent for Rhaenyra (and TB/Viserys's) actions.