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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 10 days

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Winter's King 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: this one came out of no where.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

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I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

It’s uncharacteristically grim on the plains of Debray. Rains pelt the tall green grasses, flattening them in a slanted downpour that dims the horizon. Clouds blot out the daylight and lend to atmosphere of unease in the warring lands.

Behind the castle walls, one can forget about the bloodshed staining the counties red, though it is all the dukes and his audience can speak of. The lords that bluster through those gates, sometimes at the toll of morning, some in the black swathes of night. You can’t count them all, you can name even fewer, but they come anon and leave just as brusquely.

A peel of thunder shakes the land and a dark line limns the curve of the horizon. What appears first as a storm cloud advances quickly through the fields, appearing more clearly to the naked eye, distant nonetheless. Men. Another party fast on the approach.

The alarm goes up at a man’s holler. Ethred, man at the gate hollers to the other men in mail. Niam peers out from the vantage of the tower and calls back down. A hush falls and bodies scurry all around, metal clinking and boots crunching. There’s something amiss. Something you can’t quite place.

You turn away from the window, the steam rising from the basin in your hand swirling around your head. You carry on down the corridor, wool skirts around cautious steps as you balance the swaying water in the vessel. You approach the lady’s door and give it a rap with your knee. Merinda, another handmaid, opens it from within.

You enter without a word and place the basin on the vanity table. The duke’s daughter preens herself with a painted fan, fluttering her lashes at her reflection as her curls spill down her long back. She tilts her head this way and that. She snaps the fan shut and puts it down, touching her soft brown cheeks with a devilish grin.

“Do you know what father mentioned last eve?” Jazlene asks with a vain flutter of her lashes.

“What did he mention?” Her mother, Lady Rezlyn prompts lazily as she plucks another cherry from a dish heaped in fruit.

“A husband,” the daughter grins coyly at herself, “it is well due, isn’t it, mother? Who do you think it might be? Lord Gai, perhaps? He is young still.”

“Perhaps the Earl of Mesafin,” her mother taunts back to a disgusted gasp.

“Do not,” Jazlene pouts, “I could never... I am much too pretty for that haggard beast.”

“Well, then, who might you have, precious?” Rezlyn goads.

There is a clamour in the hall that keeps the younger of the woman from answering. She rolls her eyes and darkly glare at the door. You peer back behind your shoulder as a wail goes up carrying her father’s name; ‘Lord Dustan!’

“What is all that?” Jazlene whines, “as if it isn’t enough with the rain and the winds. It is summer!”

“It’s always summer in Debray, darling,” Rezlyn scoffs, “otherwise I’d have never married your father. Pray you don’t hook yourself a winter lord.”

You peek over your shoulder as you stand near the door, in your vigil, awaiting your next order. You face the ladies again as the elder continues to feast and the younger fusses over her thick brows. You scrunch your lips back and forth, a habit that often has your jaw aching.

Jazlene turns to narrow her eyes at you, “what is it then? What has you making faces?”

You bow your head, appeasing her ego, “my lady, there were men coming. A party approaching from the north.”

“There are always men,” she shakes her head, “who was it then? Anyone I should wear silk for?”

Her mother laughs, “I warn you, daughter, that trite tongue will not endear any husband.”

“I do not know, lady,” you answer.

“Ugh, useless, must I work as my own handmaid?” Jazlene tisks, “come, pin my hair. Merinda find me a gown. Mother... wipe the dribble from your chin.”

“Eh, watch yourself,” Lady Rezlyn rises and wipes her lips with her sleeve. She wears muslin in a dark shade of burgundy, embroidered with little copper finches. “Or hope you marry above me before you lash that tongue at me.”

Jazlene merely trills with laughter. You take the pins and work at twisting her fine curls into place. Merinda brings to her a dress of teal satin and is promptly shooed away, “something pink. It brings out my bosom.”

You ignore her bawdy jest as her mother harrumphs. You work in quiet tandem with the other handmaid. You add a touch of paint to the lady’s cheeks and kohl around her eyes. You tint her lips with pigment and she pushes out her lips at the mirror. You help Merinda dress her, pulling the noble daughter’s corset tight enough to leave her lightheaded.

The pair of ladies, elder and younger, leave the chamber with you at their skirt tails. They sweep through the corridors with chins up. They are queens in their own minds. Their fine dresses and sparkling gems are untouched by the disparity of war. The lives lost are squares on a game board, tawdry talk for men in their studies.

“Lord Dustan,” Lady Rezlyn mimics the earlier call for the lord of the castle, “my husband. Dear, dear husband!”

The women go to the banister and look down upon the great hall as the flurry continues below. You and Merinda loom behind, not daring to stand at a level with the pompous nobles. You have never volunteered yourself for their impetuous lashings.

“Woman!” Dustan booms back up, “do not trouble me now.”

“Oh, has another lord come? Perhaps a suitor for our lovely daughter--”

“Cease!” The duke demands hotly, “now is not the time for womanly games.”

“Tell me it true, husband, she will be an old maid before you find a suiting son-in-law--”

“Go away to your chambers. Now. The men who come are not to be trifled with and you lot do trifle overly much!”

“Bah! Oh do not be so uncouth!” Rezlyn decries.

“Father, please, is it a husband?”

“Go before I send my guards up to put you away like thieves in a dungeon. Hear me when I warn you that this does not concern you. Not as yet,” Dustan snarls, “you would spoil this war with your puny concerns.”

“Ugh,” his wife puts her hand to her forehead, “he does tax me. All I ask of him is to take care of us, daughter. As any husband should.”

“I should have your lips sewn shut!” Dustan rebukes hotly, “be gone before I find a tailor.”

The women share an aghast look. The turn back to flutter away in their skirts. You and Merinda follow them to the drawing room, closing them in as they fall onto the velvet cushions. Jazlene reclines dramatically on the chaise as her mouth mopes on a sofa.

“Shall I be alone forever, mother?” Jazlene snivels, “why won’t he let me marry?”

“He only wants to find the right man, that is all, darling,” Rezlyn coaxes. “He is overprotective and that is good for it means he will find a husband for you with a similar bearing.”

“Such sweet words cannot convince me. He punishes me. When all my lady friends have wed and borne a whelp or two, I remain with the dust and stone.”

“Do not be theatrical,” Rezlyn girds, “you are silly.”

“I am not silly, mother. I am afraid. I am twenty and three and I have no suitor. I have only a war butchering any man who might have my hand. Why must this go on? Why must I suffer for the gripes of stubborn kings.”

“We cannot fear. This war will be won and you will have a knight for a husband. Isn’t that better? To have a warrior you can be proud of than some bookish lord in his tower?” Rezlyn stands and moves to sit with her daughter, petting her as she cooes, “oh my beautiful, no man can resist you. You will see.”

⚔️

Some hours pass with the restless women, pacing and chattering, about careless things beyond marriage and war. Like needlework and a banquet that should be had upon the truce. Would that the day would come sooner.

You and Merinda stifle yawns that pass between you. The act is contagious as you stand in the tedium of the wealthy and wait for a duty to be called upon you. The hours you spend watching the women preen and swoon make you envy the stable boys and the shit shovelers.

The noise beyond those walls continues. You heard the moat open and the clopping hooves of horses, even the clatter of carts. The voices had since hushed but footfalls carried back and forth. The wordless activity betrays an air of impatience, almost of nervousness. As the ladies within mirror the sentiment.

Finally, as the windows darken and the candles burn brighter, a knock shakes the door. The ladies snap their heads around. Merinda is asleep on her feet as you move first. You open to a man in grey and black waits on the other side. He is not Lord Dustan’s.

“The duchess and her daughter,” he garbles through a mouth that sounds full of salt.

You dip your head and look to the ladies in question. There is a tension, of unease, of unknowing, of excitement turned to dread. This is not as it has been. There is not call to the dinner table. There is no buoyant introduction of a lord Dustan met as a young scamp. There is silence and fear. Has someone died? Has a battle been lost?

The women emerge and greet the man with niceties and tight-lipped simpers. He does not pay them heed as you and Merinda exchange looks. You trail after the ladies but the man stops. He turns back, a hand on the pommel at his waist, and sneers, a furrow in his brow.

“One of ya,” he grits.

Jazlene says your name. She must’ve noticed Merinda swaying on her feet. If she even cares so much about a maid. You keep your head down and follow as they press on. Down the corridor and around the duke’s study, recently deemed his war room. You’ve never been within. It is not the domain of women.

The grey and black soldier thumps on the door. Mother and daughter clasp hands. Even they can sense the unusual frigidity. The door opens from within. It is Lord Dustan. He wears a serious look on his lined face. The ladies are beckoned in and the soldier nudges you after them as you hesitate.

Lanterns light the space from the desk at the rear of the chamber. The large table draped in maps, wooden horses, and little wooden pucks stands central on a thick rug. A figure stands behind it, head down as his burly and broad silhouette seems to sop up the shadows.

The ladies follow the duke to stand across from the man. His head is down as he slides a horse along a road on the map. He stops it and grips it tight. He looks up and the lantern light dances on his features. You suck in a breath, as the rest do, stunned by his appearance.

His hair is white, his eyes are a goldish yellow, pupils deep pools of black, and his square jaw is just as thick as the rest of him. You have never seen a man like him before, but you have heard of one. Of him. King Geralt of Rivia.

You stand in similar confusion to the ladies. Their silent confoundment is broken by Duke Dustan as he nears the table. He sniffs and presses his fingers to the table top.

“Your highness, my wife, Lady Rezlyn, and my daughter, Lady Jazlene,” he introduces.

The women glance at each other then curtsy to the white king. He watches them dully. You fold your hands, taking it in curiously. It is rather something to witness the scene. You are so unimportant as to not be a part of it.

“Your highness,” the recite, “it is...”

“An honour,” Dustan finishes for them, “of course it is. We fondly welcome you and your allyship. We hope that we will be essential in ending this war. In helping you attain the peace you have so valiantly fought for--”

The king raises his hand to silence the lord. You can’t help but quork your head. Allyship? But King Geralt, he is of Rivia, he is of the hinterland, he is the one who invaded the summer country and bid it his own. He is the foe. That is what they told you.

“Enough...” the king speaks in a silty tone that scrapes in his throat. His eyes wander over the women and narrow. You wince as your own meet his golden irises and you shy away, putting your chin to your chest. That’s a mistake. “...words.” He slaps his hand down, “you do not win wars with words.”

“Yes, your highness, you are correct. I know it well. It is why I invited you here. It is the very reason I made my entreaty. You have my men, they will win this war for you.”

The king is hardly impressed by the fact. He looks back to the table and moves the horse further before turning it back. He knocks it over and stands completely straight.

“And the daughter of Debray, your highness. To have a wife of summer’s blood, men will bend the knee. If you show them you do not mean to eradicate but to join with them,” Dustan moves to stand closer to his daughter, “isn’t she a fine queen for a fine kingdom?”

Jazlene swoons and falls against her father. She’s fainted. Rezlyn grabs onto her other shoulder and you peek up at the chaotic scene. You come forward to help, snatching a pillow from the single couch, and you place it under Jazlene’s head as they lay her down on the floor.

A shadow shifts as Dustan and Rezlyn fuss over their daughter, fanning and calling to her. You look up as darkness clusters over you. You see the king staring down at the scene. No, not them. He staring at you. Before he can reprimand you, you put your head down.

You must quit that lest you find yourself at the wrong end of a switch.

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt of rivia #dark!geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #the witcher #winter's king #au #medieval au #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series

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solecize · 11 days

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fic announcement: through the mist | jungkook x reader

remember lookin' at this room, we loved it 'cause of the light now, i just sit in the dark and wonder if it's time ten years of being one and the same with jungkook as the country's it couple is the perfect disguise for the reality of a tumultuous relationship hidden behind the scenes. ten years of lies and love and crawling back to one another. once shy, budding first love that blossomed before the weight of fame, the cracks begin to surface amidst your respective rises to stardom and navigation of your twenties. either finding euphoria or the end of the world, there's never any in between in existence for you and jungkook. as you build each other up and break each other down in front of millions of eyes, there is a crossroads ahead with words of "marriage" and "military" looming in the air - all while ignoring the price of fame breathing down your necks. this is the story of love and the lessons learned from the man you made your religion. and i wouldn't marry me either, a pathological people-pleaser who only wanted you to see her

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒: idol!jungkook/female idol!reader and fictional versions of various idols 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄. idol au, on-and-off relationship, angst, i swear there's fluff, and themes of first love, growing up, struggles with fame, and marriage (ish) 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. portrayal of a toxic couple (implications of emotional abuse and control), infidelity, foul language, substance use 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. based off of "you're losing me" by taylor swift. this is a fictional portrayal of real-life people that implement some aspects of events that have occurred in real-life. the main character is a member of a fictional idol group. more warnings may be added as the story is written. 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒. wip.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook imagine #jungkook angst #jungkook scenarios #kpop fanfic #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #bts x reader #bts imagine #bts au #jungkook au #jungkook fic #*** / through the mist.

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huramuna · 2 months

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even in undeath - chapter 1.

lich king aemond x reader a 'world of warcraft' AU. prev | next

The Lich King is the master and lord of the Scourge. Consisting of thousands of walking corpses, disembodied spirits, beasts of the north, and damned mortal men, the Scourge is a terrifying and insidious enemy.

word count: 2.3k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, DUBCON, smut, heavy heavy angst, graphic depictions of violence, allusions to cannibalism, imprisonment, kidnapping, murder, suicidal thoughts and ideation, mutilation of corpses, obsessive aemond, dark aemond, a happy ending is not in our future. PLEASE MIND THE TAGS! This story will be pretty dark.

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It was dark and cold. There was a faint dripping of water somewhere off to the side, but you couldn’t quite see where. The echoes of whimpers ricocheted off of the craggy walls, stinging your eardrums.

This was the descent into madness, wasn’t it?

You weren’t sure how long you’d been chained up for— how long had it been since your village burned to the ground? Since you watched the ghouls rip apart the cow farmer from down the road. Since you watched hellhounds crunching on little Mary Jay’s bones. Since you had watched your mother and stepfather plead and beg for their lives, for forgiveness, for mercy, for absolution of their supposed sins before the death knight’s sword lopped their heads off.

How long has it been?

Shifting slightly, the chain tied to your throat clinked against the wall. There was no light, no passage of time to be had in the dank, pitch black cave they stowed you and a few select others in. You only had on a ragged potato sack as a dress, the sensation of dirt and grime caked on your hair and under your nails making you feel less than human.

But— you were still human. For now. The Scourge had ravaged the Eastern Kingdoms without mercy, swiping through the North and South like a fast traveling plague, curdling and damning everything it touched. Hordes of undead zombies, ghouls and hellhounds were the first to raze the cities, driving out the people like mice from the walls. Then the banshees came, along with the necromancers to raise the dead, adding them to a forever amounting army.

Not even Quel’thalas had been able to resist it, an ancient elven city hewn in magic.

What chance did you have?

More than most, evidently. Your mind wrought itself over and over as to why— why were you alive? Why were you still human and not merely a risen thrall?

The clinking of armor scared you as it ascended the hallway. You pressed close to the wall and closed your eyes.

Please don’t stop here, please don’t stop here.

Clink, clink, clink… closer… closer…

Then it passed, descending further away. You let out a breath, your blood still pumping in your ears.

Clink, clink, clink. They were coming back. Clink… silence. You felt bile rise in your throat as you shook, the chains rattling noisily. You knew they were standing there, you knew they were here for you.

A harsh tug upon your chain, your head hitting the floor— some words were mumbled, the voice sounding far away and broken. Your eardrums rang with the ferocity of your fall, drowning out any semblance of what your jailer was saying to you. Then, you were tugged upward, the cool metal of the collar biting into your skin as you were dragged like a petulant child away from your cell…

You didn’t want to open your eyes. You couldn’t face the horror you knew was around you— corpses, living ones and dead, the clatter of bones, the heavy breathing of gargantuan abominations, bodies and faces of countless people stitched together into a new body, hewn with thread and necrotic magic until it gave way to something else entirely. Something unnatural, something made of nightmares. The dermis of those who were used to make the monsters would still twitch, reach out on its own, and if it had a mouth, it would be twisted into a scream. You swore that you heard them whispering as you were dragged by.

The monstrosities were one of many abhorrent creatures at the Scourge’s disposal. Hellhounds, ghouls, gargoyles, wraiths, crypt lords, geists, banshees, and other things of horrific nature were only some of the power wielded by the Scourge. It felt like it was all pulled out of a child’s fairytale, changed and twisted and defiled into what it was now.

It all felt like a very bad dream.

Your eyes opened on their own and you took in the image of death knights, former paladins who served a higher power, the Light— now are nothing but undead heretics, glowing eyes and gaunt stares that bored through you.

Some of the monsters chittered as you were dragged past them, leering and looking hungry.

‘Scrawny that one. Perhaps she will suffice for hellhounds to pick their teeth.’

‘Speak for yourself, her skin will do beautifully on a new abomination.’

‘She won’t be knighted. Merely a maid’s bastard, I’ve heard.’

You forced your eyes to close once more, the sudden light stinging them. You forced yourself into another time, a better memory than what you were experiencing.

They were right, you were a maid’s bastard. Your mother had served in the royal keep for years, with you under her feet. You didn’t know who your true father was, nor did you care.

You became attached to the second son of the King— Aemond Targaryen. He was a sprightly boy with near white hair and luminous violet eyes. The two of you were attached at the hip.

Childhood friendship blossomed into more as you grew into teenagers and young adults— you shared your first kiss together, you held hands and shared sweet nothings. As he trained by day to become a paladin of the Light, he held you close by night, vowing to never let you go. You were both terribly in love and so terribly, terribly naive. He was your first in everything– your first friend, your first kiss, your first lover. You promised yourself that he would stay your first and only.

‘You can never marry a maid’s bastard, Aemond! You’re a prince of the realm-‘

‘I don’t care! I want her, father. I’ve always wanted her!’

Your mother quit her job at the castle— moreso, threatened into quitting by some of the King’s advisors. She was given a considerable amount of coin and told to take you far, far away and to not contact the prince again.

Heartbroken, you left him your sapphire ring, the only thing of value you ever had, which had been passed down through your mother’s family for generations.

It was left on his desk with a note of few words but much feeling.

‘I love you. I’m sorry.’

That was over ten years ago. You hadn’t seen him since, but you missed him horribly. Especially now. You wondered if he was still alive, fighting against the Scourge like his knightly vows dictated.

Maybe he was married and moved across the sea to Kalimdor where it was safer.

Or maybe he was dead. Dead like almost everyone else you knew.

You heard a rumor, fleeting and without much more information, that his father had died– no, that his father had been murdered. The fall of the king, Viserys, is what started the Scourge war. Did Aemond know, wherever he was?

You imagined him holding his arms around you, kissing your neck and fanning his breath over your skin. He liked to encompass you completely with his body when you laid together— you never could emulate the feeling with heavy blankets and pillows, as much as you tried. Putting yourself back into that memory, you wrapped your arms around yourself, willing warmth into your body.

But you didn’t feel any warmth. All you felt was cold, cold down to your bones. They felt brittle, like ice, splintering into shards as you were thrown on the floor again in a different room. Pain bloomed in your arm as it cracked at an awkward angle. Broken.

Your ears rang again as your mouth opened into a scream, tears of pure anguish squeezing from your eyes. But you didn’t hear a thing besides the rush of blood dampening your senses— and the sickening crunch of your broken bones.

‘What have you done to it, Lady Deathwhisper? It looks broken.’

‘It’s human bones are so brittle, it was merely a slip of the hand. I cannot help that their living constitution is so weak.’

‘His grace will not be pleased if it is broken beyond repair.’

‘Worry not, Lady Alys. Most things can be mended— and if not, it can always be raised.’

‘Physical defects aren’t the only issue. What of its mind?’

You feel an acute sensation over your skull, reaching into the depths of your cranium. Its cold, but not stinging— like a soft caress upon your brain as your mind is rifled through like a tome. You can feel your memories being perused, all of the most intimate moments of your life flashing in your head like playwright’s prose. The physicality of your mind being invaded wasn’t painful, but the act of your memories being ripped from you was damning. Tears fell down your face on their own, your mouth opened into a silent scream.

‘She is the one— I saw it. You are lucky that you did not break her mind completely, Lady Deathwhisper.’

‘As are you. You do not have a deft hand when it comes to memory perusal, Lady Alys. I am surprised that it still has a brain in its skull.’

‘Shut up and bring her to him. He will be pleased she is still alive. Barely.’

You felt yourself being moved again, still reeling from the invasion of your mind. You tried to put yourself back into the safe haven of memories, but they were… locked. Locked behind an iron door with no keyhole. They were lost to you.

What were you trying to remember?

Flashes of white hair and violet eyes flitted behind your eyelids, soft caresses and kisses, heavy breathing and love filled promises, the sensation of skin to skin…

Your eyes opened, vision bleary. A helmed woman followed behind you, wings outstretched. You could see the glint of green eyes under her helm. Val’kyr. The woman behind you was a Val’kyr, a spirit guide who defected to the side of the Scourge. They could move between the realm of living and dead as simply as taking a breath.

“The little human is awake,” she mused. “Your mind isn’t broken after all? I do see a glint of intelligence behind those eyes. Keep them on me, you shan’t wish to look upon Lady Deathwhisper.”

You didn’t want to speak, words caught in your throat like food stuck in your craw. A val’kyr was basically an angel of death and talking to one must mean you are dead.

You wish you were.

The chains scraped against the floor, which was no longer stone like before, but rather, hardened ice. You were ascending upward, it seemed. The architecture of the building was nothing like you’d ever seen— dark metal was plated upon the walls, inscribed with glowing runes. The runes looked… familiar to you, somehow. But the memory that contained them was locked away, or mayhaps stolen by the Val’kyr, Alys.

The temperature was cold, you were being lofted upon ice, of course, but you didn’t wholly feel it. You were partially numb, heat radiating from your broken arm. You knew you should be feeling pain— but you were just… numb.

Your escorts stopped in front of two large doors, inscribed with the same glowing runes. Against Alys’ advice, you glanced at ‘Lady Deathwhisper’. She was skeletal, floating upon the ground with no legs to speak of. Her robes were purple fabric, molded around an incorporeal body. She spoke in a language you didn’t understand, the scratchy voice of hers coming out of a bone skull, but the mouth wasn’t moving, maw open as the words came out.

You should have listened to Alys.

The door opened with a rumble, opened by ancient magic, likely imbued by the runes, as they flickered and flitted above your head as it opened. The room beyond was open and bereft of almost anything, except for a throne. A throne forged of ice and swords.

Someone was sitting upon it in a lazed position, one plated gloved finger tapping on the arm of the throne.

“We’ve brought her, your grace,” Lady Deathwhisper growled, shoving you forward. You skidded across the floor, which felt slick like grazing atop an ice-capped lake. “Alys confirmed it is her.”

The clinking of armor caught your attention, the sound of metal grazing against ice. It was irritating and made you grind your teeth. As whoever was on the throne got closer, the force was oppressive. Whimpers and tiny cries were ripped from you as they walked towards you, the aura exuding from them causing you to fall flat to the ground, feeling as if someone was sitting atop of your chest and not letting up.

The steel plated boot was in front of you now and your hair was grabbed rather harshly, pulling you up.

Don’t look, don’t look. You cannot look.

“Look. At. Me.” the voice growled. It was quiet but commanding at the same time, rattling in your bones and making a home amongst the marrow. It felt familiar… so…

You lifted your bloodshot eyes, not out of your own volition, but from the authority of the voice.

“Hello, little dove.” he mused.

It was him. It was… it… Aemond. You knew him so well, even with ten years gone. His chiseled jawline and chin and the dimple of the tip of his nose…

But his eye was missing, a jagged scar bisecting it. In its place was a sapphire. The sapphire from your ring, grown into something to make home in the socket.

You felt everything and nothing all at once, your stomach flipped and flopped like a fish hoisted from the sea, sputtering for air. You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t–

Your best friend, your lover, the one you vowed to never forget, to never forsake.

Aemond Targaryen.

Aemond Targaryen was the Lich King. A defiler, a mass murderer, an unholy being in his own right.

“Now you won’t be able to leave again, will you?” Aemond murmured, his violet eye roving you. It was glowing slightly– his skin was a pale gray pallor, cheeks sunken slightly. He was undead.

Your eyes rolled back in your head, vision going black.

#aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond x fem!reader #aemond #aemond one eye #hotd fic #aemond fanfic #aemond smut #dark aemond smut #dark aemond angst #my writing #even in undeath #hotd au

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nouearth · 8 months

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a summer phase.

jason carver x male reader.

summary: jason keeps telling himself that it's just a phase, yet it's become a weekly routine to spend the evening with you.

wc: 1.5k. warnings: explicit smut, kinda angst, handjob (r!giving, jason!giving), lots of kissing, mutual masturbation, closeted!jason, hurt!reader, internalized homophobia.

a/n: hi, hi! just a short little fic because i wanted to write jason, and i swear, we need more smut with him, haha. this kinda turned out sadder than i thought, but i do plan on making a second part to include a jealous!jason when reader is takling to eddie! i haven't been active as much and i apologize, but i hope everyone is doing great!

A gentle breeze blew in from the open window and the wind chimes gently sang from the floor below, joining two spirits that had been sharing warm pants with one another, evoking moans from another. The golden evening had settled in the background and silhouetted the writhing bodies into dark shadows. Droplets of sweat had caught onto the glimpse of fading sun, allowing Jason to memorize the detail of your body before dusk conquered his room.

The muscles that tensed when he squeezed harder around your cock, the squirms that caused the creaking of his bed when he fondled your balls, the gulps that failed to bury moans when he leaned in and kissed at your throat; you followed Jason’s lead into dusk, mirroring his actions to his own cock as he worshipped you and your presence until you were his prayer, his promise, to the kingdom of heaven.

“I’m close…” You panted into the open-mouthed kiss, legs tangled into his as both of your bodies reflected off of each other, sitting straight. Your thighs had sat sticky on his muscular pair and you can feel him tense when your rhythm quickens, your fist tightening to press the pulsing veins into his sprouted cock.

“Me too…” Jason sputtered, leaning his forehead against yours and placed a tightening hold on the back of your neck to hold you close. He held the languidness of your gaze past the heaviness of his own lids, and a terrible guilt he crept up on him because he was terribly enraptured by the effect he had on you, by the effect you had on him. He’d seen you in this state so often, even the darkness couldn’t have hidden the explosion of stars in your eyes.

It was wrong.

He pulled you forward to explore the inside of your mouth, stroking your cock at a pace you couldn’t have possibly kept up with. His tongue mined for a taste of you. Moans unfurled when the fruity cereal that you both had shared earlier spread onto his wet flesh and Jason kept exploring, kissing, moaning, tasting, until he captured the sound of your rapture and swallowed it in heavy pride, pushing down the thoughts that had been condemning him for his sins.

Your hips buckled, releasing your fist around Jason’s cock, and you came undone in several thick ropes. “Fuck—“ Your chest rose and your stomach sank as Jason’s strokes aided every second of the unimaginable pleasure, drawing you out until you were empty before him. The cum splattered onto his broad chest, dripped heavily down his toned stomach, and he reused the warm seed that gathered on his fist to lube his own cock and fuck into his fist after.

“Open your mouth—“ He rose onto his knees, breath hitching and chest rising, while there was enough light in the room for you to carefully maneuver yourself under Jason’s legs. You leaned back onto your elbows, legs sprawled, and pushed your tongue out once you tilted your head back. Droplets of your own cum dripped from his lubed erection and onto your face from the quick, yet clumsy rhythm of his strokes, but you didn’t feel stained until he neared his cock closer to your face. The strong muscles in his thighs kept him balanced on the bed and your pants began to quicken again, joining him in anticipation of his arrival to a delirious state of mind, and welcoming him with an open mouth once he comes. “Baby, I’m going to—“

Before he could finish his warning, your cheek was hit with a heavy splat, then your forehead, then on your hair, and then the centre of your face. “Fuck, Jason—“ For a basketball player, his aim was horrible, and you couldn’t help but stifle a chuckle as you kept your head tilted back, providing him a canvas for him to paint white on. You took all of the remaining thick cum in pride, replacing his hand with yours to stroke him through the shower Jason had continue to cover your face and body with.

The cum sat thick and heavy on your skin, and you basked yourself in the weight of it, sighing when you flattened yourself on the bed. Jason joined you seconds after grabbing a spare towel off his chair, groaning by your side when his sheets pressed uncomfortably wet onto his back. Doting wipes pressed to your face, then your body as he cleansed you with a gentleness that could soothe you to sleep. Though, you were only kept awake because of Jason. His lips attached to yours quickly after, and you kissed back languidly, tracing the curl of his smile with sweet chaste. He pulled away sighing and shared one last gaze that rendered every meaning of ‘beautiful’ useless until you perfectly defined it with the reserve of your smile.

There was a silence after. It thickened the sudden tension in the air, and even though the night had blinded you, you could see the parting of Jason’s lips when you turned your head to face him when he joined you by your side. The dim light from the window had highlighted the contemplative look on his face, and your heart sank to the pit of your stomach.

You already knew what he was about to tell you. The regret in the tremor of his voice was profound, even with the slightest croak, and you immediately turned your head the other way when you felt your eyes sting.

“I-uh… I’ll get going now.” It was a routine at this point. You and him did stuff, and he apologetically shooed you out before anyone could see him with someone like you. Even if his parents wouldn’t be home for another month, the act of liking another man ignited a guilt that boiled his feelings alive. Whether they would die off or come back stronger, he’d do his best to bury them deep enough to convince him that it was a phase.

It was wrong. And it was a phase.

All a phase.

You cleared your throat to soften the swelling feeling in your chest and rolled off his bed to change back into your clothes. Coughs and ruffles of clothes covered the sound of your sniffles. He watched you in silence, guilt-ridden as your back turned towards him, and he clutched at the bed sheet to ground him from succumbing to further transgression. The frail of your back looked cold enough to reflect ice into his own hands if he was to touch you. Even when your shirt draped over it, he’d imagine the goosebumps on your body to prick him like icicles, and—so bad, he wanted to hug you even if it meant that he’d be pricked by a hundred million ice spikes.

“I’ll drive you home…“ He surrendered, stepping out of the bed, and into his briefs and shorts.

“I can walk.” You scanned the floor for the other half of your socks, finding them near the corner of the room.

“It’s dark out, (M/N).” Jason pulled his t-shirt on and neared close, reasoning. “Besides, you live twenty minutes away—walking distance.”

It was a desperate attempt to spend more time with you, even though it was his own guilt and pride that pushed you away. During school, it was Jason that ignored your very existence. Surrounded by adoring classmates and friends with a reputation to uphold, it was easy to. A selfish part of you wished he struggled to contain his feelings when you were within his vicinity. Instead, when your gaze met his, he looked past you as if he’d never seen the light of your eyes, as if he didn’t worship the warm sheen that resided in them nights prior.

“It’s fine.” You layered your backpack over your shoulder, gaze casted downwards as you kicked your shoes on despite Jason’s attempt to steal a glimpse of your face. “People are going to see us.”

“I doubt anyone’s going to be out at this time now—“ You wished he would’ve said that he didn’t care about being caught. He followed you downstairs, the blades of icicles growing sharper with every step you took. “Slow down!”

“I’ll see you in class.” Your chest swelled again knowing that he’d rather choose not to, but you assured of that matter with a smile. His hand naturally reached out to take your hand, another attempt to stall you for a little while longer.

“Please? Let’s talk—“ Overcome by despair, he held your hand tight, letting the roughness of his palm linger on your own despite every second counting against his morals. Jason squeezed, intertwining his fingers into yours to lock you in place. “I-I think we can—“

But your fingers yanked back at the hook of his fingers, and you reluctantly pulled your arm back to your side. Silence fell, and the sound of Jason’s gulp swayed you back around before trudging out of his home and closing the door shut behind you.

“(M/N)!”

The warmth from your hand remained on Jason’s hand as he watched you march into the night, flexing his fingers at every lingering spark, yet you continued to be the despair of him.

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. and if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like! feedback is also much appreciated!

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hyperactively-me · 4 months

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Hear me out for King! Ghost…the kingdom is under attack and (Y/N) is trying to find Simon through the chaos. She finds him in the castle garden, on the ground with the enemy standing over him with their sword raised. The next thing (Y/N) sees is her driving her sword into the enemy’s back, killing them. When she realizes Simon is okay, it dawns on her that she has killed a person…I’ll leave it up to you finish this prompt.

Btw your king! Ghost fic has had me on a chokehold it is SO good

thank you for the compliment :) i'm not fully satisfied with this, so i hope y'all like it lol

(noncanon)

king!ghost x reader -- like you've seen a ghost warnings: physical violence, descriptions of death, injuries/blood, heavy angst; this is NOT canon

How did it end up like this?

How were Kastron's forces overpowered, leading to the castle getting infiltrated and overran by enemy forces?

The first signs of trouble came when the castle guards, stationed at key points, were ambushed from within. Chaos erupted as the enemy struck swiftly and decisively, disabling communication and creating confusion amongst the guards and knights within the palace. Betrayed from within, the castle fell into disarray, and panic spread like a wildfire.

Simon shoves a sword in your hand and forces you into a closet, your fingers trembling around the hilt as Simon's urgent eyes bore into yours. "Remember what you've learned," he says, motioning to the sword in your hand. "And, for the love of God, do not move from this spot."

He presses a fleeting kiss to your lips, then shoots you a final lingering gaze before he slips his skull balaclava over his face.

As the closet door closes behind you, the muffled sounds of chaos outside become amplified in the suffocating darkness. The minutes crawl by like hours as you strain to hear any sign of Simon's return or the advancing enemy forces. The closet offers a stifling refuge, and each passing second intensifies the pounding of your heart. The distant echoes of the struggle outside seem to become more muffled.

A sudden hush falls over the room, and you feel a shiver crawl down your spine. The eerie silence is shattered by the creaking of the closet door as you cautiously open it, the cool air of the corridor rushing in. You twist your sword in your grip, angling it in a way that would let you strike anyone who came across you. You emerge from the closet into a scene of devastation—broken armor scattered across the stone floor, the faint scent of blood lingering in the air.

With trepidation, you move through the corridors, heart racing in your chest. There was no one to be found, not even a single knight.

As you round a corner, you stumble upon a grisly scene—the lifeless bodies of Kastron's guards and enemy fighters, the remnants of a fierce battle. Bile rises in your throat, panic gripping your chest, and you quicken your pace, desperate to find Simon. You don't dare call out for anyone in fear that the enemy will attack you.

Dizziness washes over you as you run down the corridor, stumbling upon the double doors that lead to the gardens. Outside the doors, you can hear yelling and the clashing of swords.

Simon wouldn't want you out here, you know it, but how could you stand by whilst Kastron is being invaded? The need to protect your home was overwhelming, so you stood as straight as you could before stepping outside. You shake your head, steadying your breathing as you push open the doors. The clash of steel and anguished cries intensify as you step outside, your grip on the sword tightening. The scent of crushed flowers and damp earth fills the air as you push open the doors, incongruous to the bloodshed within the castle walls.

No one seems to notice you, too caught up in their personal battles and one-on-one combat.

Your eyes dart between the people fighting, searching desperately for any sign of Simon.

In the midst of the tumult, you spot him, a lone figure fending off multiple adversaries. His movements are swift and purposeful, each strike of his sword fatal.

Until now, you've never seen Simon engaged in battle. Of course, you had heard tales of his skills and prowess before you even got married, but witnessing him in action sends chills down your spine. The stories did not do justice to the raw power and grace with which he moved through the battlefield.

You don't know whether you want to beg him to stop or stay back and observe. His skull balaclava looks even more menacing and deadly than ever.

Simon's blade is deadly, each swing and parry precise, calculated, and unforgiving. Each strike finds its mark, taking down each assailant efficiently, knocking them down one by one. Once he finishes off the hoard of people, he takes a shuddered breath, standing up tall as he surveys his surroundings.

Unbeknownst to him, one person had snuck up behind him, kicking Simon down with a loud thump.

The world seems to freeze for a moment as Simon crumples to the ground, caught off guard by the unexpected attack.

"No," you whisper to yourself, eyes going wide at the person pushing your husband to the ground.

Your heart skips a beat, and instinct propels you forward. The enemy, emboldened by their surprise attack, raises their sword for a final, fatal strike.

Time slows as you charge towards them, the sword in your hand cutting through the air. The enemy, unaware of your presence until now, turns too late to defend themself from your onslaught. Your strike stabs straight through their back, a fatal blow.

The enemy gasps, dropping their sword before they could drive it into Simon's chest. They crumble to the ground, lifeless.

Your action hits you like a tsunami, and you stumble backwards, breathless. The world blurs around you as guilt and horror consumes your senses. He looks up, his eyes registering surprise and relief as he sees you unharmed.

Simon's voice pierces through the chaos as he rasps your name once, twice. You still don't fully register that he's calling for you, saying your name.

The ground beneath your feet feels unsteady, and you gasp for air, caught in the grip of a suffocating terror. You sink to your knees, the reality of what you did crashing over you. Your sword slips from your fingers, clattering on the ground. Your attention finally snaps back to Simon, who is still on the ground, momentarily incapacitated. He's struggling to rise, but determination glints in his eyes.

"Simon," you manage to croak, the taste of bile in your throat. You crawl towards him, desperate to reach him and make sure he's okay.

"I told you to stay in the closet," he manages to say.

But you can't comprehend his words. Panic tightens its grip around your chest, and your vision blurs with tears.

"I had to protect you," you whisper, the words barely audible over the din of the ongoing conflict. But the justification feels hollow, and a heavy weight settles in the pits of your chest.

You reach Simon, your trembling hands desperately searching for any sign of injury. His skin under his armor is battered and bruised, and thin trail of blood escapes from a tiny cut on his forearm, but other than that he's fine. The sight of the trickle of blood sends a surge of naseua through you, and you clutch his arm, as much for your own support as for his.

"Simon, I- I..." you stammer, unable to form words. Your eyes dart from his forehead to the attacker laying lifeless on the grass next to you two. Simon's gaze follows yours, and there's a silent understanding in his eyes.

"We need to move," Simon urges, his voice penetrating the disorienting fog in your mind. He starts to stand up, yanking your arm along with him.

You still don't move, too caught up in the way blood seeps into the earth.

"We have to go," Simon insists, his grip on your arm firm. The touch feels distant and disconnected. The urgency in his eyes is undeniable, and you force yourself to nod, pushing back the emotions that threaten to engulf you.

Simon's grip tightens as he pulls you up from the ground, dragging you by your arm harshly. You glance once more at the fallen enemy, anxiety gripping at your heart.

Together, you and Simon stagger away from the battleground unnoticed, moving through the castle's corridors. Simon's pace is brisk, purposeful, but the tension in his movements is palpable. He's still on high alert, ready to defend himself and you from any potential threats.

As you reach his study, Simon locks the door behind him and releases his grip on your arm. He moves to the bookshelf against the far wall and shoves it aside, grunting as he moves it. Behind the wall is a stone door, heavily fortified. With another aggressive movement, he's able to shove the door open, throwing his shoulder against it.

The hidden door reveals a dimly lit room. Simon motions for you to follow him, and you do so without a word. The air in the room is cool, carrying the scent of damp stone.

Simon leads the way with a determined stride, his jaw set. He pulls his balaclava off, revealing the frustration and concern on his face.

Simon finally turns to you, his eyes searching yours for a moment before he speaks.

"What were you thinking?" Simon's voice is low, his words weighted with disappointment. "I told you to stay in the closet, to keep yourself hidden."

Your eyes dart down, guilt and fear rendering you speechless. The images of the lifeless enemy you just struck down replays in your mind, each moment tormenting your senses. You feel trapped, and panic continues to tighten its grip on your chest.

"I... I couldn't just stay there. I had to do something," you stammer, your voice barely audible, tears now freely flowing down your cheeks.

Simon's gaze doesn't waver, his expression stern. Still, he reaches out to cup your face, swiping away some of your tears with his thumb. "You were meant to stay hidden, not to charge into the middle of the fuckin' battlefield. You put yourself at risk, and you put me at risk. I can't protect you if you don't follow orders."

Numbly, you manage to nod, your eyes finally meeting Simon's.

Guilt gnaws at you, a heavy lump in your throat. The reality of your impulsive actions sinks in, and the consequences unfold in Simon's disapproving eyes. You tremble, unable to shake the vivid images from your mind; the smell of the blood, the way it felt when your sword pierced through the person.

You start to breathe rapidly, the small room closing in on you. Everything feels too big, too much—

Simon's stern expression softens, replaced by genuine concern as he sees the panic taking hold of you. He leads you to a dingy chair in the corner of the room and he crouches in front of you, his hands gently holding yours.

"Easy now, love," Simon murmurs, his voice calm as he breaks through the fog of your panic. "Focus on your breathing. In and out. Slowly."

The panic continues to claw at your throat, choking on your tears and inability to get enough air to your lungs. You follow his lead, trying to match your breaths with his. The rhythmic inhales and exhales provide an anchor, helping to alleviate the panic that threatens to consume you. Slowly, you try to regain control over your breathing, clinging to the physical sensation.

"Thas' it," Simon encourages, his voice low. "In and out. We're safe."

Gradually, the tightness in your chest begins to ease, and the room seems a little less suffocating.

"I know it's a lot to comprehend right now—"

"I killed someone," you whisper, voice shaky and raw, tears welling up in your eyes once more. Simon doesn't move an inch.

His gaze doesn't waver, and he maintains a steady grip on your hands. "I know," he says softly, his voice a comforting anchor in the chaos. "It was self-defense, dove."

"I was trying to protect you," you mutter, your eyes dropping to the ground.

A sigh escapes Simon, and he runs a hand through his disheveled hair. "You had to protect yourself and, by extension, me. It's a brutal reality, but it's the world we find ourselves in right now."

You look up at him, searching for any sign of anger or blame in his eyes, but all you find is understanding. He pulls you into a reassuring embrace, his arms enveloping you as if to shield you from the harshness of the outside world.

"You did what you had to do to protect me," Simon murmurs against your hair. "But, charging into battle like that... it was reckless. I can't lose you."

You swallow thickly, squeezing his hand. Simon's thumb brushes against your knuckles, a gesture of both comfort and concern.

"I trust you, I do. But I need you to trust me," Simon continues.

He pulls away slightly, holding your face gently between his hands. His eyes search yours for assurance, a plea for understanding. "We're in this together, and I need you safe. Promise me, even if things get hard, you'll follow the plan and trust that I'll come for you."

You nod, your voice barely a whisper, "I promise."

- - - - -

(masterlist)

#simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you #simon “ghost” riley x reader #simon “ghost” riley x you #hyperactivelyme

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the-marshals-wife · 3 months

Text

New Horizons (Arthur Curry x Reader)

A/N: Requested by @dantes-devil-huntress. I can't believe this is my first Aquaman fic! This was so much fun to write, I hope you enjoy!

Premise: Trying to figure out his place in the world as the newly crowned king of Atlantis, Arthur meets someone who may just help him find the answers he looking for.

Description: Arthur Curry/Aquaman x Fem!Reader (Human), meet-cute fluff! | Warnings: alcohol, mild language | Setting: AU w/o Mera endgame, before The Lost Kingdom | Word count: 3,468

Edit: here's my Orm Marius x Reader fic for my fellow Orm girlies ;)

Gif credit: user jasonmomoaonline

Imagine Arthur giving you shelter when you're stranded in a storm, and discovering his true identity

Getting stood up for your date had been the worst part of the night, until the moment you got into your car. Instead of the engine turning over and sputtering to half-life like usual, it only stalled.

"You have got to be kidding me," you say, gripping the steering wheel and turning the key until you thought it might snap, "Come on, come on, come ON!"

Throwing open your door, you pop the hood and stumble back out into the chilled night. You mutter curses under your breath as you survey the labyrinth of steel and hoses before you.

"At least nothing's on fire this time," you mutter, rolling your eyes.

You step back and stare at the bucket of bolts the salesman had called "like new." Besides coming to this bar, buying this car was quite possibly your biggest regret. It wasn't quite a lemon, but it wasn't a Rolls either. And most of all, it was all you could afford.

You exhale, glaring up at the flickering light of the bar's neon sign. The last thing you wanted to do after waiting nearly two hours alone like a fool was show your face inside again. You retrieve your phone from your back pocket, just to see the blinking bars in the top corner. No service.

"Wonderful," you groan.

Like a bad joke, thunder rolls in the distance. You look up to see the lightning flashing on the horizon across the bay. The brisk, salt air rises up from the water and cuts right through you.

"Could this night get any better?!" you lament, an angry shriek escaping your lips as you kick the front tire.

"Excuse me, Miss?" a voice from behind interjected.

You jump and turn to see a man approaching, nervous smile on his bearded face. You appraise him wearily: tall, dark, and not at all lacking in style, clad in both leather and jewelry. He looked a sight better than the drunken fishermen you'd observed stumble about the bar, which you concluded was about ninety-percent of the clientele. Even from where he stood, he certainly seemed to smell better.

"Uh, I don't mean to interrupt, but you sound like you might need some help," he offers hesitantly.

Despite your initial scare, something about him puts you at ease.

"Oh, um...yeah, actually" you smile embarrassed, tucking your hair behind your ear, "My stupid car won't start. Again."

"Mind if I take a look?" he asks, pointing.

"Would you? That would be great, honestly," you say, folding your arms against the cold, "I just had it in the shop last week. I have no idea what's wrong now."

He pats the fender as he circles around to the front, "Let's see what's got you all clammed up here, buddy."

"Your guess is as good as mine," you say exasperated, stepping to stand behind him a ways.

He chuckles and pushes up his sleeves, ducking underneath the hood. You take note of the intricate tattoos, realizing this friendly stranger was becoming more interesting by the minute.

"Hmm, nope. Not that," he says, craning his neck, "Not that either."

You bite your lip and sway on your feet, silently praying he could find the source of the problem. Any easy fix was probably too much to hope for, but your fingers stayed mentally crossed nonetheless.

"Ooh, maybe- no, definitely not," he says, followed by a clinking sound, "That should not be there."

"I really appreciate this," you say after a moment, peering over his shoulder, "I can change the wipers and put on a spare if I have to, but that's about the extent of my car expertise."

"No shame in that," he grunts, his voice strained, "Oof, now that might be a problem."

"Did you find something?" you dare to ask.

"These spark plugs are kaput. Like, 'not even a necromancer can bring them back' kind of kaput."

"The guy said they were fine!" you exclaim, "I knew I shouldn't have gone back to that place. Probably just took my money and laughed."

The man finally stands up and winces.

"And your alternator is on its last leg," he says with a grimace, "Even if you could get it to start, I wouldn't go more than five miles in this thing."

"Great. That's just wonderful," you sigh, shaking your head, "Well, thank you for looking. It'd have taken me forever to figure that out. Google only goes so far."

"No problem, wish I had better news for ya," he says, wiping his grease-tinged hands on his jeans before extending one towards you, "I'm Arthur, by the way."

"I'm Y/N. Nice to meet you, Arthur."

"Nice to meet you too."

Despite your frustration, you couldn't help but grin. As Good Samaritans go, he was quite a handsome one. Something in the back of your mind whispered that you had seen his face before, but you couldn't place when or where.

Before you could speak again, a bolt of lightning strikes just across the harbor, followed swiftly by a crash of thunder.

Arthur looks off to the darkened horizon, his expression souring with concern.

"Storm's coming in fast," he observes, the sea breeze blowing through his long, sun-kissed hair, "Do you have someone you can call to come pick you up?"

He turn back to you, and only now do you notice just how rich and golden eyes his eyes are. For a few dizzied seconds, you forget to answer.

"Uh, not really. I'm pretty new to the area. I don't know very many people," you reply, feeling shy all of a sudden, "I can just call a Uber or something. If my service ever picks up."

"Yeah, definitely," he nods, clearing his throat, "They have a phone inside."

"Thank you again for helping me, Arthur," you say, starting to walk towards the door.

"I didn't really help, though..." he trails off, disappointment in his voice as you step past him.

Your hand is almost on the handle when he pipes up.

"Uh, look I know you don't know me, but my dad's place is just down the road from here. He's the lighthouse keeper. Him and my mom are actually away on little retreat, and I'm watching the place for them," he explains, "It's dry, warm, and definitely has a lot less drunk guys. You could wait there while the storm passes, if you wanted."

You turn back to him, trying to conceal your renewed hope, "I couldn't impose on you like that."

"Oh you wouldn't be. It's just me and the dog. He's probably getting sick of me at this point. He could use a visitor," he chuckles, "But I understand if you'd rather stay here. Strange guy at a bar invites you to a lighthouse on a dark and stormy night. Sounds like a horror movie, I know."

You laugh, and so does he, bringing some much needed levity.

"I'll bring you right back if you change your mind, just say the word," he adds, sounding truly sincere.

Almost everything in you was saying not to trust a man you'd just met, but your gut was telling you otherwise. There was more to the warmth in his eyes than just the color.

"Well, it does sound like the dog could use some company," you say thoughtfully.

Arthur smirks. "Oh yeah. There's been a Hell's Kitchen marathon on for days, and I'm pretty sure he's sick of listening to my Gordon Ramsay impression. I can't resist, love that guy."

"I might have to hear that for myself."

"Let's get you out of this weather, and we'll see what I can do about that, then," he says with a wink, "My ride is just over here."

Not even the chilled wind could overcome the warmth of your cheeks. The excitement in your chest grows with every step as you follow him across the sandy lot. The ride in question, however, soon comes into view, and the knot in your stomach tightens all the more.

"Oh boy," you say, staring at the motorcycle.

"You're not scared of bikes are you?" he questions, stepping alongside it and reaching into the black saddlebag.

"Not exactly," you hesitate, "I've just never been on one before."

He pulls out a red, half helmet and offers it to you.

"Don't worry, I won't let you fall off," he replies, amused.

You look between him and the headgear a moment before taking it.

"Besides," he says, swinging his leg over the seat, "All you have to do is hang on."

With no argument to make, and rain drops beginning to sprinkle down, you pull your hair back and fasten the helmet on. You nearly lose your balance trying to throw your leg over, having to grab his shoulder to steady yourself. He didn't seem to mind; you could have sworn you heard him snicker. You settle into the seat, heart racing from being so close to him. More anxious than ever, you lightly place your hands on his back.

"All good back there?" Arthur asks, a smile in his voice.

"All good," you repeat, unconvincingly.

"Alright then," he says, turning the key.

Seconds later, the motorcycle roars to life as he revs the engine. Arthur eases the bike back slowly, pivots out of the lot, and eases it up to the main road. The instant he accelerates, the force kicks you backward. You throw your arms around his torso, pulling yourself against him. Over the noise of the machine, you weren't sure if the rumbling in your ear that followed was thunder or laughter, but you figured was the latter.

With the bar now behind you, and the rain coming down harder with the increasing speed, you bury your face into his back and hold on tightly.

♆

The lighthouse comes into view just as the skies open up. Arthur maneuvers the bike up the slippery, sand driveway and quickly shuts it off. He gives you his hand as you climb off and leads you toward the house.

The helmet offers some protection from the downpour, but the wind blows the spray into your face as you squint to see. Lightning above illuminates the world like daylight as you scramble up onto the porch.

Arthur throws the front door open and lets you in first as you stumble inside the dark house. You take a few blind steps forward as he slams it shut behind him, thunder making the windows rattle.

"Man, someone must have really pissed off Thor," he laughs. His relief, however, is turned to exasperation as you hear a clicking sound followed by a sigh.

"Power's out. Awesome."

Still trying to catch your breath, you pull out your phone, struggling with wet fingers to use touchscreen. Finally the flashlight turns on, and Arthur throws his hand up over his eyes as you accidentally shine it right at his face.

"Sorry," you pant, pointing it down.

"No worries. That's a good idea, actually. I always forget about this thing," he remarks, grabbing his own phone and doing the same, "One second, I think Pops has some candles in the kitchen."

You nod as he disappears into the next room. Now remembering the dripping helmet on your head, you release the strap with your free hand and set it down on the mat beside the door. A shiver goes through you from your soaked clothes. You point your phone about the shadowy room to get your bearings, admiring the otherwise cozy living area. As you sweep the light downward, something large and metallic glints on the coffee table in front of the sofa and catches your eye. You move closer to get a better look, and then your heart drops to your feet. Lying beside a bag of jerky and the TV remote is a massive, gleaming trident of gold. A memory flashes through your mind of an article you'd seen weeks ago, with a fuzzy photo of an alleged aquatic hero holding a weapon just like it. The pieces come together all at once as you realize the identity of your host.

The very next second, you hear Arthur's approach. He returns with a lit candle in each hand and a blanket under his arm, only to find your expression of complete and utter shock.

"You...you're..." you stammer.

"Oof, I knew I forgot to put something away," he cringes, "My bad."

"You're the Aquaman," you gape, finding the words.

"Surprise," he says in a sing-song voice, flashing a nervous smile, "Yeah, I never really know how to bring that up.

You stare at him dumbfounded as he places the candles on the coffee table. "I can't believe it. Aren't you supposed to be like...well, in Atlantis or something?"

"I was, earlier this morning. Just about died of boredom in council meetings," he says matter-of-factly, proceeding to talk as if he had a desk job, "I'm kinda part-timing right now, between land and sea. It's complicated. I'm still new to the whole 'king' thing. Don't have all the kinks worked out yet."

"I'd imagine," you breathe, your mind still reeling.

"Here, figured you need this." He holds out the blanket, completely unphased by the previous subject, "Do you drink tea? I can make some for you."

You take the blanket and chuckle in bewilderment. "Um, sure. That would be great," you answer, "Thank you."

"One tea coming up," he smiles, "Uh, just make yourself comfortable, I'll get the fire going here a minute, after I find the dog. Pretty sure he's hiding under Pops' bed upstairs. He's terrified of storms. Ironic right? Lighthouse keeper's dog afraid of a little water."

"I don't blame him this time," you say, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders, "I think you were right about Thor."

As if on cue, another boom of thunder shakes the walls. You both burst out laughing.

♆

A few minutes later, you find yourself sitting on the floor in front of a roaring fire with a warm mug in your hands, finally beginning to feel dry. Having been unsuccessful in coaxing the dog into joining him downstairs, Arthur settles down beside you crossed-legged, damp hair tied up, trading the tea for a can of Guinness. Your thoughts rage like the storm outside as you stare into the flames, agonizing about what you should say.

Arthur speaks a moment later, saving you the trouble.

"Sorry about the power. I'll call you that cab as soon as it comes back."

"That's okay, I'm not in a hurry," you reply.

You look over at him hopefully, meeting his piercing gaze for as long as you can. Mere seconds pass before you bow your head, heart racing while you repress a smile.

"I'm uh, sure you've got some questions about all this," he ventures, rubbing the back of his head.

"Honestly, with the night I've had, meeting 'Aquaman' is par for the course," you smirk.

"I didn't mean to spring it on you like that. I guess you can understand why I don't lead with the whole King of Atlantis thing. Kinda makes it hard to keep a conversation going once people know you 'can talk to fish.' They don't really see you the same after that."

"Yeah, I think I'd probably keep that to myself too," you agree, the awe returning full-force, "Still, it must be amazing. I mean, you're basically ruler of the ocean, right? Or is it just Atlantis?"

"Eh, I mean there's the other kingdoms-"

"There's more?!" you blurt out, wide-eyed.

"Oh yeah. Xebel, the Fishermen, the Brine, a couple of defunct ones no one wants talks about. We got a few."

"And you're the ruler over all of them?"

He shrugs. "More or less. I mean, they each have their own ruler. But then I'm also over them? Kinda? I'm still figuring crap out, they didn't exactly give me a rule book on my first day. Plus I have answer to this royal council and they've got sticks up their butts about everything I do and say," he groans, rolling his eyes, "I like to consider myself more of a 'protector of the deep' than a ruler. Sounds more cool, and less like an old fart with a crown."

You giggle, hanging on every his every word.

"And with this bad boy right here," he says, reaching behind him and patting the trident, "I command all life in the sea. The animals anyway. Between you and me, that's the best part."

"You definitely have a cooler job than me," you beam.

"It definitely has its perks. But most of the time, I'd rather be here," he sighs, punctuated by a swig of his beer.

A visible sadness washes over him as he looks into the fire.

"You aren't from Atlantis?" you question.

"No, I was raised by my father. My parents met on accident. My mother was queen of Atlantis, and she ran away from her not-so-nice guy fiancé. She got lost in a storm, and my father rescued her. They've always said it was..."

Arthur stops and turns his gaze towards you, realization in his eyes.

Your heart skips as you understand. "Fate?"

He nods thoughtfully. "Something like that."

You blink, letting him go on.

"Anyway, I know I have a calling to the sea, but the land is always going to be a part of me, you know?" His expression softens. "Here, I've always found everything I need."

His words linger in the air between you. You look down at your hands, your chest pounding.

He clears his throat. "Sorry, I know that was a lot of info."

"Just a little bit," you reply teasingly, "But your secret's safe with me, Arthur. I promise. I've got no one to tell anyway."

"Don't worry, I trust you," he says, waving his hand, "It's actually nice to have someone else to share it with."

"I'm honored that you did. I know it's not the same, but I do understand what it's like to feel that you don't belong," you confess, "I didn't fit in my 'kind' either. Moved out here to start over. I guess you could say I'm still trying to figure some crap out too."

He pauses in thought second before responding, "Do you mind if I ask you something, Y/N?"

"After everything I've asked you? I'd say it's definitely your turn," you chuckle, taking a sip of your forgotten tea.

"I saw you at the bar before you went outside. I couldn't help but notice that you were there by yourself..."

"You noticed correctly. I was supposed to meet someone for a date, but after saying he was on his way, he never showed. I tried to text him, but he blocked me. I don't even know why."

"Nothing like being stood up at some backwater bar," he concludes, frowning, "Well, screw that guy. He's a bum."

"Yeah, I figured that out too late," you agree, then give him a knowing look, "The evening wasn't a total loss. I did meet you, after all."

"That's true," he concedes, playfully stroking his beard, "I may be a half-breed rookie king, but I'm not a bum."

You snort and gesture to the television set on your right, "So much for your marathon though, huh?"

"Ah, that's alright. They were all re-runs anyway."

You raise your eyebrow. "Think I could still hear that impression?"

He holds a finger to his chin in mock deliberation, "Hmmm, have I had enough to drink for that?

"I don't know, have you?" You lean in with anticipation.

He flashes a sly grin. "Of course I bloody have," he declares in the most hackneyed attempt at a British accent you'd ever heard, "And you better listen up, because I'm about to tell you everything there is to know about how to cook a bloody good flounder."

Your sides ache with laughter as he continues to go on a tangent about how to properly sauté shallots and season the perfect demi-glace. The voice sounded nothing like the infamously tempermental chef, of course, but you still thought his attempt was cute. By the time he was yelling at his invisible staff for serving him raw fish, the storm outside had passed, and neither of you noticed.

As Arthur went to light the stove to warm up some "gourmet" SpaghettiOs, still boisterously carrying on as Chef Ramsay, your excited thoughts returned to the story about his parents. You couldn't help but wonder about your own stormy night, the man you had met, and how much of a hand fate had played in it. The horizon seemed so much brighter than before, and for the first time ever, you were grateful to have bought that car.

#arthur curry x reader #aquaman x reader #aquaman imagine #arthur curry imagine #aquaman and the lost kingdom #jason momoa #arthur curry #aquaman 2 #aquaman fanfic #my writing #request

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fairyhaos · 8 months

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❍ the 2k event: jeonghan + empire

vote for this fic in the poll!

alternative title: burn, palace, burn

pairing: prince!jeonghan x f!empress!reader

genre: historical au, empire au, enemies to lovers, angst

word count: 1517

warnings: mentions of blood, war, death, manipulation, imprisonment (yeah,,, this ended up a little dark)

event taglist (send ask to be added): @slytherinshua @rubywonu @pepperonijem @amxlia-stars @weird-bookworm @hannyoontify @my-moarmy-heart @suminsfav @minhui896 @haocovr @lockburn-castle @jeonwonwoo

War is never something you’ve enjoyed.

Bloodshed is horrifying, and the amount of lives lost, often futilely, make your stomach churn and your heart ache. The effects of war are almost always felt for generations after, staining child after child and traumatising the land beyond belief, the blood of enemies and allies and victims painting nightmares into the soil.

What a shame that your hands are dripping in that very blood.

You sigh, straightening yourself in your throne, brushing at the delicate golden chains dangling from your headdress as they touch your shoulders. However, you’ve been brought up by a tyrannical family, hell-bent on controlling their people. It’s always been your greatest desire to undo that damage, create a prosperous society, but that has proved near impossible.

That was a lesson your advisors had taught you, early on in your reign. As a woman, you’d have little power but to do as the men before you had done.

“Your Imperial Highness! The Great Sun of our land! Your imperial army returns from their latest battle!”

The doors to the throne room burst open, and in strides the head general, helmet under his arm, chest puffed, cheeks splattered with blood. It makes you feel sick.

But what makes you even more ill is the fact that he’s not alone. Behind him, two other soldiers drag in a man, tugging on his chains and forcing him to kneel before you. His head his bent, once-rich robes tattered and torn. There is a crown on his head, but on closer inspection, it looks to be a crude imitation of one, fashioned from tatty cloth and rotten sticks.

“We have returned from our conquest in the East,” your Head General says, proud. “The Kingdom of Thae has fallen to your mighty reign.”

Another kingdom acquired by your crown, you think weakly. Another kingdom for your advisors to lord over. Another kingdom for you to play at being empress to.

“Well done,” you say, and try to hide the discomfort from your voice. Masking it should come easily, given the countless times you’ve done this, but your horror at what has become of you never ceases to fade. “The Imperial Crown thanks you for your service.”

The Head General nods in acknowledgement, and point to the man kneeling beside him. “We have brought the prince of the Thae Kingdom here to you. Though their King and Queen have been slaughtered, Advisor Kim relayed that you would enjoy certain… spoils of war, if there were any left.”

Your head spins. This is horrific. You want to leave.

“Yes,” you manage to force out, as gracefully as possible. “Thank you.” You look down at the man, and his head is still bent, but his chained wrists shake from the way he clenches his fists tightly. “Pray tell, what is the prince’s name?”

The Head General smirks, and steps back. “Would your Imperial Highness like to take a look at him?”

It’s posed as a question, but you have no choice.

You rise from your throne, (lies, it’s not yours, it’s always belonged to anyone but you—) and descend the steps, kneeling before the man, the heavy silks of your skirt fanning out beneath you.

With one finger, you lift up his head, and your breath catches.

He’s beautiful.

“Prince Yoon Jeonghan, Your Imperial Highness,” your Head General introduces for you, and even his name is beautiful.

His hair, raven-dark and mussed up, is still velvet-soft as you tuck a lock behind his ear, mesmerised by his beauty. His eyes are like black diamonds, so dark that you could fall into them and yet endlessly bright and sparkling. His skin is pale, and he looks so small and delicate and you wish for nothing more than to whisk him away from this horrible, horrible world.

Jeonghan snarls, and his teeth sink into your wrist.

Immediately, the guards around him pull at his chains and tug him back, tug him so hard that he falls back, head crashing painfully on the cold stone of the floor.

“Oh!” You don’t even register the stinging teeth marks on your wrist, bleeding red beads, standing up and rushing to his side, holding the back of his head, even as he swats angrily at you, chains clinking. “Are you alright?”

Jeonghan stares at you as if you’ve gone insane, wrestling himself from your grip and receiving more harsh tugs for his actions.

“I gather that Your Imperial Majesty is pleased with this prince?” the Head General says, and the sick pleasure in his tone makes you look up.

“Indeed,” you say, with all the authority you can muster. “Now, leave us.”

There are little benefits to being a puppet empress, but at least the people still have to respect you.

Once they all leave, and the room is empty, you fall to your knees beside him once again, brushing at his robes, seeing if he’s alright. But Jeonghan pushes your hands away again, hissing.

“Leave me alone,” he snaps, and his voice is cracked and hoarse but the anger pulsates, ever-present and unable to be hidden. “I refuse to be your boytoy.”

“Let me help you,” you beg, noticing the bruises along his arms, the dried-up blood on his neck. “Please. I could— I could give you a good life here. I promise.”

Jeonghan’s eyes darken, icy flames dancing in his irises, every blink oozing hate. “Your promises mean nothing to me,” he spits. “I refuse to bow down to a bully like you. You’re a killer, a manipulator, and I want nothing to do with the likes of you.”

Every word is a steel shard struck straight into your heart, and it’s startling how much the hate stings you. You’ve conquered countless kingdoms before, albeit not by your own choice, and you know that this is how people must view you. And yet, it hurts, to hear the venom and calculated rage pouring out of this prince’s mouth.

“I’m not those things,” you say quietly, voice echoing meekly within the large throne room.

Jeonghan scoffs, opening his mouth to retort, and you rush to carry on.

“I’m not the one in charge. I have no power, no control here. I’m—I’m as much a prisoner as you are, a prisoner to my people, to my advisors, to my court. They prod me and push me around as they please, and I can’t do anything against them without being killed. Please, I— just let me help you.”

The hate does not waver in Jeonghan’s eyes. His delicate, pale face is contorted into an expression of such loathing that it makes you shiver in fear.

“If you’re all those things,” he says venomously, “then how can you help me?”

“I can keep you alive,” you say. “I can make sure you won’t die any time soon.”

Jeonghan freezes, and then slumps. He’s sitting on the floor of your recently polished throne room, satin robes torn and charred and splattered with blood. The floor shines, and his blackened fingers curl into the stone, fingernails scraping painfully.

“I just want my parents to be alive,” he says, quietly. “I want my life back.”

His words hit too close to home, and your heart constricts. It takes you several deep breaths before you manage to compose yourself again, and you rest a hand gently on his own.

“I can’t give that to you,” you admit, “however much I want to. I… I can’t even do that for myself.”

Jeonghan looks up, and there’s a question there, amongst the flickering flames of derision and fury and sadness.

“But I can give you a life,” you say. “It won’t be your old one, but it’ll be a life all the same. If you work with me, I can… I think I can free you. Free everyone.”

Jeonghan’s brow furrows, and a sheen covers his eyes as he thinks it over. He’s tattered and underfed and probably suffering several wounds, and yet he is taking the time to think of your offer, and part of you wonders faintly if Jeonghan, before all of this had happened to him, had been someone intelligent and calculating and revered by his people.

You feel even more ill for what you've done to him. For what others have done to him in your name.

“Very well,” Jeonghan says finally, and your eyes widen. His chains clatter once again, and he holds his hand out. “Help me, and I help you.”

You smile, and take his hand, gently helping him to his feet. “I promise.” You prod at the chains on his wrists. “I'll free you. I will."

The beginnings of a smile tug at Jeonghan's lips. He tugs at the golden threads of your crown, and you let him, let him push it off, let it crash to the floor in a tinkle of expensive and heavy metal.

"How noble of you, Empress," he says, but there's a light in his eyes, devious and cunning. He's a fighter, Jeonghan is. You can tell. He grins.

"Let's burn this empire to the ground."

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meechatuck · 16 days

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Dark Kingdom Rising

Heads up peeps, I have a very busy day tomorrow (and I have procrastinated just a smidge) so the next chapter will be up on Saturday. I am working a shift for an old co-worker and I have my son's birthday party to host so it's going to be a busy Friday. But the chapter will be up on Saturday!! I promise! Okay that is all, go on about your lovely day.

#Dark Kingdom Rising #Dark Kingdom Rising fic #Dark Kingdom Rising AU #meecha writing

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12thprinceofdarkness · 1 month

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RISING MOON UPDATE

Chapter Twenty-One is just about finished! It's a tad bit late, I know, but there were several parts that I just wasn't happy with. This chapter has gone through about seven rewrites, but I believe that I am finally happy with what I have. There are just a few more things to be done, and it with be ready to publish. You all can expect Chapter Twenty-One out tomorrow or the day after. God bless and thank you for your patience!

#rising moon #rising moon fic #tts #rta #tangled the series #rapunzels tangled adventure #tts hector #hector tts #tts adira #tts eugene #tts edmund #tts ocs #tts the brotherhood #tts the dark kingdom #the brotherhood of the dark kingdom #tts fanfic #fanfiction

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th3p0rtalmaker · 7 months

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IT'S HERE

#friend fic #friend writing #tts fanfic #tangled the series #post series au #dark kingdom rising #tts hector #tts adira #tts edmund #tts oc #amelia renya #LETS GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

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chloedrewitt · 2 years

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Hi, could you write fic about Aemond House of Dragon where OC is Rhaeyneras “strong” daughter. And if plot could go OC was made Prisoner of Aegon ii during dance of dragons.OC and Aemond Are forced to get Married. Eventually they have kids, feel in love and Rule kingdoms aa king and queen and bring peace to boath sides

𝘽𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝘿𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙤𝙣 - 𝘼𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙙 𝙏𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙚𝙣 𝙭 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 [𝙋𝙖𝙧𝙩 1]

summary: You are taken prisoner by Aegon II and kept in a cell until he calls for an audience, during which you find out that your mother, Rhaenyra Targaryen, has agreed to a peace contract between the Blacks and the Greens. You, as Rhaenyra’s heir, are to marry the eldest, unmarried son of King Viserys and Queen Alicent; Aemond Targaryen. This is an unwanted surprise for both of you, and you find it hard to make an effort. But when Aemond takes you to your dragon for a ride, seemingly against his brother’s wishes, you slowly begin to find comfort in his company.

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x reader

word count: 3.9k

warnings: none

a/n: Thank you so much for the request, I loved the idea! I made a couple of changes to the canon to make sure this story worked out the way I envisioned it based on the request 💗

Part 2 will be about the wedding and their future!

Part 2

Request status: open [info]

Taglist:

If you wish to be added to or removed from the character taglist, please comment underneath this post.

Masterlist - Ko-fi

The material of your dress irritated your skin, and even though you adjusted the lace collar multiple times, it only seemed to make it worse. Dirt covered you where your skin was exposed, and strands of your dark hair were now falling in your face, nothing but a phantom of the beautiful updo your maid had braided your hair into this morning.

For a prison cell, the room was moderately sized, so you did not feel claustrophobic, but it did nothing for the moist stone walls and the dirt that covered almost every part of them. Even doing as much as leaning against them, so that your muscles could relax, covered your back in slick muck.

A guard had placed a tray of food at the entrance of your cell hours ago, but you had not touched it. Instead, you’d watched as the steam rising from the bread slowly faded and the goblet of water became polluted by drops that had fallen from the ceiling. You averted your gaze, trying your best to ignore the stinging pain in your stomach.

You should have listened to your mother and not crossed enemy territory, but you had been confident in your and your dragon Zaelix’s abilities. Now, you were in a prison cell and Zaelix most likely laying somewhere in shackles, sedated so he would not fly away.

The tears you had cried hours before were now dry, making it uncomfortable to move a single muscle in your face. Your gaze dropped to your hands, blood underneath your nails the only sign that you had struggled when they’d taken you. It had happened fast, and you could not recall any details, but you knew that the Greens, your own family, were behind this.

Cruel were the wars where blood spilled blood, but that was what happened when you were born into royalty, and you had little problems with it. People made their own choices, and ometimes these choices were not the smartest, as you had to learn first-hand.

Your head was so heavy on your shoulders that you stopped caring about your filthy surroundings and rested it against the wall. There was no bed in the cell, unless one counted the piece of animal fur lying in the corner opposite from you. Which you certainly did not. You were Queen Rhaenyra’s first born, a future Queen in her own right if your side won, which it certainly looked like at the moment.

The Blacks had more allies than the Greens, and in numbers lay strength. Not to mention the army of dragonriders your siblings were raising as you cowered in this cell, consisting of illegitimate Targaryen children with just enough Valyrian blood to bond with one of the feared beasts.

Capturing you was like serving the enemy a means to exert political pressure on your mother. It did not seem to be enough that many of her own followers doubted your heritage, considering you looked nothing like your late father Laenor Velaryon, with your dark hair and sharp features, all of which were traits not commonly associated with Valyrians.

You squeezed your eyes shut, cursing yourself about how you had failed on your mission to secure new allies, hoping that your mother and stepfather at least knew you were alive. He had accepted you like his own, after all, and out of your siblings, you were closest with your mother.

A sound coming from the corridor interrupted your thoughts, drawing your attention to the bars separating you from your freedom.

A man stopped before your cell, keychain hanging from his belt as a hood covered most of his face, but judging by the graying stubble which covered his chin, you estimated that he was middle-aged. “Get up,” he barked, but you only gave him a venomous glare.

He took a key from his chain and inserted it into the lock to open the door, which your eyes briefly jumped to. To run would have been foolish, considering you had no idea what the building you were in looked like, or where Zaelix was being kept. Without him, escape was close to impossible. But you had always liked to test your luck.

“Are you deaf, girl?” The prison guard said impatiently as he reached out to pull you up by the arm, but you were quicker. You dodged his hand and elbowed him in the temple, using his momentary startlement to run for the door, but were blocked by another man who stepped from the shadows into the doorframe.

It happened so fast that you could not react, and so you bumped into his chest, which gave him enough physical closeness to take hold of your wrists with his gloved hands.

“Let me go,” you said, struggling to free yourself, but his grip only tightened. You stared at his chest, and the Targaryen sigil which graced his chest. It was hard to see, since it was just as black as the rest of his leather clothes, but you were close enough to make it out.

“I would not be very smart to do that, now, would I?” The man responded as the prison guard behind you grunted, presumably trying to stand after receiving the blow to his head. When you looked up at your captor, you saw that he had only one eye, the other one hidden beneath an eye path, and long, silver hair. This must have been Aemond One-Eye, also known as Aemond Kinslayer for reasons you tried not to think of.

You stopped resisting and angrily stared up at him instead, looking directly into his revealed eye while he firmly kept his hands around your wrists. Your chest was rising and falling rather quickly, as you tried to recover from the previous struggle. The man looked at the guard behind you, an amused smile on his lips.

“Perhaps my brother should reconsider hiring a new prison guard after all, if you are so easily overpowered by a Lady,” he said, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine and his hot breath calming your irritated skin.

“Forgive me, my prince,” rumbled the guard from somewhere behind you, as the prince turned his attention back to you.

“Shall we?” He asked with raised eyebrows, as if you even had a choice in what was about to happen. You simply narrowed your eyes and remained silent, not intending to give him the satisfaction of hearing your protests again.

He let go of one of your wrists and reached behind you, where the prison guard offered him a pair of metal handcuffs. You hissed when he bound your wrists with them behind your back, the cool material not improving the cold feeling you were exposed to.

Wordlessly, he guided you out of the dungeon, the screams of other inmates, which they let out as soon as they laid eyes on the prince and guard, following you while you climbed the staircase. Each step felt as if someone dug knives into your feet, and you tried your hardest not to let it show. Yours was the blood of the dragon, and you would act like it.

Stares followed you as Aemond led you through the halls of the castle. Your looks were less than appealing, and you were sure you scared some of the Ladies in the corridors, with your unkempt hair and the dirt that covered your dress.

You had expected to be brought before Aegon II in a throne room, so your confusion was noticeable when the prince opened a door, which led to a council chamber of sorts, and gently pushed you inside with a hand on your shoulder. He closed the door behind you, and you once again gave him an angry look before fixing your eyes on the figure sitting on the opposite side of the room.

“Aegon, I presume,” you said with disdain in your voice, but he only smiled at you. It was a heartless smile, one that made your blood boil.

“No need for formalities among family, I suppose,” he sighed as he stood from the table he was sitting at, the sound the chair made as it slid across the floor causing the hair on your neck to stand on end.

“Where is my dragon?” Your voice was only slightly shaking, a huge achievement in your eyes.

Aegon laughed, which sounded just as humorless as his smile looked. “You are captured, with close to no chance of escape. You, Queen Rhaenyra’s heir.” There was mockery in his voice, and you had to raise your chin to avoid succumbing to his insult. “And your first question concerns your dragon? Perhaps your mother should have named one of your siblings heir instead.”

You tried to free yourself from the handcuffs, but Aemond was still holding onto you, keeping you from leashing at his king, who was studying you closely with his hands folded behind his back.

“You know you are at a disadvantage. Most of Westeros supports my mother. You will have to slay half of the kingdom to make them accept you as king,” you hissed, and Aemond placed another hand on your shoulder to pull you back, most likely in case you’d try to free yourself again.

Aegon sighed as he walked around the table, tracing its edge with his fingers in the process. “Only a fool would think himself above reason. And trust me, Lady (y/n), I am no fool.” His expression changed for a moment, and you saw a hint of genuine remorse, before his facade returned. “It is why I proposed a peace treaty to your mother, hours after you were found trespassing on our lands.”

You narrowed your eyes, not sure where he was going with this.

“You see, I never intended for any of this to happen, Lady (y/n). At first, I didn’t even think it right to take my sister’s birthright from her.” You remained silent, curious to see what he would say next. “The crown is the most vulnerable when its succession is unclear, and I intend to end the uncertainty in this realm. So I proposed a marriage contract to your mother, and after some negotiations, she agreed.”

You stared in horror as the words reached your ear, and you realized that this marriage contract would most likely involve you somehow. You might have been a bit reckless at times, but you certainly were not a fool, either.

“You already have a wife,” you responded, feeling as though your muscles were paralyzed. The eyeless prince seemed to be just as curious as you, for he took a step forward and let go of your shoulder.

“Indeed I do,” Aegon said, eyes jumping from you to the man beside you. “But my brother does not.”

“And when, pray tell, was I supposed to find out?” His brother asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“You know now, don’t you, Aemond.”

You swallowed. At least now, you had confirmation that this truly was Aemond One-Eye, but the weight attached to this information was almost too heavy to withstand. When you turned your head in Aemond’s direction, you saw that his jaw was tense.

“A warrior does not make a fine husband,” he protested in the most respectful way you could imagine. It was clear he thought highly of his brother.

“I would disagree,” said Aegon, before resting his eyes on you again. “You will be welcomed as a member of this court to officially celebrate the engagement. But make no mistake, Lady (y/n). You will be watched at any moment. This marriage alliance is important, yes, but not more important than my court’s safety. I hope you understand the precautions we must take.” Aegon exchanged one last glance between you and Aemond, before dismissing you both.

You looked at the man so boldly chosen for you as your fiance, before a servant came to escort you. Though the handcuffs remained in place for now, you could already feel just how much of a prisoner you would still be, even without these chains around your wrists.

***

The following days felt like they stretched to infinity, partially because you were left in the dark about what would happen next. Luckily, you were allowed to have breakfast, lunch and dinner with the other Targaryens in the dining room, but always had to be escorted by two guards at least. Especially when you roamed through the castle corridors during the day.

You only saw your fiance during meal time, and he mostly avoided looking at you, which was so painfully obvious that you felt angry just being in his presence most of the time. To Aegon’s credit, he was the only one who tried to break the ice and asked you general questions, such as how you found your chambers, or what kind of food you would prefer for the ceremony.

You had half-expected to remain in your room with only the company of your two guards until the wedding, when you heard a knock from the other side one afternoon, as you were reading a book to try and distract yourself. Knowing fully well that the guards kept a close watch on your room, this must have been one of the Greens.

The book you had been reading became less interesting while irritation made it hard for you to concentrate. Sighing, you placed it aside and rose from your bed to open the door, which revealed Aemond standing before you. You threw a glance at both guards who were standing on either side of the door with their backs turned towards you.

“Princess,” said Aemond, his exposed eye flickering between yours. You clenched your jaw as you let go of the door handle, crossing your arms in front of your chest. So far, he had been the only one to address you with the title you had been born with, even if your conversations had been short and rare.

When you only looked at him silently, he added, “I know this situation is far from ideal, but I wish to make it bearable for both of us.”

You snorted, which made the guards turn their heads slightly. It was probably not every day that they witnessed a supposedly high born woman react like this. “Oh, so I am not a bearable match, is that what you are suggesting?”

Aemond’s eye narrowed before he exhaled deeply, and you found it amusing how easily he could be irritated. “This does not have to be harder than it already is.”

“Doesn’t it?” You asked, sarcasm dripping from every word like poison, as you took a step forward. He did not move, and you had to tilt your head to be able to look him into the eye. Aemond One-Eye had always been described as rather short in comparison to his elder brother, but you realized that this was far from true. He practically towered over you.

“Because I’m finding it difficult to believe that marrying my brother’s murderer is anything but hard,” you hissed, staring daggers into the man, who, instead of retreating, lowered his head so it would be even closer to yours, before replying, “This is war, Lady (y/n).” His voice was surprisingly calm, almost sympathetic in a way. “And we stood on opposite sides. So you can continue to hold a grudge, or at least try to adapt to the situation. It’s what rulers do.”

You hated that he was right, and you hated even more that your gaze dropped to his lips, even if it was just for a second. It had suddenly gotten very hot around you, and you had to put some distance between Aemond and you to be able to breathe again.

“You speak of ruling, yet you are a second born son, and third born child. Your brother has heirs of his own.” You observed his facial expressions closely, but he was skilled enough not to move a muscle. Still, you could not help the feeling that there was something else these people were not telling you, and your mother must have been aware of it, too. You knew her, and she would have never married her heir off without the possibility of them sitting on the throne. You only hoped she had not decided to choose one of your siblings in your stead.

“I wish to make up for the past few days,” Aemond said, ignoring your previous comment. You were not sure what exactly he was referring to, but you decided to hear him out. “So I have arranged for you to see your dragon.”

“Zaelix,” you said with wide eyes, and all disdain you felt for the man momentarily evaporated. “Take me to him. Please.”

Aemond nodded and stepped aside to allow you to leave your room, pulling the door behind you shut. When the guards moved, the prince raised his hand, making them stop in their tracks. “No guards are needed in my presence. Continue to guard the Princess’ quarters.”

Without a word, they remained standing as Aemond placed his hand on your back, guiding you through the corridors and away from prying eyes. You observed the walls, trying to memorize the path that would lead you to your dragon. Though you had given up on an escape, mostly thanks to your mother seemingly agreeing to the engagement, you still felt calmer knowing where you could find Zaelix if you needed him.

“I hope your people have not harmed him,” you said as you kept your gaze locked ahead, but you felt Aemond’s hand on your back tense, as if the sheer accusation was an insult to him.

“I can personally assure you that your dragon has been looked after thoroughly. Despite resisting our dragonkeepers at first. He is very loyal.” You smiled proudly in response.

All doubts were gone when you saw Zaelix outside the castle walls. He was bound to the ground by his foot so that he could only raise himself a few meters into the air. When he saw you, he let out a scream of joy, which would have sounded like more of a predator’s scream to those unfamiliar with these creatures. Zaelix spread out his tattered wings, the accents on his white scales shimmering iridescently in the sunlight, and you even caught Aemond staring at the creature.

Zaelix immediately lowered his head to greet you when you stopped before him, pressing your forehead against the dragon’s cheek, both of you closing your eyes in unison. But when you looked up, you saw that he had been saddled.

“I thought a small trip might do you well. You do not strike me as someone who likes to spend her entire time on land,” Aemond said. You smiled faintly, trying your best to still be angry with him, but Aemond was truly making an effort and you started to feel embarrassed that he was the only one trying. Judging by his reaction when Aegon had proclaimed the marriage plan, he had been just as unaware as you.

When you looked around, though, you noticed that Zaelix was the only dragon on the field.

“Are you letting me go alone?” You asked warily, not believing for a second that anyone from Aegon’s court would allow this.

“Not exactly,” said Aemond, and you saw the hesitance on his face. “Vhagar is still recovering from an injury to her left wing. If you are not against it, I would ride with you.”

You swallowed, but nodded, knowing that it was your closest shot at feeling the wind in your hair again any time soon. As Aemond opened the shackles and then climbed your dragon to settle in the saddle, you pressed your forehead against Zaelix’s scaly skin again, silently ordering the dragon to be at his best behavior. This alliance was fragile as it was, and you were responsible enough not to try anything that could harm your mother or siblings.

After giving Zaelix a gentle pat, you followed Aemond into the saddle, wanting to sit down behind him, but he stopped you. “I think it would be safer if you sat before me,” he explained, and you simply looked at him for a few moments more before lowering yourself into the saddle between his legs.

You could feel his chest in your back, and the warmth of his breath on your neck as he leaned in to whisper into your ear. “Your dragon is very beautiful.”

You smiled at the compliment, not being able to help yourself since Zaelix was your entire pride and joy. Wanting to reply, you turned your head but accidentally brushed your nose against his, which made you reconsider, quickly turning your attention back to the dragon’s head.

“Is this alright?” Asked Aemond as he placed his hands on your waist, and you hated how good his hands felt on your body. You hummed a response, not trusting your voice not to crack, before you gave Zaelix the order to fly.

The wind forced your hair out of your face as your dragon rose higher and higher, until you could see the entirety of the castle below. Your grip around the saddle was strong, like you had been taught, and you let out a cheer just as Zaelix roared, which made Aemond chuckle behind you.

“Have you ever let go of the saddle before?” He asked, his chin brushing your shoulder as he spoke. You had to turn your head again, this time to hear him better since the wind was almost deafening.

“You mean… have I ever free ridden?”

Aemond nodded, but when you replied that you hadn’t, his hands held your waist tighter than before. “If you want to try, I will hold onto you.”

You felt your heart hammering in your chest, a small part of you telling you that this was a trap and he’d let you fall. Your assassination would not harm your mother’s political standing, since your siblings could easily replace you, but it would weaken her.

Something about Aemond’s touch, however, made you feel like this was an irrational thought, and you hated how easy it was to trust him, despite what he had done. Against your better judgment, you closed your eyes and slowly extended your arms. Aemond pulled you closer towards him, the sudden contact making you gasp, but still, you refrained from opening your eyes.

A smile spread across your lips, as you tasted freedom for the first time since waking up in that dungeon days ago. And even though your eyes were closed, you could feel Aemond looking at you, while he squeezed his legs slightly to make sure that you were sitting safely in the saddle.

Your body reacted to his touch, and you even found yourself leaning against him. Despite the fact that you still did not fully trust this man, you did not want to spend your life married to someone whose touch you didn’t crave, and his attractiveness was evident.

Slowly, you opened your eyes again and turned to look at Aemond, as Zaelix glided through the air. You met his eye, parting your lips slightly, and he did the same. “Thank you,” you breathed. “For today, I mean.”

His gaze lingered on your lips as you spoke, and you found yourself wanting to take off his eye patch, to see what he hid beneath it, but you resisted the urge.

“It was my pleasure, (y/n),” he replied, and you only broke eye contact once Zaelix had landed on the ground again.

#aemond targaryen #one bed trope but make it dragon #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond one eye #game of thrones #got #hotd #daemon targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 8 days

Text

Winter's King 3

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: wooooo, friday!

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Despite the unease of the king’s proximity, you drift down into a hollow sleep. The sort that is grey and empty and dizzying. When you wake, you’re alone. The bed is sparse and spacious as you lay tucked in the blanket, snug around your figure. You slide your arm up as you feel a cool graze along your scalp.

You fix your cap back on your head, wrinkled from being caught beneath you. You roll onto your back and tug at the blanket until you can sit up. As you do, you notice the yellow beam around the silhouette at the window. The king’s hair shines brilliantly in the sunlight.

You rub your cheek, hot from friction with the pillow. You look down at the blanket rumpled around your waist. You kick if off and climb off the mattress. There is no time to be sleeping. By the slant of the light, you know it’s due time to rise. You turn to tidy the covers, pulling them taut, corner to corner.

You brush smooth your apron as best you can, a dent left diagonal down the skirt. You turn and glance towards the door. You don’t dare leave without dismissal, nor do you wish to break the king’s peace.

“You slept heavy,” he says without moving, “you must have needed it.”

“Your highness,” you croak through a dry throat. “I didn’t...”

“Didn’t what?” He wonders. “All must rest, even the mice and meagre.”

You bow your head and fold your hands. You stay as you are as he lowers his own head and his arms move as he fusses with something. There’s a soft tear and he brings something to his mouth. He turns and leans against the curtain, crushed to the stone by his weight.

“And they must eat,” he offers a morsel of salted meat.

“Your highness, it is generous--”

“But you mean to deny me,” he challenges. “Does modesty serve you as well as you serve others?”

You don’t know how to answer that. You press your lips tight and once more lower your chin. You wring your hands and markedly stop yourself.

He crosses the room with slow, long strides. He stops before you. The morning light limns his thick body through the white fabric of his nightshirt. He brings the strip of jerky before you, holding it below your nose.

“I do not trust a turncloak to feed me from his trough,” he intones, gently leaning the meat to your lips. “A king must worry about such things, but not a servant. Who would ever need taint their food, if they let them any at all.”

You look up at him. His eyes blaze down at you, stunningly gold, like sparkling coins. He prods with the strip and you open your lips to let it slip through you nibble through the thick morsel until a piece breaks off and he rescinds the rest, taking a bite of his own.

“It’s the last of my elk, and stale at that,” he explains, “in the hinterland, we do eat more than salt, but on campaign, we must eat what we have.”

You chew, watching him as he turns to pace. He makes you curious. He is a fearsome man, even in only a night shirt, but he thinks overly much.

“That summer maiden will not like the cold,” he mutters as he rounds the tub then comes back to you. Half the strip remains. He offers it, “take it.”

You do as he bids. He watches you intently as you hold the jerky and you bring it close to your lips. You stop, “thank you, your highness. You are a generous king.”

“No, I am a prudent king. Not always generous, not always cruel, only when the moment calls for one or the other,” he stays before you, eyes torrid as they cling to you.

“Well, you’ve been generous to me, your highness,” you say before you bite into the meat. It is heavier than what you are used to but tasty nonetheless.

“Prudent,” he repeats, “so I must send you away. Send you back.” He inhales, his broad chest lifting, making him appear even larger, “you have done your duty admirably, little maid.”

You chew, making a face as you can’t answer for your mouthful. He inclines his head towards you.

“No,” he shakes his head, “say nothing more. Eat and go. There is still a war to be won before I claim my kingdom.” He puts his back to you and marches back to the window, adding in a grey tone, “...and a wife.”

His last words are so quiet, so dull, you hardly can discern them. He leans on the window ledge as he stares off beyond the walls. The sun rises around him, casting him in gold. You swallow what’s left of the elk strip and shuffle to the door. As you open it, you hear a sigh, and you close it behind you without glancing back.

The king does not sound pleased with his nuptials. So is the fare of nobles and their titles. Often the very status that brings them privilege brings them just as much misery. A handmaid only need worry about her next task.

⚔️

Lady Jazlene is far more satisfied with her imminent union. She is aflutter as you enter her chambers. Merinda watches with dulcet irritation. The duke’s daughter flits around, throwing silks and satins. Lady Rezlyn watches her from a cushioned bench, a goblet in hand as she tuts and tisks at very choice.

“Mother,” Jazlene tosses down layers of goldenrod yellow, “if none should do, a new dress might be cut, yes?”

“A new dress? Of what fabric? We are in wartime, dearest,” Rezyn scoffs.

“And yet you have your reds and your citrus,” the younger accuses.

“I need wine to steel my nerves and citrus to fill my stomach. You needn’t a dress to live. You have many and more,” Rezlyn snickers.

“Mother, I swear you do goad me. He is a king. And the war should end soon. There must be silk to be had,” Jazlene whines, and what of jewels? Pearls? Emerald? Sapphire?”

Merinda shifts, you can sense her thoughts and the little whispers she’s hoarding away for you. She always has the sharpest quips about the pair of ladies and their whimsies. You do agree with some but you can no more blame them for being frivolous noblewoman than you can yourself for being a simple maid.

Jazlene continues her storm around the chamber. Her nerves are contagious, you can feel a similar stirring in your gut. Perhaps she realises the same as you do. All she knows is about to change irrevocably.

You try to think of what it will be like when she is married. She must have the same thoughts. You can’t quite picture it. Geralt sitting where Rezlyn does, perhaps he too holds a goblet, Jazlene rambling over her skirts and gems and all the things she wants. You don’t imagine he’d listen for long. Then again, you don’t know the king at all. Not enough to presume you would know.

Lady Jazlene puts a string of rubies around her neck and preens in the mirror. She points to you then her hair. You come forward and set to pinning her hair. Lady Rezlyn rises and you peek at her in the mirror. She scowls at her wine.

“Enough fussing, your father wishes us to see the king to break our fast,” the elder holds out her goblet and Merinda comes forward to take it. “And I need more wine.”

Jazlene shoos you away and stands. She hangs her shoulders and drags her feet, “mother, I will be a queen soon. You cannot order me around so.”

“Not as yet,” Rezlyn warns, “you have much to learn of being a wife before you worry so much of queendom.”

Jazlene huffs and pushes her shoulders back. She looks at her reflection once more, posing and posturing. She curves her lips in a wry smirk.

“Queendom,” she trills, “oh mother.”

“Yes, yes, don’t get ahead of yourself,” Lady Rezlyn stomps over to her daughter and takes her by the wrist, “you must first think of how to please your husband. As I can tell, it won’t be an easy task, and yet he is as any man is. He is... still a man.”

“Oh mother,” Jazlene giggles.

“Look at you, you are marvelous,” Rezlyn pets her daughter’s cheek. “He is a warrior; he holds his shield close but he cannot resist your beauty.”

The mother keeps hold of her daughter and leads her to the doors. You and Merinda follow at several paces. A habit to keep from trodding on their skirts. The enter the corridor and tension coils around them. The descend to the great hall and to the west wing where the dining hall resides.

Lord Dustan stands by the head of the table. On most days he would sit in that chair but he only paces around it, tugging at his little triangle beard. You rarely see him so restless. Often, he is as careless as his wife and daughter.

“Husband, I thought we were to break fast--”

“Yes, yes,” he waves off his wife’s words, “the king has yet to awaken.”

You stand by a statue, just to one side of the door. You cannot see the opening around it. You find comfort in its shadow, content to go unnoticed. You wonder if anyone looked upon you, would they see your thoughts. The king is awake but why hasn’t he emerged?

“What about the marriage?” Rezlyn asks, “a contract?”

“Wife, if I say it is to be, it is,” Dustan retorts, “must you ever heap upon me?”

“It isn’t my intent. I am only making certain our daughter’s future is secured. That our family name is to prosper. Husband, I ask in the interest of your profit.”

“You ask too much,” the duke hisses.

Before he can receive his wife’s sharp response, sturdy footfalls approach and mute their conversation. A shadow casts through the doorway and you know by the silhouette it can only be one person. King Geralt enters, unassuming in his mail and black clothes. His silver hair is half up, a braid down the back of it. He has his sword strapped to his back.

“Your highness, the cooks are preparing breakfast--”

“There is not time for you to sit and gorge,” the king snarls, “there is a war to be won. There is no advantage in waiting on word of your deceit to spread.”

Dustan has the grace to look ashamed. He twitches and paws at his overcoat, “I... your highness, I would need time to prepare for my departure.”

“You need mail and a sword. You have a barn full of horses. Mount it and we will be away.” The king insists, “my men march within the hour. We will remember who our allies were when the day is won.”

“Y-your highness, I--”

“That is the trouble with summer lords. You think war is played across a board,” the king growls. “war is won in blood and steel. If all you can offer me is words, I am not interested in this contract.”

“Your highness, I will ready. At once,” Lord Dustan kicks his heels together, “you are right. My spurs are ready.”

The king drones grimly. He sets his shoulders and opens and closes a fist. Jazlene looks at her mother then steps forward.

“But your highness, our marriage--”

“That contract will be met when I have my terms. When my kingdom is forged complete, then I shall have a queen. No sooner than that,” he grits at her.

“Ah, yes, certainly your highness, then you shall have my favour to ride with,” she pulls a handkerchief from her bodice, “to comfort you in the battles to come.”

She waves the cloth at him and he says nothing. He grunts and turns to her father. He grabs the duke by his scruff, “let’s hope you can sit a saddle. Carriages are not built for war.”

King Geralt turns, dragging the Duke of Debray like a stray cat. The king’s golden eyes flick over to you and his jaw ticks. He raises his chin just slightly as he passes, putting his eyes straight only as the meet the corners. He stalks from the room with his blithering ally in tow.

Jazlene presses her knuckles to her forehead and whines, “mother? Am I to wait anon for my husband? What shall I do? War, war, war! Does it ever end?”

“Daughter,” Lady Rezlyn sweeps around the table to grab her daughter by the shoulders, “there is no use in bawling. Do not be a child. You are of an age--”

“Of an age where I should be married!” Jazlene blusters. “How can I be calm when I am promised what I have always wanted and then it is snatched away?”

“The king will return. As will your father,” Rezlyn shakes her daughter, “King Geralt has made it this far, do not think he will falter now. And when he has claimed victory, he will return to keep good on his promise.” The Lady of Debray lowers her voice, “do you think that your father would break his oath on a chance? That he would gamble. No, he sees what the other lords deny. King Waleran is routed. This war will not last much longer.”

“Truly, mother?” Jazlene bats her lashes, “how do you know?”

“Trust your mother,” Rezlyn speaks as though her daughter is no more than a child. “Your father has risked his neck to claim you a king. Do not doubt him.”

Jazlene considers her mother, searching her face, and pulls her into an embrace. She lets out a shrill squeal and pulls back. Her cheeks round with glee.

“You’re right mother, this is a blessing. This will allow us time to alter a dress fitting for such a wedding.”

“Don’t forget a coronation,” Rezlyn adds coyly.

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #winter's king #the witcher #medieval au

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