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troublesomesnitch · 2 months

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Make Your Hands Unclean

Aemond x Wife!Reader - Period sex drabble

Premise and bits of dialogue shamelessly stolen from The Borgias.

Contents: drabble, pure filth. Menstrual sex, p in v, anal touching, graphic imagery. Internalised misogyny and harmful attitudes towards menstruation. Aemond is an asshole. Porn with weird plottish vibes.

Words: 2300

idk what this even is, this thing kind of wrote itself and I just went with it. It is kind of a mess tbh.

You were supposed to marry a lord.

That is what you were raised for, and those are the skills you were taught. To sing, to dance, to play the harp; to make yourself look pleasant. Your septa taught you to sew, and a woman from Essos taught you to weave, and in the afternoons the maester taught you history and linguistics, astronomy and arithmetic, and other things that ladies rarely speak about, but nevertheless must learn.

For it is the lady, not the lord, who runs the castle. Who manages the household, and oversees the people it employs. Such a lady must ideally be both kind and commanding, generous and frugal. She must know how to handle serfs and noblemen alike, and she must be proficient in numeracy; able to record expenses and perform difficult calculations.

To be a prince’s wife requires no such skills.

This castle already has two queens, and besides it is not for royal women to concern themselves with practical matters. There are ladies-in-waiting for that, and stewards, chamberlains, maids and matrons; an army of servants hundreds strong to ensure that you may always be spoiled and idle. More than a lady, but less than a queen, left to twiddle your thumbs and wonder when, if ever, the oppressive walls of Maegor’s Holdfast will begin to feel like home.

You do not like it here.

The days are long in King’s Landing, and the air is foul, polluted by the smoke of ten thousand hearths, by the stench of filth and unwashed bodies. It seeps through every crack and crevice, and you like the early mornings the most, when a cleansing mist blows in from the sea, and the ship’s bells ring over Blackwater Bay.

Your husband rises early too, though it is for different reasons. Prince Aemond adheres to strict routines, to noble pursuits and rigorous discipline. He is exactly as people say: a stoic, severe in both temper and countenance, condemning indulgence and deriding depravity.

Yet for all of his moral posturing, he does seem to have developed a taste for it rather quickly.

You couldn’t say the exact number of times the prince has had you, but it has been many, and often, and in every position imaginable, and you dutifully report it all back to your family. As they have instructed you to do.

Before you were sent off to the capital, you were relentlessly reminded that there will never again be an opportunity such as this. That a marriage to a royal prince is a rare honour for your family, and one that was only made possible because the crown finds itself at war. Your house is not a great one, and your father is not the noblest lord, but he is very wealthy. And on the field of battle, wealth does tend to triumph.

You do not know what other promises were made, what lands or titles were negotiated. Only that so much now depends on you; on your ability to please your husband and give him healthy children. Preferably male, but even a daughter would markedly strengthen your position. So you play your part as best as you can , and you pen your secret letters, divulging all the details of your intimate affairs. That the prince sleeps with you frequently, and seems to find great pleasure in it. That he performs his movements to completion, and expends his semen inside your body.

It is a grave responsibility to have on your shoulders, and you were utterly crushed when you woke to find your insides churning, and your sheets stained with blood.

They will be most displeased, your mother and father. Your brothers and uncles, and your cousins too. Prince Aemond's seed has not yet taken.

In the evening he knocks on your door. Two determined raps, and you are thoroughly surprised. Your maid will have told his mother of your ailment, and she will have told him, and he too must be disappointed. But you know it is the prince, for there is no one else who would visit you at this hour.

You know very well what he has come for, too.

“We can’t tonight,” you sigh.

“And why is that?” he says, amused, as if the idea that you would refuse him is ridiculous.

“My blood - I am bleeding.”

Prince Aemond hums, but he walks to your couch and begins to undress himself, unbuckling his doublet and unlacing his breeches, tugging off his boots while you wring your hands.

He can’t be serious. He can’t mean to take you like this.

“It’s not - it isn’t proper,” you protest. “Our maester said it is ill-advised - most men find it unclean - “

“I am not most men,” he scoffs.

There is no arguing against that, and he says it with all the confidence of someone who knows it to be true. Aemond is a royal prince. A dragonlord, a scion of a greater people. Second to no one but his king and brother, and if he wants to get himself all bloodied, then you suppose that is his right.

He rids himself of his undershirt, and you reluctantly move to the side to let him join you in bed. It isn’t proper, but your insides flutter when he pulls you against his naked body, letting you feel the warmth of his skin, his manhood against the back of your thigh. It is hard, and twitching when he runs his hands over your figure, your breasts and your stomach, your waist, your hips, the tops of your thighs -

“No, you mustn’t - ” you squeak, but he rucks your gown up anyway and slips his hand in between your legs.

You are wet there, with blood as well as with desire, and you can feel the stickiness when he spreads your lips, curving his fingers and sliding them back and forth along your slit. His breathing is hoarse just from caressing you, from feeling your wet, your warmth, your little swollen nub begging to be touched. You whimper when he circles it with the gentlest of strokes, light and teasing, until you arch your hips up in frustration and breathe oh please.

Prince Aemond likes it when you beg. Only then does he press down, but not enough to bring you to a peak. Just enough to make your insides tighten, and more blood gush from your womb.

You always did find it strangely beautiful, the blood of your cycle. Deep maroon, and scarlet red - but you are ashamed to see it coating the prince’s fingers when he withdraws them. It is thick, and clotted, and he takes a moment to study it before he wipes his hand clean on your shift.

“Are you not displeased with me?” you whisper. He should be, given that you have failed to conceive. That there is no way of knowing if you can bear children at all.

“One mere month is not cause for concern,” the prince says.

You breathe a faint sigh of relief. It is a comfort to know that at least your husband doesn’t hold your failure against you - yet.

He tugs on your shift, eager to expose your body, but you cross your hands over your chest.

“Let me keep it for tonight,” you plead.

You can’t rid yourself of the thought that you are unclean, and you would feel so much more at ease if he didn’t see your heavy, aching body. But you don’t want to entirely deny him access to it, either. Seeing as you are bleeding, the chances of begetting a child are small, which means that his wish to sleep with you must come from genuine desire rather than obligation. And that makes you very happy, as you imagine it would any wife.

You will make sure to include it in the next letter you send back home. Hopefully it will lessen their disappointment.

The prince looks somewhat displeased, but he lets you keep your dress, resorting instead to bunching it up around your waist. He is stern, but never cruel to you, even if he does pull at the neck to bare more of your breasts. He pinches your nipple, and then his hand moves downward again, and you throw your leg over his hip to give him more room to touch you.

This time he does it properly. His fingers find your pleasure right away, and he swiftly brings you to your rapture, impatient as he is to have you. It leaves his hand stained and tainted, and once again he wipes it off on your shift, but this time you don’t care.

With the position you’re in, it is easy for him to crawl over your leg and take his place between them, and he kisses you as he presses against you, deeply and hungrily, rocking his hips, his manhood throbbing and leaking between your legs.

Your parts are soaked, but he is careful when he pushes inside. Despite the prince’s relentless pursuit of knowledge, he must not know all that much about a woman’s blood, at least not in practical terms. Where it hurts, and how much, and whether this intrusion will make it worse. You can’t hold it against him - you don’t believe there are many scholars who would want to write about the topic, and how then was he supposed to learn?

“Harder,” you pant, and he obliges, moving faster and pushing deep inside.

You let him find a steady rhythm, hooking your legs over his hips, and letting your hands wander over his body while he has his way with you. You stroke his balls, imagining that what he keeps inside will take root in you. You pinch his nipples, all hard with pleasure, and you slide your hands down to his lower back, to the base of his spine, where the skin is dusted with downy hairs. Where you can feel each of his thrusts; the rolling movements of his hips, the rhythmic clenching of his buttocks.

Your dainty touch makes him shudder, and you move your hands to his arse, and then further still, slipping your fingers in between his buttocks. To where he is warm and tender, and where his skin starts to pucker.

It is filthy, the way he twitches there. The way he throbs. A dirty place to touch, and a sinful thing to do, but you have found that the prince likes it. No added pressure or attempts at entry, just gentle strokes with the tips of your fingers. Soft caresses over his opening.

He buries his face in your neck and groans, and you can feel that he is nearing his peak. His movements are fast and shallow, his chest heaving and slick with sweat.

“Yes, my prince,” you whisper. “Fill me with your seed, put a son inside me - “

He likes that. He hisses loudly, gripping the headboard for purchase, and you look up at him when his hips stutter. Prince Aemond’s face is always handsome, but never more than when he is on top of you, in the throes of ecstasy. His brow is furrowed and his eye squeezed shut, and the tension in his body makes the damaged side of his face convulse, his lip twitching up towards the scar.

He wouldn’t like for you to see that, but in this state he does not feel it happening.

You lie still as he peaks, allowing him to rut into you wildly, groaning and grunting as he spills his seed. Hot, and wet, and adding to the mess inside you. He lies limp on top of you to catch his breath, and when he finally withdraws, the blood is everywhere. On his softening organ, on his sack, and crusted to the soft hairs on his thighs.

“I’ve made you dirty,” you state.

“Yes, you have,” he says. “In more ways than one.”

You look the other way to give him some privacy when he rises to tidy and dress himself. On your wedding night he stayed with you until the morning, and he has done it a few times since, but it is not a common occurrence. Prince Aemond prefers to sleep alone, and your mother chastises you for that too. She says that to rouse a man’s desire is less than half the battle, and that you must make your husband love you.

Of course if it were really that simple, then there would be no unhappy marriages and no children born as bastards, and if you knew how to make a man fall in love, you would be the richest woman in all the world.

But you must at least try.

“Won’t you stay with me?” You ask. “It is - important, for a woman to be embraced - to be treated gently, afterwards…”

“Next time, I will,” he says. And that is the end of that, for you will not stoop so low as to beg for his company.

He smoothes out his shirt and pulls on his breeches, and you sit up and comb your fingers through your tangled hair. When you look down there are stains on your sheets, and a thick rosy fluid trickling out between your legs.

“You may want to abstain from riding,” the prince says over his shoulder. “It is known to upset the balance of the womb.”

You nod, bound to obey what is clearly a command posing as a suggestion.

“Did you know,” you muse, “that the blood of the womb is the only blood that is not born from violence?”

Prince Aemond looks at you with a thoughtful expression, one that suggests he had in fact not considered that before.

“Quite the philosopher you are,” he remarks, with a little raise of his brow. Coming from him, that is the highest praise.

It does not change his mind about staying, but he does press a noble kiss to your temple before he leaves you. Sore and bloodied, but content.

You did well tonight.

Notes

“Most men find it unclean/I am not most men” is from S1E7 of the Borgias.

“Menstruation is the only blood that is not born from violence and yet it’s the one that disgusts you the most” is a quote by artist Maia Schwartz. I couldn’t find any more information about her unfortunately.

Tags. @arcielee, @targaryen-madness.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond smut #aemond x you #aemond targaryen #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfic

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oxbellows · 2 days

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Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.

Written based on @emilybeemartin's spectacular Boromir Lives AU comics, with permission. I might write more, who knows.

My whole thought process here is this: if Boromir lives and makes it back to Minas Tirith, he is about to receive an absolutely ludicrous quantity of bad news. And I for one think it would be both plausible and hilarious for Pippin to be the one who ends up delivering that news. So here we are!

Trigger warnings for that whole pyre situation from Return of the King.

It was fitting, to Boromir’s mind, that the battle for Minas Tirith should be decided by dead men. So many had died for the city of kings already, their blood seeping into her soil like rain. Why, then, should her fate rest solely in the hands of the living? An unnatural justice rang out in the clang of steel against phantom blades, heralding the return of a hope long since given up for lost.

“None but the king of Gondor may command me,” the wraith hissed.

“You?” Boromir had roared. “You, Oathbreaker? I am the heir to the Stewards of Gondor. Generations of my kin have died for an empty throne. None but the king of Gondor may command ME. Here stands the king of Gondor before us, and you will suffer him as I have!”

And suffer him they did. Sickly green washed over the last armored oliphaunt as the dead claimed more souls for their own. Boromir pulled his eyes away from the spectacle and spun his sword in his hand, scanning the area around him for the next foe. He found none. Only the backs of retreating orcs, and weary Men attending to their fallen brothers. That and, out of the corner of his eye, the strangest possible trio of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf. Finding no enemy to engage, Boromir instead turned his step toward the strange trio to embrace his friends in the wake of victory.

Aragorn, king of Gondor, did not appear especially regal at the moment. He was covered in grime and gore, surrounded by the corpses of orcs left to rot in the open field. Gimli’s sturdy metal armor was slick with blood, and it dripped steadily off the edge of the axe that he had slung over one shoulder. Legolas, of course, was only as disheveled as he might have been after a short run, clean of the muck that covered the rest of them. His hair still fell properly at his shoulder, what witchcraft did the Elf use to maintain it?

Boromir could only imagine what he himself must look like. He knew that he was damp and smelled like death, which did not bode well for a lordly appearance. Nonetheless, even in all his heavy armor Boromir felt lighter than he had since childhood. The battle was over, fought now only by those straggling beasts that had not managed to escape the field on foot. Boromir was still, impossibly, alive, and so were his companions. So was his king.

The enemy may yet prevail, but Gondor would not fall before the White Tree bloomed again. It was more than his grandfathers had ever dared to hope.

“Is that blood in your hair or just its natural grease?” Boromir asked his king, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and stepping over the body of a fallen orc to approach him.

Aragorn laughed, raising one dirty hand to skim his fingertips over the top of his head. “I cannot say, Captain. I only know that in either case, I would wash it before I present myself to your lord father.”

Boromir clicked his tongue dismissively. “My lord father’s not the one we have to worry about. If my brother hears that I’ve brought Isildur’s heir home in such a state, he’ll throttle me.”

He almost continued speaking. He almost added, if he’s alive. Aragorn heard the unspoken caveat all the same. His dark eyes had a softness in them when he spoke.

“The battle is over, Captain of the White Tower,” Aragorn said. “We must turn our efforts now to the dead and wounded. May we not find you kin among them.”

If the taste of ash settled on the back of Boromir’s tongue, it could be attributed to the smell of Mordor’s filthy army laying dead at his feet, and not to the terrible image that flashed across his mind’s eye of Faramir’s bloodied and unblinking face.

“My father will be well,” Boromir asserted, determined not to speculate on his brother’s wellbeing. “He is past his time as a warrior. He will have commanded our troops from a place of safety within the walls.”

Aragorn inclined his head in assent. His hair really was a sight- black blood had matted chunks of it together, and where they stood now in the open field, with the sun just beginning to peek through the enemy’s unnatural bank of shadow, Boromir could see that his clothes were in much the same state. Perhaps this was why Aragorn so persistently favored black for his travel clothes. Were he wearing any other color, it would be obvious that he was as drenched in the blood of orcs as if he had bathed in it.

A warrior of staggering skill was this king of Men, but he preferred not to proclaim his deadliness to the world. He tucked it away into shadow until such skill was needed. Perhaps one day Boromir might look upon this man that he called brother and not be humbled by the mere sight of him.

Perhaps.

“I will search with a sharp eye, then, for Captain Faramir,” Aragorn promised.

Boromir closed the distance between them to grip Aragorn’s shoulder in thanks. Aragorn returned the gesture with ferocity, digging his fingers into the mail covering Boromir’s upper arm. Gimli thumped Boromir’s back in a heavy handed gesture of approval, and Legolas bowed his head with a coy smile. A river of unspoken words passed between the four of them, about great and important things like love and fear at the end of the world, and then they released each other. Aragorn turned his stride towards the Citadel to lend his knowledge of elvish medicine to the House of Healing. Legolas and Gimli set out together to help carry the wounded into the city for aid. Boromir made for the rocky outcrop at the city’s outermost wall, the one that archers favored for its vantage point. There he was sure he would find rangers, and hopefully news of Faramir.

The walk carried him past countless dead orcs and uruk-hai, but also more dead men and horses than Boromir had ever seen on a single field. For every pair of comrades he saw embrace in giddy relief, another wail of grief reached his ears from somewhere else. His mail grew heavier with every step he took.

Boromir had scarcely made it halfway to the archer’s outpost before he was stopped by the sound of his own name.

“Captain Boromir!” a familiar voice shouted. “You live!”

Boromir stopped and whirled about. There, about ten yards from Boromir, close enough to the outermost wall to be half-concealed in its shadow, crouched a man in a forest-green cloak. His hands still hovered over a fallen Gondorian soldier, as if he had frozen partway through checking for signs of life. Before the man in green rose to stand, he brushed a hand over the fallen one’s face, coaxing his eyes shut before stepping away. Boromir felt a dull pang of grief in his already overburdened heart at the confirmation that yet another of his countrymen was dead. He had no time to acknowledge that pain, though, as the man in green righted himself fully. The green cloak, brown leather vambraces, and longbow on his back all sparked immediate recognition.

Boromir knew this man, had met him before, but his weary mind failed to provide a name for him. It hardly mattered. The uniform he wore told Boromir everything he needed to know. Faramir had been clad exactly the same, the last time Boromir had seen him. This was one of the rangers of Ithilien, his brother’s own company. Hope swelled painfully in his chest. He hastened his step towards the ranger.

The ranger rushed to meet him and performed a quick, obligatory salute when they were close enough to speak comfortably. “My lord,” he greeted, breathless. “Your father thought you dead, but we in Captain Faramir’s company held out hope.” A wide grin split across his face. “You cannot imagine how sorely you’ve been missed!”

Seeing his smile finally dragged the ranger’s name to the front of Boromir’s memory. “Anborn,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you alive and well. Tell me, what news do you have of my brother?”

Anborn’s smile dropped, giving way to a look of naked concern as quickly as a candle being snuffed out. “I have no news, my lord, none that is not two days old at least.”

"Then give me the old news,” Boromir pressed, trying not to snap.

Anborn grimaced and nodded. “My lord,” he said, haltingly, “The last time I saw your brother, my Captain, was on the day he rode out to reclaim Osgiliath with a company of forty mounted soldiers.”

Boromir could only stare for a long moment, turning over Anborn’s words in his head to try and make them comprehensible. No clarity came to him. “My brother is- in Osgiliath?”

Another grimace. “If he is still there, he is dead.” Boromir’s lungs constricted and froze. Anborn continued, “Osgiliath was overrun more than a week ago. I’ve heard rumors that Faramir made it back to the Citadel, but I cannot say any more than that without inventing rumors myself.”

“The Citadel,” Boromir repeated. He forced breath into his uncooperative lungs. He would go to the Citadel, and he would find Faramir there with their father, incoherent with frustration after arguing strategy with Denethor. He turned on his heel and started walking. Anborn said something as Boromir strode away, but he didn’t hear it properly over the ringing in his ears.

What he had heard of Anborn’s words clamored in his mind- it sounded as if Faramir had taken a company of only forty men to reclaim an overrun city. That would be absurd, though. Faramir may be prone to bouts of melancholy and brooding, but he wasn’t suicidal. And even if he did, for some reason, decide to seek his own death, he would never bring any number of Gondor’s defenders with him to do it.

Your father thought you dead.

Boromir broke into a run.

Faramir didn’t hold sway over all their troops’ movements. Faramir wasn’t the Steward.

He was moving too slowly. Stumbling to a halt, Boromir grasped at the leather straps holding his pauldrons in place and did his best to unfasten them with numb fingers. Denethor had not been the same in recent years. The shadow in the east had darkened his thoughts, day by day, and set him talking as if the end were already here. His gray eyes had glinted in a way that Boromir scarcely recognized when he’d spoken of the One Ring. He’d never favored Faramir, never encouraged him the way he deserved, but the cruelty that had colored Denethor’s every interaction with his secondborn in the year or two before Boromir left shocked him.

Boromir’s pauldrons landed on the ground in a heap, and now he doubled over to escape the shirt of mail. It was a difficult task without taking off his sword belt, but he managed. He needed to be faster, but he could not bear to go unarmed. The chain links poured gracelessly down over his head, yanking his hair as they went, and then he was free. Boromir took off running again, now unencumbered.

Faramir would never plan a suicide mission.

Would he accept one, though, if he was ordered?

Boromir’s feet touched white marble bricks for the first time in months that had felt like decades. He did not pause. Shouts followed him as he went, calling his name or exclaiming surprise. Arches and edifices flew by overhead. Rubble littered the street. He caught glances of bodies crushed under great stones.

Boromir made it to the stairs. His weary legs burned and protested, but he dared not slow his descent. He needed to know where Faramir was, now. He needed to know what had happened in Osgiliath, before any more ideas had the chance to take root in his head. If he finished the line of thinking that Anborn’s news had set off-

Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.

So, he would not stop, and he would not think, until he found answers.

He reached the top of the stairs.

A small group of guards, maybe five or six, clustered together at the Citadel gate, all spoke over each other in urgent tones. Boromir could not hear most of their words over his own ragged breath, but he caught a few. He heard “Mithrandir” and “Witch King” and “wood”, and then, “Denethor.”

“Where?” Boromir barked. Every one of the men before him startled and turned to him with unabashed fear written across their faces.

If Boromir had looked a mess back on the fields, by now he must appear absolutely deranged. Half his armor gone, hair wild, white shirt drenched with sweat and blood- he could hardly blame the unsuspecting guards for the shock and confusion they displayed so brazenly at his question. Nor could he blame himself for the urge to grab the nearest one and shake him until he spoke sense.

Fortunately for all present, the guard furthest to the left, a man of slight and youthful stature underneath his plate armor, spoke up.

“The House of Stewards,” he said, voice trembling. He pointed in the right direction. “In the tombs. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.”

Boromir ran like he had never done in his life.

For what possible reason would his father and brother be in the tombs in the midst of battle?

He threw himself against the door to the tombs of his forefathers. They gave way with no resistance, and as he stumbled through the opening, he noted that the floor was dusted with splintered wood. This door had already been broken through. There he stopped short.

He could not, for the life of him, make sense of the scene before him.

In the center of the foyer, directly on top of Húrin’s memorial etching, were the remains of- a bonfire? Heaps of ash and charred wood covered the usually immaculate white marble floor, built up into a high, still-smoldering mound in the chamber’s center. The air reeked of smoke. Neither Denethor nor Faramir were in sight, nor was anyone else. The tombs appeared deserted.

“Faramir?” Boromir called warily.

A clang of metal and the scuffle of unshod feet on stone answered his call, and then-

“Boromir!”

A small form collided hard with his midsection, forcing him to take a staggering step back. Small arms wrapped around him like a vice, a familiar vice, and Boromir abruptly realized that he was in the embrace of a hobbit.

“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.

The young hobbit turned his face up to meet his gaze and a fresh wave of panic seized him. Pippin’s face was coated in ash and streaked with tears.

“Boromir!” Pippin cried again. “You have to help, Gandalf said that healers were coming but nobody came, there was screaming in the halls so I dragged him as far as I could but he’s heavy and I don’t know where Gandalf went and just- just- come here!”

The hobbit released his iron grip around Boromir’s waist in favor of clutching one of his wrists and started hauling him off to one side of the room, into a corridor of mausoleums. There, poking out of the nearest alcove, Boromir spied the lower half of a single black boot.

Pippin pulled him onward when his own pace faltered. With each step he could see more of the body that Pippin had apparently tried to drag to safety. A small, or rather, hobbit-sizedsword lay carelessly discarded on the floor beneath the alcove’s arching entrance where Pippin had dropped it. That would explain the clanging sound Boromir had heard just before being tackled, then. Which would mean that when he called out, Pippin had been guarding this archway with sword in hand.

Pippin’s relentless tugging finally forced Boromir to where he could see the stricken man on the floor.

It was Faramir.

Of course it was Faramir.

A rough, strangled sound echoed through the quiet tombs, and Boromir only realized a moment later that it had come from his own throat. Pippin darted from his side to kneel at his brother’s head, petting his hair and murmuring a soothing word. Faramir did not react in the slightest. He wasn’t dead; Boromir had seen enough dead men in his life to know with unfailing precision the difference between a dead body and a dying one.

No, his brother was not dead. He was only dying.

Boromir dropped to his knees.

In all this time that he had dreaded coming home and hearing that Faramir had fallen in battle, it had never occurred to Boromir that he might watch him die.

“He needs medicine,” Pippin pleaded, his little hand nestled in Faramir’s hair. Boromir now saw that the hobbit was dressed in the garb of the guards of Citadel, mail under a velvet tunic embroidered with the white tree. What had happened in his city? When had this barely-trained halfling become his brother’s last line of defense?

“Go,” Boromir rasped. He touched the hilt of his sword. “I will protect him now. Go to the House of Healing, down one level. Aragorn is there. He will listen to you.”

Without another word, Pippin took off at a sprint. Boromir and Faramir were left alone, together for the first time since Boromir had left for Rivendell.

Boromir wanted to scream.

Instead, he maneuvered himself carefully to sit at his brother’s side. How Pippin had managed to stash Faramir away in this little nook, Boromir had no idea. He could only just find room for himself against the wall without jostling the motionless body beside him. He reached a tentative hand out to lay it on Faramir’s forehead. He paused before he touched skin, momentarily stunned by the radiating heat. When his fingers settled on his brother’s brow, it was like touching metal that had been left in the sun too long. Faramir burned. Boromir gently smoothed his hand over damp hair.

It wasn’t just Faramir’s hair that was damp, actually. It was everything on him. His short beard, the finely embroidered collar of his tunic, the silk of his sleeves. If his fever was so high, it was not so surprising to find him coated in sweat. The choice of clothes, though, was undeniably strange. There was no blood staining the fabric. Had he not been hurt in battle, then? Had he simply been taken by a violent illness? Was there a plague in the city? That might explain the lack of gore but not the presence of finery. Boromir had only ever seen Faramir wear this tunic for ceremonies. He wouldn’t have put it on before battle, and he would certainly have taken it off if he were falling ill.

No, the only reasonable conclusion was that Faramir had not been the one to dress himself. A terrible, unspeakable suspicion wormed its way into his heart.

Boromir almost regretted sending Pippin away without first asking him what had happened to create this bizarre tableau. Almost. His answers could wait until Faramir had been brought safely into the care of physicians. He lifted his hand to stroke Faramir’s hair again, but the slickness that clung to his palm bade him pause.

That wasn’t sweat in his brother’s hair, it was something else, something more viscous. Puzzled beyond words, Boromir brought his hand close to his face to inspect it.

His palm was smeared with oil.

All at once, a dozen disparate fragments of information arranged themselves into nightmarish clarity.

Someone had dressed Faramir for a funeral. Someone had brought him into the place where the bones of their ancestors rested and covered him in oil. Someone had lit a bonfire in the center of the tombs.

Not a bonfire. A pyre.

Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.

“No,” Boromir whispered, as if he could prevent his next thought from taking shape.

Only one person in Gondor could do any of this without being stopped.

In the tombs, the guard at the gate had said. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.

Boromir launched himself upright, out of the cramped alcove, and was sick all over the marble floor.

For the second time in a day, Pippin found himself running for someone else’s life. At least he didn’t have so far to go this time. He could not remember ever being so tired. It was also fortunate that he knew already where to find the House of Healing. Gandalf had insisted he memorize the route there as soon as he’d made his oath to Denethor, which was a bit insulting, to be honest, but turned out very useful in the end.

The first time he’d entered the House, just a few days ago, he’d thought it was very full. Most of the rows of clean, simple cots had been occupied by rangers returning from outside the city. As he dashed through the sturdy oaken door now, though, he entered a different world entirely.

The cacophony of sound, smell and movement that surged up to meet him stopped Pippin in his tracks. The House of Healing was so crowded he could not see the far wall. He could barely see the nearest row of cots. Tall ladies rushed about in every direction, shouting orders to one another above a nauseating din of groans and cries. Pippin had been standing guard in a cloud of smoke for hours, and yet the onslaught of ugly and unfamiliar smells that accosted him here made him wish for the scent of smoke again.

His foray into the front lines of a battle had been terrifying. This place might be worse.

Boromir had said that Aragorn was here, though, and Pippin would walk headfirst into an army of orcs right now if it meant that Aragorn would help him. He never wanted to be in charge of anything, ever again, especially not trying to keep great lords and heroes alive. Aragorn was good at that sort of thing, he could take over now. Pippin took a deep breath and began forging a path through the chaos, calling Aragorn’s name as he went.

As he weaved his way through cots, ducking underneath outstretched arms and around long legs, Pippin heard questions following him that he had no desire to answer.

“How old is that boy? Who let a child in the guard?”

"Is that one of those halflings? The wizard’s pet or something?”

“Are you lost, little one?”

Some of these Men had the most terrible manners, clearly. Most of them were bleeding very badly, though, so Pippin could forgive them for their rudeness. He ignored them all and kept moving.

“Aragorn!” he shouted again.

A women that had been rushing by him paused for an instant to glare down at him. “Hush, you,” she scolded, in a voice that spoke of unquestionable authority. She wore a sort of veil with a nice brooch on it, so Pippin supposed she might be in charge here. “Lord Aragorn’s doing very important things right now and I’ll not have you disturbing him.”

Pippin’s heart jumped. “Where is he?” he asked.

The woman tsked and shook her head, making to continue along her original path. She held a bowl in her arms that Pippin was quite sure he did not want to see the inside of. Whatever it was sloshed unpleasantly when Pippin lurched after the women and grabbed a handful of her skirt to prevent her from leaving.

“The Steward has ordered me to fetch Aragorn! Show me where he is!” Pippin declared. He didn’t think it was a lie. Denethor was dead, so that made Boromir the Steward in his place, probably.

The woman gasped in surprise. “Lord Denethor lives?” she asked. “Wondrous news, we thought lord and son dead already.”

Pippin avoided the question about Denethor by standing up as straight as he could. “Lord Faramir needs medicine,” he said imperiously. “He needs Aragorn’s skill. Take me to Aragorn.”

With a quick hand gesture to follow and not another word, the woman took off walking at a brisk stride deeper into the crowded hall. Pippin had to run to keep up with her. After what seemed like a dozen maneuvers around clumps of people and cots, a figure clad all in black finally came into view.

“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief.

Aragon knelt at a young man’s bedside with a wet rag and bowl of water in his hands. He turned his face at once toward the sound of Pippin’s voice, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he did. Some of the panic that had been driving Pippin these last several hours faded away at the sight. If Aragorn was here, then surely things would get better now.

His relief faltered a bit when Pippin noticed that Aragorn was simply covered in blood- both red and black, and sweat, and grime that Pippin could not begin to identity. The Men gathered round him didn’t seem to mind Aragorn’s state, but then, most of them were splattered with blood as well, probably their own. Even Aragorn could not dispel the somber truth hanging in the air, that unimaginably many people had died today.

Faramir would join the dead soon if Pippin didn’t get a move on, so he marched past all those tall, bloodied Men to stand right at Aragorn’s side.

“Faramir’s dying,” he hissed, hoping he was quiet enough for none but Aragorn to hear. He didn’t especially want to deliver more bad news to the people in this room. “Boromir is with him, but he needs medicine, now.”

If Aragorn found this news distressing, he did not show it. He just nodded thoughtfully, and asked, “Can he walk?”

Pippin shook his head. Aragorn hummed an acknowledgment and rose to his feet. He handed the bowl and rag he’d been holding to another woman that Pippin hadn’t noticed before, murmuring something that sounded like instructions. He then spoke to the lady that had led Pippin, the one who seemed to be in charge.

“Ioreth,” he addressed her. “We have need of a stretcher.”

“It will be done,” she said, and turned on her heel to vanish back into the crowded hall.

Aragorn wiped his hands on his trousers to dry them. Pippin suspected he made them dirtier in the process. “Pippin,” Aragorn said. “Will you please lead me to Boromir and Faramir?”

“Yes, this way,” Pippin answered quickly. He was eager to be out of this terrifying place. He found it easier than before to navigate through the throng. He realized after a few moments of uninhibited movement that people were stepping aside to make way as soon as they saw Aragorn following him.

Had Aragorn already gotten around to being crowned while Pippin was busy? These people were certainly treating him like a king.

“Did you already become the King?” Pippin asked without thinking.

Aragorn chuckled dryly. “No, and I don’t think the lady healers would much care if I had. They care only that I know how to draw out the poison that covers many orcish blades, and that I’ve shared what I know.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.

Finally, the door came into sight, and with a quick burst of speed, Pippin flung himself back into fresh air. Mostly fresh, anyway, permitting for some lingering smoke. The smell of blood and death that lingered in his nostrils seemed even more vile when contrasted against another, cleaner scent, and it made him gag. Aragorn placed a sympathetic hand between his shoulders.

“The battle to save the wounded is the hardest and the bloodiest,” he said gently. “There’s no shame in being shocked by it.”

Pippin couldn’t quite speak yet, so he bobbed his head in a jerky, shaking nod. He allowed himself two deep breaths before turning his attention back to the task at hand. Right. Faramir. Shot full of arrows and nearly burned to death, currently stashed in a mausoleum, actively perishing of fever. He had to bring Aragorn there, and then maybe he could sit down for a moment. He set off again at a jog.

Aragorn, being unfairly long-legged, could follow him with a brisk walk. Pippin was growing weary of these big people, he really was.

Back over the same cold marble stone he went, retracing his steps to the tombs. Two men carrying a stretcher had started following them at some point- Pippin hadn’t noticed exactly where they came from, but the stretcher they carried was already stained with red, so he suspected that they had been going back and forth from the House of Healing for a while already. Aragorn let there be silence between them for several yards, but began asking questions as soon as they crossed under a crumbling archway.

“What happened to Faramir to leave him needing medicine?”

“He was shot at least twice, I’m not sure when. Sometime yesterday.”

"Where has he been?”

“Well, he got shot when he was fighting in Osgiliath, and then the horse dragged him back, and that probably made it worse, actually, but then Denethor put him away someplace for a day or so and then brought him into the tombs and tried to burn him alive.”

Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”

“Denethor lost his mind just before the battle started, he tried to burn Faramir alive on a pyre. And himself too, I think. He thought the world was ending.”

“Where is Denethor now?”

“He jumped off the wall.”

Aragorn took up walking again, now at a faster stride. “Boromir is with his brother now?”

"Yes,” Pippin confirmed, doing his best to keep up with Aragorn’s pace.

“Does he know what happened?”

That was a good question, actually. Had Pippin explained the situation at all? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember most of today, to be honest- it was all a blur of screams and fire.

He remembered the blinding panic he’d felt when heavy footsteps had entered the tombs. He remembered clutching his sword with sweaty hands and bracing himself to get torn to shreds by uruk-hai, and then abandoning his sword to hurl himself at Boromir once he’d heard the man’s voice. What had Boromir said, though? Anything? Had Pippin said anything?

He remembered Boromir dropping heavily onto his knees. The look on his face had been awful. He looked sad and scared and sick all at once. Pippin had never been sure what the word anguish meant, but he was sure now.

“I don’t think so,” Pippin finally answered.

Aragorn muttered something to himself, a string of elvish words that Pippin had never heard before. It sounded like what Legolas said when he missed a shot, though, so Pippin could wager a guess at what it meant.

At last, they reached the door to the House of Stewards. Pippin darted through, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Aragorn was still following. Through the foyer, around the smoldering remains of the pyre, down the corridor on the right, and there they were. The lords of Gondor. Not quite as Pipping had left them.

Boromir had extracted Faramir from the alcove where Pippin had dragged him to lay his brother out in the open. The fine silk tunic Faramir had worn lay in oil-soaked shreds scattered about the floor, and the mail shirt he’d had on underneath was similarly cast aside, half-obscuring a puddle of vomit near the entry to the alcove. Pippin was sympathetic- being in this place made him want to retch, too.

Faramir lay on his side in his undershirt. The fabric had been white once, Pippin knew, but blood, oil and ash had colored it through. Boromir knelt at his back, holding him steady by the upper arm with one hand and gently tearing the cloth of the ruined shirt with the other. The cloth didn’t move the way it should when Boromir tugged it. It stuck stubbornly to Faramir’s scorched upper back and shoulder, like it had been glued there.

Pippin gasped in horror as the realization hit him. Boromir couldn’t get Faramir’s shirt off because it was stuck to his burnt skin, fused in place by the heat of the fire. Had his skin melted? Could skin melt? The thought alone sickened him.

Boromir must have heard Pippin gasp, because his head snapped up to fix the hobbit with a wild stare.

Pippin didn’t usually think of Boromir as frightening. Fearsome, of course, but not to his friends. Certainly never to Pippin.

He looked frightening now. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny pinpoints. His lips were pulled back into an animalistic expression, somewhere between a grimace and a snarl, showing just a hint of teeth. His shoulders curled forward, hunching slightly over Faramir’s still form, and through his thin, damp shirt Pippin could see he was shaking with pent up energy.

When Pippin was younger, one of Farmer Maggot’s dogs had gone missing. They’d found the creature hiding under a shed, nursing a bleeding paw, growling and snapping at any hobbit that tried to approach. Boromir did not make a sound, but Pippin swore he could hear the same wounded dog’s growling all the same.

Pippin felt rather than heard Aragorn approaching from behind him, and it was a great relief when Boromir’s gaze flicked up off his face to fixate on Aragorn instead. With what seemed to be a tremendous effort, Boromir opened his mouth to speak.

“Where is Denethor?” he rasped, voice shaking.

Aragorn took a cautious step forward, moving in front of Pippin. He held his hands up, fingers splayed open, the way he did when trying to settle a spooked horse. “Boromir, my brother-” he began, voice soft and steady.

Boromir interrupted before he could take another step. “Tell me where my father is, Aragorn,” he croaked. “Tell me so I can find him and gut him.”

“He’s dead,” Pippin blurted. “He set himself on fire and then he went off the edge of the wall and died.”

Aragorn stiffened. Boromir’s jaw went slack. He heard gasps from the men carrying the stretcher behind him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken. Gandalf was always telling him something to that effect.

Boromir let out long, low groan and slumped in on himself, bowing his head so low his forehead grazed Faramir’s hair. He released the firm grip he’d been maintaining on his brother’s upper arm to grab fistfuls of his own hair instead.

Aragorn moved swiftly to kneel beside Boromir. He wrapped one arm around Boromir’s shoulders and pulled him into a lopsided embrace. Boromir went without protest, deflated and boneless against his king. Aragorn spoke to him, too softly for Pippin to hear, and coaxed him to shuffle backwards just a pace or two to create space at Faramir’s side. The two half-forgotten men with the stretcher between them seized their opportunity and swept in to gather Faramir up. Boromir twitched forward when they lifted his brother, but Aragorn held him back with a hand on his chest. With quick, synchronized steps, Faramir was taken out of the tombs.

Louder now, so Pippin could hear again, Aragorn spoke with real regret in his voice. “I must follow them. I promise I will give all the skill I have to make Lord Faramir well.”

“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.

Aragorn fixed him with a hard stare. “It will be ugly,” he warned. “I’ll have to cut the shirt off his back, and I expect much of his skin to come with it. If he wakes it will be to scream.”

“I know,” said Boromir.

“I would rather not find your blade shoved through my heart while I work.”

Boromir flushed. “I would not.”

Aragorn raised one eyebrow. “All the same, if you wish to follow, leave your sword at the door for my peace of mind.”

Boromir opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it and simply bowed his head in assent. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet and offered Boromir a hand up, which Boromir accepted without hesitation.

“Can I help?” Pippin asked, surprising himself.

Aragorn eyed him up and down. One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Yes, Pippin, I think you can help us all very much by staying at Boromir’s side and keeping him calm. If you have any more news to deliver, however, perhaps you could share it beforewe enter the House of Healing?”

Pippin recognized the admonishment for what it was and ducked his head, chastened. On the other hand, now that he mentioned it-

“Gandalf’s staff is broken,” he announced.

Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I see. Thank you, Pippin. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very well. If you think of something, take Boromir out into the hall and tell him.” Aragorn turned to Boromir and spoke sternly. “Boromir, if Pippin takes you out into the hall, I forbid you to pick up your sword until we have had a chance to speak.”

Boromir huffed out something very close to a laugh. “Wise council, my king.”

#@emilybeemartin #lotr fic #Boromir Lives AU

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bitchfaramir · 1 year

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Tolkien: "I think you misunderstand Faramir."

I think you misunderstand Faramir. He was daunted by his father: not only in the ordinary way of a family with a stern proud father of great force of character, but as a Númenórean before the chief of the one surviving Númenórean state. He was motherless and sisterless (Eowyn was also motherless), and had a 'bossy' brother. He had been accustomed to giving way and not giving his own opinions air, while retaining a power of command among men, such as a man may obtain who is evidently personally courageous and decisive, but also modest, fair-minded and scrupulously just, and very merciful.

I think he understood Eowyn very well. Also to be Prince of Ithilien, the greatest noble after Dol Amroth in the revived Númenórean state of Gondor, soon to be of imperial power and prestige, was not a 'market-garden job' as you term it. Until much had been done by the restored King, the P. of Ithilien would be the resident march-warden of Gondor, in its main eastward outpost - and also would have many duties in rehabilitating the lost the dreadful vale of Minas Ithil (Morgul).

I did not, naturally, go into territory, and clearing it of outlaws and orc-remnants, not to speak of details about the way in which Aragorn, as King of Gondor, would govern the realm. But it was made clear that there was much fighting, and in the earlier years of A.'s reign expeditions against enemies in the East. The chief commanders, under the King, would be Faramir and Imrahil; and one of these would normally remain a military commander at home in the King's absence.

A Númenórean King was monarch, with the power of unquestioned decision in debate; but he governed the realm with the frame of ancient law, of which he was administrator (and interpreter) but not the maker. In all debatable matters of importance domestic, or external, however, even Denethor had a Council, and a least listened to what the Lords of the Fiefs and the Captains of the Forces had to say. Aragorn re-established the Great Council of Gondor, and in that Faramir, who remained by inheritance the Steward (or representative of the King during his absence abroad, or sickness, or between his death and the accession of his heir) would [be] the chief counsellor.

from The Letters of JRR Tolkien, edited by Humphrey Carpenter, letter no. 244, a draft to a critical reader

#FARAMIR #eowyn #lotr #lord of the rings #tolkien #jrr tolkien #lotr meta

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lya-dustin · 3 months

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The Bedding

Cw: awkward sex, uncle/niece incest, superstitions regarding sex, lack of privacy slightly smutty

Westrosi bedding ceremony meets irl medieval ceremony

Aemond x Laenor’s Daughter!reader

@the-common-cowgirl

It had seemed like a perfectly good idea then.

With Rhaenyra’s eldest and only trueborn daughter as his betrothed and he now king after the disastrous battle of Rook’s Rest, it would remind everyone your remaining brothers were not true Velaryons and erase any doubt that whatever child he sires on you are legitimate.

The unlikely king had not accounted for the other traditions that went beyond undressing the bride and groom and having the High Septon bless the bridal bed.

He assumed the worst would be you flinching when he touches you while being forced into marrying him after he killed your brother and yet that pales to this.

“You must not ejaculate until you have reached a hundred thrusts, her grace must reach her climax within that time and your grace must make sure to remain standing during intercourse or else the babe will be female.” The maester who specializes in fertility orders him after having him inspect his manhood for any abnormalities.

It is a small comfort to know a midwife and his mother are merely giving you advice on the matter.

“I don’t think that is a proven thing, maester.” Cole looks almost as puzzled as Aemond at the strange orders he is being given.

“And how would you know, Lord Commander, did you receive a better education on the Dornish Marches?” the maester, a reach lord with a visceral disgust at anything Dornish throws back thinking the Lord Hand and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard would cower before him.

Most in court cannot accept the son of a Dornish Steward and a servant girl could take the place of Ser Otto Hightower, and yet Aemond refused to give him back his pin and office.

“Because unlike you, he has bedded women.” Aemond retorted in annoyance. “Let’s get this over with.”

He can hardly compliment you or even remove your shift to give you a proper wedding night with his mother, his grandsire, Criston and the Maesters hovering just over his shoulder.

His mother is brought some tea and sits behind a screen with the witnesses. Well, all except for the Maester who is kept from interfering by Criston.

Criston who had tried to impart his wisdom in the carnal arts by bringing in a whore yesterday evening and having her educate Aemond.

It wasn’t the same thing as this and no matter how much Aemond tries to make this pleasurable for you, you look uncomfortable, as if this was an unwanted chore.

“You may touch me, if you like.” You say and turn to look elsewhere and ignore his grandsire and his mother talking about the weather behind the screen.

He has done this before, touched you without spoiling your virtue and but then you showed some animation. The memory of how you used to sigh with pleasure as he lets a hand roam under your shift is a stark contrast to how you just lie there looking bored.

But the way your warm skin react to his touch, as awkward this all is, manages to betray you.

He’s lost count of his thrusting as you bite your lip when he begins to toy with your button like he’d done that last time before it all went to the seventh hell.

You try, and yet the tell tale signs of your enjoyment begin to peak out from your cool façade.

“Increase pressure in your thrusts after 70.” The Maester says and Aemond almost ignores it as he focused on making you come undone.

You shut your eyes and a low moan escapes you when he goes deeper into you and repeating the action until your fist bunched up the linen sheets you lay on.

His own pleasure builds up knowing he’s gotten you to forget your newfound loathing for him even for this moment.

He wants to lay in the bed with you, to take off your clothes and kick off his trousers and tell everyone else to fuck off and leave the room. Just the idea of fucking you in peace has him going mad.

“Gods, Aemond.” You almost cry as your body surrenders itself to the pleasure and he grows bold enough to ignore the audience behind him.

It doesn’t take long for him to climax even as the maester tries to stop him from coming before the final ten thrusts.

“My only consolation is that you too didn’t follow their advice.” You say as he rolls off you to lie beside you in bed.

“What was yours?” he asks reaching out to hold your hand, this time you don’t flinch.

“To lie back and think of Westeros.”

#aemond targaryen x velaryon!oc #aemma velaryon #aemond targaryen x velaryon!reader #aemond x reader #smut-ish #ewan mitchell

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acheronist · 4 months

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terror ship reviews now that i've had enough time to tell the scruffy white men apart

peglar/bridgens: canonical 'fucking that old man' unproblematic literature-as-a-flirting-tactic husbands. thank you so much.

jopson/little: admittedly perhaps the most 'they stood next to each other a few times' ship of all time. and yet!!!! genuinely an untapped goldmine of [ neither of us can fuck the captain but we COULD fuck each other as we die slow tragic unforgiving deaths, which is almost as good ] which i am unfortunately obsessed with

crozier/fitzjames: cishet bitter divorce to t4t loving marriage speedrun (scurvy acoustic remix) you do like to see it. They should have gone honeymooning in the Caribbean instead of doing all that

hickey/gibson: they're both so atrocious that theyre perfect for each other. real housewives of hms terror level psychosexual warfare going on there. great stuff.

tozer/little: they should fuck raw and nasty in the orlop narrative foils style while trying to kill each other

jopson/crozier: one of them needs to do bdsm or he will die and the other has chronic whisky dick + barely realizes his steward has a personality outside of polishing forks and sewing buttons

hickey/tozer: puppyplay where he gets taken out behind the canvas tent and put down like a sick animal (no aftercare)

armitage/tozer: puppyplay where he gets taken out behind the canvas tent to be kissed sweetly without prying eyes from fellow mutineers (with aftercare)

crozier/blanky: dudes rock + hell yeah brother

#the terror #one thing about me i'm gonna make a list no one asked for

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istaricelebelasse · 14 days

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There is a horn. It is nothing special, made from the tusk of some beast that Aredhel barely even recalls felling.

There had been many such beasts on The Ice after all.

The horn had found its way into her luggage and over so many restless nights watching over little Idril she had made it.

It does not compare to those that The Hunt had used in Aman, bound as it is with scant strips of leather and metalwork repurposed from a necklace that she could not wear on The Ice.

But it is hers. And it is precious, in a strange way.

She does not take it when she leaves her brother’s city. It remains, untouched, in her rooms.

It watches as she slowly fades from a poison bestowed by her husband.

The horn is given to her son, yet he has no use for it. A love of hunting and the great outdoors was not anything she passed on to her only child.

It is gifted to another, to a child borne of his cousin, a more precious gift than perhaps his cousin realises.

(One of the few pieces he has of his mother. A wish and a warning and an apology all at once.)

Somehow it survives the Fall. Somehow it ends up in Sirion.

It does not burn in the destruction. Nor is it taken by the Sons of Feanor as they take their hostages.

It lies, abandoned on the floor, until the King comes (too late) to the aid of the city.

There are too few survivors, but they can ill afford to leave any supplies behind. And besides, Gil-Galad can recall his cousin placing a strange solemn honour upon the hunting horn.

It sits, unused, until the Sons of Earendil are returned to their king, whereupon it, aged and yet bearing a presence is returned to them.

There is little argument over which of them gets that piece of their father when it is time for them to separate. The elder twin takes it, as he took their foster father’s sword. The younger is content with a silver harp and the book of their mother’s herblore.

Elros takes it with him. A symbol of his House, and honour for his heir to bear.

Down it goes, down down down the generations until there is little but a drop of Numenorian blood left in its bearer.

It crosses oceans and continents and Ages of the World, survives battles and sieges and the falls of Great Cities and Great Kings until all that is left is a Steward upon his throne sending a son to find answers for a dream.

Finally, on the shores of a river, overlooked by statues of the Kings of Old, the horn is blown for the last time.

It is blown to summon aid, to draw attention, to allow those it’s bearer would protect the chance to escape.

It takes three arrows to take down the horn’s bearer, and the Falls of Rauros to finally grant the horn rest.

The Horn of Aredhel Maeglin Earendil Elros Numenor Gondor is no more.

#horn of Gondor #silmarillion #lotr #aredhel #maeglin #earendil #elros #boromir #silm fic

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inhuman-obey-me · 9 months

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True Forms: Sides + New Characters

Once upon a time, long, long ago, we wrote some true demon forms for the demon brothers. And we had so much fun with it that we've returned with a follow-up! Now featuring not only demons but also some angels, a reaper, and one immortal "human" sorcerer.

No in-between forms for MC's sake this time though -- we die like men being driven mad by unspeakable, incomprehensible horrors.

Like before, content warning for unsettling, eldritch descriptions and body horror.

DIAVOLO

The Crown Prince of the Devildom doesn't often go into this true form -- it's incredibly dangerous, and if you see it, you might as well already be in your grave.

The first thing that hits you is the scent of sulfur and burning, so strong that you feel like you're choking on it, suffocating even though there's no smoke to be seen.

There is, however, plenty to be seen of him, as his form is utterly massive -- every direction you look, he seems to stretch infinitely around you, no end in sight to his immense presence.

To his sides, sparks and flashes of gold and darkness alternately flicker off of black flame wings as they languidly float back and forth behind him, singeing the very air they occupy.

The rest of his body mostly transforms into that of a dragon, much like the ornament you normally see upon his chest, covered in brilliant triangular golden scales except for the glowing red orb at his center.

The orb pulses like a heartbeat, and in it, you see yourself -- no, rather, you see a distortion of yourself, all the corruption and cruelty that hides in your very core laid bare before your eyes.

Meanwhile, fire roars everywhere, filling every open space around him and spiraling into a grand crown upon his head.

Despite the noise of the flames, however, his commanding voice can be heard clearly, a low rumble like the roar of a dragon yet distinctly regal and elegant in its tone.

On his chest, the black marks you see in his more humanoid demon form expand and twist outward, hypnotizing you as they wrap like vines around your body.

You hardly even notice as they capture you in a world of complete darkness -- darkness that overtakes not just your senses, but your mind, your soul, your whole existence, like a fire that burns away everything until there's nothing left in you but the abyss, all else turned to ash.

BARBATOS

To witness the true form of the ever loyal and capable steward to the Crown Prince of the Devildom, your fate is already sealed -- one of demise and ruin.

His body shifts and stretches, and stretches, and s t r e t c h e s -- you cannot see where, or if, he ever ends -- like time itself.

His body resembles that of a dragon -- though not the same of his master, but those creatures known across the human world as the lóng, the ryū, the druk, the nāga.

His face blurs, rots, melts -- bits of bone showing through flesh and one eye now just an orb of empty, everlasting black.

The spindly, web-like horns that grace his head grow thicker and longer, the talon-like ends even sharper than before.

Whiskers sprout from his face that are slick and forked at the ends, like his more humanoid-demon form tail, an electric buzz sparking at the end of them.

The scales along his body are black and teal, that familiar lightning pattern reflected in some while you catch glimpses of other universes as they gleam.

It is then that you notice you are slowly being buried in sand -- it cascades off his body, from the ridges in his back and gaps between those captivating scales.

Time itself seem to distort around him as he swims in the air, the very fabric of space rippling and warping against his form.

When he opens his mouth to roar, all that can be seen is a void of space inside, an all-consuming black hole.

There is an awfully maddening absence of sound, the very weight of silence seemingly suffocating and crushing you as you try to gasp for air.

The longer you stare into his face, his form -- the more you get lost and trapped across universes, seeing every branch of time lay itself out before you, over and over and over and over...

Your soul will be trapped forever in that endlessness, true death never taking hold as no reaper can ever reach you to claim it.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Every ghost story about haunted suits of armor originates from the true form of Mephistopheles.

In this form, he truly represents his noble heritage as proud knights tasked with defending the royal family -- grand, intimidating, gallant.

From afar, he seems exactly like those stories, an empty suit of golden armor with eerie peridot green lights glowing as eyes through the helm.

Atop this helm, a showy plume of magenta feathers swoops in a proud arc, and from his back, a grand set of opalescent, translucent feathered wings stretches impossibly wide.

Each flap of these wings creates torrential whirlwinds, tornadoes that tear destructively through entire cities in their path, leaving nothing but ruin in their wake.

Up close, however, it becomes clear that the armor is hollow because he is the armor -- though he usually keeps most of them closed for protection, eyes of green and magenta can emerge all over the gleaming metal plates.

Also dotting the plates are various gems and precious crystals, embedded throughout as if daring someone to come close enough to try to steal them, tempt them as demons so notoriously do.

Every movement, too, deafens with the cacophony of jewels crashing against coins, ringing out for miles and miles around him.

Looking upon this form always makes you feel slightly off, as though he's not standing quite straight, which in turn makes you feel slanted as if constantly slipping down sideways.

However, it's best not to look at all, as gazing upon him melts your flesh away to pools of thick, smooth black ink which indeed would make you slip and fall.

Before one would fully melt away, he opens up to consume any potential wearer of the armor, crushing them inside and using their bones to reinforce the strength of the metal.

Because of this, streaks of ink are always running down the seams where the armor opens, dripping endlessly in deep pools everywhere he goes.

LUKE

Before Luke descends as an angel, a soft smell of grassy sunlight fills the air, and you feel a gentle breeze pick up alongside you.

The sound of bells chimes softly as if rung by this breeze, though no bells can be seen.

Slowly, bursts of tiny stars shimmer into view as if creating a veil from which the angelic child steps forth.

Once he has appeared, the stars gather in small clusters, dancing around him as if engaged in a waltz.

Being a lower-ranking angel still, his form is generally humanoid and looks much like the Luke you know and love.

However, his shape looks more unstable at the edges, buzzing and shaking like a Chihuahua.

Though most of him is covered up by his Celestial garb, you notice eyes peeking out from between the folds, gazing up at you unblinkingly, staring right into your soul.

The eyes on his face, on the other hand, remain peacefully closed, as though you're looking upon a child asleep.

As he delivers his message, the scent of wheat and honey drifts from him, filling the air around you.

Although this form does no harm to you to look upon, you get the distinct feeling that you would fall into endless despair if you were to fail him.

Michael likes to send him to would-be runaways for this reason.

RAPHAEL

Though he may be the youngest of the seraphs, his form is no less grand and imposing.

You hear him before you see him -- the melody of a flute, a tintinnabulation, mixed with an enchanting voice singing words in a tongue you cannot comprehend.

Six large wings surround him, feathers light grey with the same iridescent sheen found on those of homing pigeons, spanning far and wide.

Where his face might be instead are twisting golden rings filled with eyes, swirling in a mesmerizing pattern that captivates you.

His arms, too, are made of a stack of metallic rings that mirrors armor, though no flesh resides within them, and interlock with the shapes of diamonds and spades.

Various chimes hang off like tassels at various points along those metallic arms, ringing endlessly.

In place of his torso is an opalescent crystal ribcage, though there are no organs for it to protect.

A number of spears, pointing downward and outward, fan around his bottom half, with needles circling golden thread around the spear "boning" -- making his bottom half resemble a cage hoop skirt.

Above the swirling rings of his face rests a halo, made up of floating spear tips, sharp and deadly.

And behind him, around him, are more rings that are linked in circles like an atom, so numerous that they are reminiscent of chainmail, all while swirling at dizzying speeds.

Surreal light emits from every element of his form -- every ring, every feather, every pointed end -- giving him an unsettling and ethereal glow.

Anger him in this form, and the mix of melodies becomes mind-numbingly discordant and cacophonous while numerous spears glisten with their sharp ends pointed towards you, ready to strike.

SIMEON

When Simeon was a seraph, his form shared a number of features with that of Raphael's: twisting golden rings for a face, an iridescent crystal ribcage, the stacks of rings for arms, and that surreal, unsettling light emitting from every element.

However, his form differed greatly as well -- his halo was actually an ouroboros, dotted with eyes peering into your very soul and lined with large, long spikes.

His six wings were not made of feathers but of fire, their flames a striking and dangerous blue -- four flanking his back, while the other two surrounded his head of twisting rings, protecting his face with their chaste embers.

His "legs" were composed of crystal shards, slowly twisting and catching the light to create a constant prismatic display.

Past the faint crackling of flames and metallic sonority, you could hear a soft and distant harp that lulled the senses.

His seraph form somehow evoked both a sense of serenity and a gnawing, unnerving sense of dread.

Since his demotion to archangel, however, his form is a bit different -- more telluric, more humanoid, with wings more traditionally white and feathery at his back.

The delicate music of the harp that used to accompany him is gone, now replaced by the brash announcement of trumpets.

His more exquisitely airy elements have become more earthen, those radiant crystal pieces composed now of jagged rock and gleaming metal instead.

So too do fragments of steel float around and over his right side, resting upon his shoulders like a cape flowing gracefully from shining pauldrons.

Drifting idly just past his fingertips, a sword rests across his form, long and thin, both a tool and yet inherently part of him, dancing easily at his command and always ready to strike.

Each metallic sliver is dotted with eyes, peering and watching over you, at once benevolent and yet you can feel them -- watching you, judging you, sharply observing every move you make.

Another eye watches as well, from above, gazing serenely from the center of a spinning seven-pointed star which serves as his head.

There are no other facial features to speak of, but the look in that single blue orb expresses all there is to understand.

Though his voice rings clear in your mind with any message he may have from above, you can see your fate clearly from the moment your eyes connect with his gaze.

THIRTEEN

As a reaper, there is no question of death's approach when Thirteen transforms into her true form.

You become aware of long, low bells in the distance -- for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

From the moment you hear that very first clang, you cannot move, an icy chill washing over you and leaving you frozen in place.

However, it is not fear that you feel, but instead an odd sense of peace that overtakes your mind and makes the world around seem distant and hazy.

All light fades from view except the eerie blue flame of the candle she carries in one hand, along with the vivid green fire that takes the place of one eye.

Through the flickering light, you can see where bones replace flesh -- a half jaw, a sharp cheekbone, a partially exposed ribcage.

Her other eye seems to become more reptilian in nature, scales surrounding her brow bone and the hollows of her cheeks, jagged and harsh.

Her teeth are sharp and large, the exposed jaw making it appear as if they are locked in a menacing grin.

Gauze wraps around her neck, dark ichor seeming to seep through it and drip onto her chest and into the hollow of her ribs.

She floats towards you, no legs to be seen as she rolls atop mist and fog that sprawls ever outward, reaching the edges of your vision.

Within that mist you catch a glimpse of fluttering iridescence -- butterflies, their wings part black and shining with opalescent darkness.

No longer does she wear the tattered black robes so often thought as the reaper's uniform -- instead, long pieces of black chiffon, tulle, and mesh twist around her form, giving the illusion of a cloak.

Long, sharp claws wrap around her scythe, its blade broad and keen -- but it shimmers in the light, its form malleable and able to transform into whatever the reaper so desires.

However she decides to capture your soul, the last thing reflected in your eyes will be the blue flame of the candle extinguished, its wax melted away with the end of your life.

SOLOMON

Hello, my adorable apprentice

What's wrong? Don't you recognize me?

It's me, Skeletiano Solomon

The true form of an immortal human sorcerer is...

Yeah this seems right

Right?

406 notes · View notes

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 6 months

Text

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 10: Blame Everyone But Me For This Mess]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), Aemond-induced chaos, death and destruction, witchcraft! 🔮

Series title is a lyrics from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “I’ve Got a Dark Alley and a Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Only 3 chapters left! 🥰💜

“Aemond!” he roars into the cerulean midday sky, knowing it is useless, that fate has already spoken.

All his life, fate has proven Criston Cole wrong. He once believed he could not rise above being born to a steward in the Dornish Marches. He once feared he would never be permitted to join the Kingsguard. He once felt in his twisting, self-loathing guts that he would never love any woman but Rhaenyra. And Criston once knew—without reservation, without complexity—that Alicent’s eldest son would never amount to anything worthwhile, could never be courageous, self-sacrificial, competent, a true king. Each time, fate had a different ending in store.

All around him, Green soldiers are dying in what will be known to history as the Butcher’s Ball. They are being slit open, disemboweled, crushed beneath the hooves of warhorses, stabbed and clubbed and speared. The Northmen have scorpions with them as well, with massive bolts to bring down dragons; but they are unnecessary. There are no dragons on the battlefield today.

Criston pictures Aemond as a boy, always so sullen, always so dutiful. He read and he wrote and he sparred in the castle courtyard until the blisters on his palms burst and bled and then turned to callouses, knots of dead-nerved scar tissue that grew over his wounds but never cured them. Criston did not just believe in Aemond’s abilities, his honor; he was certain of these things, he carried them as interminably as the lines in his palms. Criston knew Aemond and Vhagar would be the saviors of the Greens in this war. He knew Aemond would be here.

But he’s not. He’s just not, and there’s nothing I can do to bring him.

Cregan Stark is cutting through the Greens’ men. He is not a soldier, he is a force of nature, he is a thunderstorm or a famine or a rogue wave, he is winter coming to rip the trees bare and bury the weak in frostbitten earth. Arrows are loosed by the Northmen’s archers, lethal hissing rain. One hits Criston in the shoulder of his sword arm. Another pierces him through the small of his back, severing his spinal cord and dropping him to his knees.

Through the fray, Cregan sees the Kingmaker. He wants him, he wants Criston’s blood on his blade, his hands, his face; and what the Warden of the North wants, he is never denied.

Alicent, Criston thinks, and he remembers her lying in bed after giving birth to Aegon. She was a girl, just a girl, pale, sick, in terrible and unspoken pain, never the same in body, forever darker in mind, alone in a room full of tapestries of her husband’s house as the court celebrated her newborn son. She knew she had been used. She knew this was her life and always would be, a wheel that goes around and around and crushes the same bones until they stop mending, until the misery and desperation becomes so much a part of you that you could almost forget it’s there. It’s your shadow, it’s your religion, it’s a sigil or a ring.

I suppose now I have something to live for, Alicent had said, and Criston sat on the edge of the bed took her small, cold hand in his own. He raised her knuckles to his lips and answered: I swear to you that I will always protect him. That I will never let him die.

Here in the Riverlands as Cregan Stark descends upon him, Criston looks up again and sunlight spills over his face, warm and kind and golden; but the sky is still empty.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the gardens of Dragonstone, on a bench carved out of gloom-grey basalt, you pull Aegon’s legs into your lap and roll up his loose cotton trousers to inspect them: scars that have knit shut the gashes bones once cut through, muscle mass that is slowly building itself back again, good circulation, able to carry him if only for short, hard-fought distances. You have bled twice since Aemond flew back to the Riverlands to seize Harrenhal. Here under flinty autumn skies and pine trees that sway in brisk wind that smells like saltwater and metal, you think that perhaps the earth is done giving things. This is the time for harvests, not blooms. This is the season of endings, long nights full of cold stars, firelight, reaping.

“Stop,” Aegon says gently. He’s clutching a thick wool blanket around his shoulders. He’s always cold now, pale and shivering. His silvery hair hangs in untamed waves around his face adored with only a single small braid that you weave for him each day. “I don’t want you to do it.”

No; he only wants the maesters to see his weakness, his suffering. “I like taking care of you. It’s the only thing I’m good at. It’s how we met, remember?”

“Oh, I remember.” Now he smiles. “I have no idea what you saw in me.”

“An exemplary cock, mostly. Better than any in my medical books.”

Aegon laughs, a sound you rarely get to hear anymore. Then he is grave again. His hair blows in the gales that roll in off the ocean; his eyes, a tumultuous blue like waves in a storm, are ringed by shadows. “Angel, listen to me.” He places a hand over yours where it rest on a knot of scar tissue just below his kneecap. “If I don’t…” He pauses, and you think as you look at him: He’s nothing but scars now, he’s nothing but pain that is calloused over but never forgotten. “If I’m not here when the war is over, I want you to know that you’ll still be protected. Aemond knows. Larys knows. You are to be provided for. You will reside only where and with whom you choose to.”

“Why wouldn’t you be here?”

Aegon shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “We should be realistic.”

“You’ll be here. You have to be.”

Aegon stares into a thicket of rose bushes, blood-red petals and twisted thorns. And he says faintly, like something a strong wind could carry away: “I’ll try.”

“We’re winning, Aemond and Criston and Daeron and the Greens’ armies. They might have won already and we’re just waiting to hear the words. Aemond will end the war and then we’ll all be together again in King’s Landing.”

Aegon gives you a wry smirk as you roll back down the legs of his trousers, concealing his roadmap of harm. “A man like Cregan Stark would not be such a disappointment. He would be able to ride into battle. He would not have compelled you to bloody your own hands. He would not be feeble and deformed.”

“It can’t be anyone but you.”

Overhead, half-shrouded in mist, there is an immense reptilian shadow and a rumbling like the earth splitting in two, cracked and forced apart by eruptions of steam, lava, trapped toxic heat. Gingerly, Aegon returns his boots to the earth, stony and barren. He winces and groans before he can bite it back to hide it from you.

“I’ll go,” you tell Aegon, skimming your fingers through his hair and touching your lips to his temple. His wave-blue eyes are watery, grateful. “Stay here. I’ll bring him to you.”

You hurry through corridors and down spiral staircases, watched by dragons of iron and stone with fire burning in their mouths. And of course, there is more than one reason why you want to greet Aemond by yourself. You don’t know what he will say to you; you don’t know if he’s still angry. But when he strides through the entranceway of the castle to meet you—his hair in one long white-blond braid, his black coat billowing around him in the sharp wind—he is not alone.

There is a woman with him.

“…Aemond?” you say, staring at her: hair like onyx, skin like snow. She grins at you beneath eyes that are pools of ink, dark and glassy and with hardly any whites. You do not believe she intends to unnerve you; still, there is a blade-cold shudder that tumbles down the rungs of your spine.

Aemond replies with pride that is hushed, pure: “This is my wife.”

“Your…?” You cannot look away from her. Her gown is black lace with long, dragging sleeves and a train that curls around her like a dragon’s tail. You can see glimpses of her starlight skin through the fabric, her forearms, her waist, her thigh. Isn’t she cold? You are wearing heavy velvet, pine green like Aegon’s banner, and still the impending winter needles at you. “Who…?”

Lord Larys Strong arrives, his cane tapping on the stone floor. When he sees the woman, he jolts to a halt and gawks. “Alys?”

“Hello, brother.” Her voice is deep, smooth, melodic. She speaks the language of ocean currents, roots in dark fertile soil, the revolving of the stars.

You turn to Larys. “Who is this?”

“A bastard daughter of my father,” Larys answers, slow and disbelieving. “Alys Rivers. She…she was at Harrenhal, last I saw her…years ago…”

“And now she is here with me,” Aemond says. “She is precisely where she belongs.”

Silence fills the room, the world, the space that has opened up between you and Aemond. Wife? Bastard? Harrenhal? At last, you manage shakily: “Aegon is in the gardens. He’s waiting for you.”

“Good,” Aemond says. He wears something you have never seen on him before: not just pride but serenity, consolation, contentment. “There is much to discuss.”

As slate-grey wind whistles through rose thorns and cranberry bushes, you and Larys step out into the gardens with your uninvited guests. Aegon’s eyes snag on Alys, widen, and then dart to you. He mouths: Who the fuck is that? You shrug, bewildered.

Aemond says: “Allow me to present my wife, Lady Alys Rivers of Harrenhal.”

“Your wife?!” Aegon exclaims, like he couldn’t possible have heard correctly. “Your wife?!”

“Yes.” Aemond’s arm snakes around Alys’ waist. She folds into him, palm to his chest, lips to his throat, something creeping and boneless like ivy or mist or smoke. “You’ve had two now. I’ve only just found mine.”

“Rivers,” Aegon echoes incredulously. “A bastard from the Riverlands.”

Larys notes: “One of my father’s natural children.”

“A Strong bastard?!” Aegon cackles and looks to Larys. “Where is Daeron presently? Can he be summoned here? He should see this.”

“It is no jest, Your Grace,” Aemond says calmly. “It is a true pairing of souls.”

“And you were not at liberty to give yours. You have to marry Borros Baratheon’s daughter. That was the deal, that’s why he has pledged his army to us.”

“Daeron can do it.”

“Daeron won’t be old enough to marry for years, and that’s not the point! This is a slight, an egregious slight, to reject a Baratheon noblewoman in favor of a…a…what was she, a serving wench? A wetnurse? What happened to your pathological obsession with self-righteous duty? And why aren’t you and Vhagar with Criston?! Is this what you’ve been doing for the past six weeks while I was trapped here, suffering and useless? You’ve been hiding in the crumbling towers of Harrenhal with your so-called wife? What was so fucking crucial that it kept you from the battlefield—?!”

“She carries my son,” Aemond says.

A gasp spills from you before you can silence it; Lord Larys covers his mouth with one hand. Aegon stares numbly at his brother, not warring with envy or spite but raw astonishment. This is an asset to the Greens, it is a detriment, it lifts a burden from his shoulders, it imperils all of you. “You have no way of knowing what it is yet.”

“I know. We know.”

“And why have you flown to Dragonstone?” Aegon demands. “To torment me with your disobedience, to illustrate so vividly how all that relentless, calculated striving has finally cracked your brain in half—?!”

“No.” Aemond glances to you. “Something has happened. And I wanted to be here in person to deliver the news and…express my condolences.”

“Condolences?” you say, fearful, alarmed.

“Lord Larys will not have received word yet,” Aemond continues. “It has only just transpired. But Alys has seen it.”

Aegon shakes his head. He doesn’t understand. “Seen it…?”

“She sees things. The future, the past. Not every detail, but some of them. She’s seen Mother in the Red Keep, a prisoner but still alive. She’s seen Jaehaera safe and well at Storm’s End. The child has a protector, though Alys isn’t sure who.”

“She’s a witch?” Aegon says flatly. “This bastard Strong woman that you have taken to wife is, among all her other deficiencies, a witch?”

And Alys answers in a voice like the night sky, dark but threaded with glimmers of stars, moonshine, comets: “I am a woman who lives between two worlds. Your Angel is much the same, I think.”

Aegon blinks at her, not entranced or awed but fighting the instinct to flinch away.

“There have been riots in King’s Landing,” Aemond says.

“Yes, obviously. Everyone is aware of that. I think the Wildlings north of the Wall have heard.”

Aemond ignores the jab. “The Master of Coin, Lord Bartimos Celtigar, was travelling through the city in a carriage when…” He trails off, uneasy. He glances at you again. His sole remaining eye—river-blue and without any malice—shimmers with grim compassion.

“What?” you say. “What happened?”

Aemond speaks to Aegon in words you cannot comprehend, swift ageless High Valyrian.

Aegon sighs testily. “Slower. Enunciate.”

Aemond tries again. Aegon repeats a certain word, unable to decipher it. Aemond offers him several others, what you can only assume are synonyms.

Aegon’s face goes even paler, the last of the blood draining out of his cheeks. Then he reaches out a hand to you. “Come here,” he beckons softly.

“Why?”

“Angel, come here now.”

“They killed him, didn’t they?” you ask Aemond. Your voice is trembling, icy, choked. He was an architect of Rhaenyra’s war effort, but he was your father first. He was a beast with blood on his hands, but now you are too. “The common people hate Rhaenyra and they hate my family. So they murdered him.”

Alys says: “They did not just murder him.” And she is not taunting you, though she grins like she might be; she has lost pieces of what it means to be human. She is no longer fluent in anything as trite as sympathy or decorum. Her obsidian eyes gleam, polished, glowing. Her long black hair blows in the wind. There are raven feathers in it, you notice now, and twigs, pine needles, earth, sand, ashes. “They bound and tortured him, they sliced off parts of him to keep as relics, they rode on horseback through the streets swinging his severed head and cock as they celebrated an end to all taxes—”

“Will you shut the fuck up?!” Aegon shouts at her. “Angel, please, come here.”

“Your brother was there too,” Aemond says solemnly.

Yes, of course he would be. He was always Father’s favorite. “Clement,” you whimper, pressing a palm to your chest. Your lungs burn as they drink down chill autumn air that cuts like a blade.

“No,” Aemond says. “The other one.”

“What?” No. No, that can’t be true.

“Not Clement,” Aemond insists. “It was the other brother. The burned man.”

No. No no no. I can’t believe it, I won’t believe it.

“Angel,” Aegon pleads, still reaching for you.

“Everett,” Alys says, dreamy, not knowing how cruel it feels, like splinters of glass beneath your skin instead of arteries and muscle, like shattered bones. “He was not difficult for them to catch. He could not run.”

Your words escape in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t believe you.”

Alys offers her hands. They are long, lithe, white like a skeleton’s. “Would you like to see?”

“No.”

“I can show you. Then you will trust what I say.”

“Alys, my love,” Aemond warns.

“No, you’re a liar,” you snarl at her. “You’re not a witch, you’re not some prophet, you’re just a liar and I don’t believe you—!”

And before you can flee she’s crossed the space between you, she’s gripped your wrist with those slender claw-like fingers, she’s pouring her magic into you like poison down a prisoner’s throat. The vision surges into your skull and fills it, sight and sound and scent: Everett screaming as he is dragged from the carriage, the hoard ripping at his clothes and his eyes, dull kitchen knives pulled from pockets, the coppery ether of blood in the air. You can feel the feverish heat of the crowd. You can feel their boiling-over animal rage. You can feel everything, but you can’t stop it.

Beyond the grisly mirage, you can hear yourself shrieking, muffled and distant; and you can hear someone else bellowing for Alys to let you go. Her hand is yanked off of your wrist and you are abruptly back in the gardens of Dragonstone surrounded by indomitable flora that warps and tangles and endures. You are kneeling on the cobblestones, tears flooding from your eyes. Aegon is on the ground with you, his arms circling around your waist. He is calling Alys a bitch, a monster, a demon. He is threatening to feed her to his dragon.

“Forgive me,” Alys says to you, peering down with a vague sort of regret etching lines into her brow. “I did not intend to cause any distress. I only meant to help you understand.”

Aegon seethes at Aemond: “Take your witch back to Harrenhal.”

“No,” you protest; and Aegon studies you, puzzled, as you gaze up at Alys, this half-human phantom that dwells between realms, something like a dark mirror image of an angel. “What else have you seen?” Tell me Aegon lives. Tell me the Greens win and we have a chance at a better world one day. Tell me this was all worth it.

“She has seen Daemon and Caraxes meeting me at the Gods Eye,” Aemond says. “She has seen me taking flight to join them in battle.”

Aegon is stunned. “When?”

“Soon. Three days from now.”

You sob, thinking of Everett; and Autumn too, wherever she is, who will reappear when the war is over searching for home but forever unable to find it. Aegon holds you and you pull yourself into him, arms slung around his neck. His silver hair brushes your face; his scarred right cheek is rough against yours. When you breathe in violent hitches, you inhale rose oil and wine and salt and warmth and misery, you taste the war that built him and now has returned to claim the debt.

“It’s Rhaenyra’s fault,” Aegon whispers, fierce and merciless. “We will kill Daemon and Cregan Stark. We will retake King’s Landing and capture Rhaenyra. And I swear to you that she will burn.”

Aemond is saying: “Do we have permission to stay the night or not? We’ve traveled a long way. My wife is tired, and so is Vhagar. Another flight so soon would tax her.”

“You can swim,” Aegon pitches back.

Lord Larys Strong—ever servile, ever composed—clears his throat, both hands resting on the handle of his cane. “Would anyone care for some soft-shelled crabs?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Mist hangs heavy over the castle the next morning, a cool metallic grey like steel; the sun is muted, only a wisp of itself, a memory that is swiftly fading. Alys Rivers stands in the surf fetching seashells and stones that she plinks into a basket. Locks of her long, wild hair dip into the roiling water and emerge sopping and heavy, sticking to her ink-black gown. Aegon is curled up with Sunfyre at the edge of the beach. The dragon breathes with rattling, labored heaves and Aegon pets his golden face, wishing the beast’s wings to knit themselves back together and his own legs to be strong again, murmuring to Sunfyre in some clumsy patchwork of High Valyrian and the Common Tongue to assure him that he’s served his king well.

You and Aemond walk down the windswept beach together, your boots sinking in wet sand and leaving imprints like bruises on flesh. Your gown is a deep, vibrant red like the sigil of the newly decimated House Celtigar; Aemond’s hair is wavy and damp and blows loose in the breeze. You are reminded of the night you shared with him six weeks ago, though you don’t want to be. Neither of you have mentioned that indiscretion. You believe you have silently agreed to forget it. You ask the prince regent: “How many people do you think you’ve burned in the Riverlands?”

“Why do you care? They’re not you. They’re not me.”

“Perhaps each life we take robs something from us as well. It carves a piece of the soul away and leaves it less than it was before.”

Aemond raises his eyebrow, intrigued.

“I am less than I once was,” you explain. “Acts of love feel like violence, violence is mistaken for love. Things that horrified me a year ago are now what give me solace when I dream of them. Vengeance, slaughter, fire and blood. Aegon grows more bitter, more ruthless. And so do you.”

“We will have the luxury of reforming ourselves when the war is won and Aegon is the undisputed king of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“If there’s any part of us that remembers who we were supposed to be.”

“I remember exactly who you were.” Aemond grins. “Fawning over Aegon, weaving braids into his hair. Scurrying around with your bandages and vinegar and honey. Always seeking to take his pain away. Always waging your own little war against the agony of mankind.”

“That feels like a different person,” you say, peering out over the ocean.

“We will build monuments to those we’ve lost,” Aemond promises. “Jaehaerys, Maelor, Otto. Your brother and my sister. You say you dream of fire and blood? I often find myself dreaming of Helaena.”

You turn to him, startled. And you recall the warnings her ghost gave Aegon before Baela and Moondancer arrived on Dragonstone: Don’t fall, don’t fall. “Does she say anything?”

“She keeps telling me I’ll lose my left eye.” Aemond smiles wistfully. “And I answer: Helaena, that’s happened already. But when I try to comfort her, when I try to embrace her, she turns away from me and says it’s too late. That I’ve ruined myself.” He walks with his hands linked behind his back, his face thoughtful but not brooding. “I still miss her,” he says. “And I still feel responsible. But things are easier now.”

You follow his eyeline to where Alys is plucking a starfish from the frothing waves and placing it in her basket. And doesn’t it make some strange bit of sense that Aemond’s match would be someone rare, bizarre, gifted in ways that are in equal parts mesmerizing and fearsome? “I’m glad you found someone who eases your burdens.”

“She has suffered tremendously. She knows what it is to be unloved and overlooked. She had to reinvent herself, just like I did. She had to shed her skin and step into a new one that she stitched together herself.”

“Perpetual Resurrection,” you say softly.

“Perpetual Resurrection,” Aemond agrees.

Now Alys is trekking up the beach to join you, her soaked hair whipping in the wind and her basket slung over one arm. From where he sits with Sunfyre, Aegon watches her with narrowed, disapproving eyes. “This belongs to the king,” Alys says to you, opening her hand. In her palm rests the ring of gold wings and jade eyes. “You should return it to him. He does not like me.”

You gasp and take the ring that you last saw before Aegon fell from the sky and shattered his legs, his spirit. “How did you find this?”

“It spoke to me. I spoke to it.” She smiles, more like a leer, though she does not mean it to be. Her eyes—onyx, jet, black moonstone—are bright with amusement. “See? You do not understand. Sometimes it is best not to ask.”

You slip the ring onto one of your fingers for safekeeping until you deliver it to Aegon. From the stone staircase that leads up to the castle’s main entrance, Larys waves Aemond over to him. Aemond kisses the woman he calls his wife farewell—a deep, burning kiss—and then departs. You say to Alys: “How did you become…like this?”

“I surrendered to it. Anyone can, if your life is hell and you are willing to burn it down to the foundations. You go deep into the swamp and then it goes into you. It grows through your skin and into your veins. It tangles up with you, vines climbing your ribcage and spine like ivy on a trellis. It changes you. It makes you greater than you were before. The victim becomes the victor. The weak turn watchful and wise.” She is gazing at where Aemond stands with Larys, exchanging theories and plots. Aemond shakes his head at something Larys says. “I always knew he would find me. The man whose fractured pieces fit with mine. Yet each time I thought I glimpsed him only to realize he wasn’t the one, I would think: How long must I wait? I have buried so many children. Will I ever have more? Will he come to me before it is too late? Is it too late already? But no, he flew to Harrenhal just as my hopes were giving out like a dry well. And Aemond was worth every second, minute, month, year. He was worth the beatings and the contempt, the rapes and the blood. He was worth all of it.”

Alys reaches out to touch your cheek and you recoil; but she is not giving you a revelation this time. She is merely tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a fond, maternal smile. There are mottled plumes of violet and indigo on the side of her throat, you notice only now. Alys catches you staring.

“Aemond can be rough, domineering,” she says with a sly smirk. “You know how he is.”

You know how he is. You know how he is. Horror strikes you like lightning; you imagine what other visions she has swimming in her changed blood. “It was a mistake. Aegon must never learn of it.”

“Of course not. That would kill him.” And you are gutted by a blade of cool serrated treason. Alys does not appear to be aware of it. “If I can ever be of service, please do not hesitate to summon me. I can appear and speak to you briefly, perhaps for five or ten minutes. I will be like a mirage, a ghost. Find a closed door and write my name upon it in blood. Then knock three times and open the door. I will be there.”

“A door? Which door?”

“Any door.”

You contemplate her. “Why would you believe that you owe me loyalty?”

“Because of Aemond,” Alys says simply, without any trace of resentment. “You mean something to him. So you mean something to me.”

He doesn’t crave me anymore. He has his own prize now. “I think you’re mistaken.”

“I never am.” Then Alys glides off to rejoin her husband.

Hours later as you are helping Aegon into bed—he must be carried up and down the castle steps by his guards in a litter, something he considers mortifying—you weave a new braid for him and then pour him a cup of milk of the poppy when his glazed eyes keep listing to the glass bottle of pearlescent relief, deadened nerves, liquid dreams. You crawl into bed beside him, curl up against his scarred chest, listen to the slowing thud of his heartbeat as his arms enfold you and draw you in ever-closer. His dragon ring glints on his hand, returned to its rightful place.

“Your legs?” you ask, kissing the gnarled scar tissue that has grown over his collarbones like climbing roses, like ivy. He can’t really feel your touch there, that’s not why you do it. You do it to show that you aren’t repulsed by his wounds and could never be, could never think of any part of him as something less than wondrous.

“That’s most of it,” Aegon murmurs drowsily. “I’ve started getting this ache in my back too. It won’t go away.”

“What?” You bolt upright in bed. “Show me where.”

He gestures: the curve of his spine, just above his hips. Panicked, you begin pressing lightly over where his kidneys are.

“Here? Aegon? Does that hurt?”

But now he’s realized how frantic you are, how upset. “Oh, no, never mind,” he says, clutching his pillow and feigning being too tired to speak on the subject for even a moment longer. He yawns dramatically. “It’s just a sprained muscle, I think. You know I’m always crawling around now like some kind of vermin. It’s nothing serious. It will heal in time.”

“Aegon—”

“I’m alright.” He grabs your hand and pulls you back down to him, buries his face in your hair, nuzzles and sighs contently as he whispers: “Shh. I’m alright. Stay, stay.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“You left him!” you hear Aegon yelling from his rooms, and you drop the book you had been reading in the castle library, an anthology of illnesses of the body, the mind, the soul. You sprint through the shadowy corridors towards the noise, the hem of your sapphire gown fluttering around your ankles. You are always dressed in jewel tones these days. You are anything but neutral.

In Aegon’s bedchamber, Larys has pressed himself to one stone wall like he wishes to disappear. Alys is observing with her strange, impassive, void-dark eyes. Aemond is being berated. He does not appear resentful or defiant; no, he is paralyzed. He is haunted, he is damned.

“You left him!” Aegon screams again, and hurls a full wine cup that strikes Aemond in the chest, spewing red through the air like blood spurting from slit veins. The king is standing, but with great effort; he is scrabbling through the drawers of his bedside table for things to throw at his brother. Yet the glass bottle of milk of the poppy remains untouched. “You abandoned him, you betrayed him, you fucking murdered him!”

“Aegon, what’s going on—?!”

“Almost a week ago, Cregan Stark’s army met Criston’s in the Riverlands,” he tells you. He is panting, red-faced, furious as he recounts Lord Larys Strong’s words, the news the Master of Whisperers only now received from one of his innumerable informants.

You stare at Aemond, horrified, already knowing what this means. “And Aemond wasn’t there.”

“He was at Harrenhal!” Aegon roars, tossing one of your medical books at Aemond, a volume on herbology. It strikes the prince in the nose, and blood gushes from his nostrils; ruby droplets freckle his hair. Aemond makes no attempt to defend himself. He is in shock, he is mourning. “He was fucking his witch while our men were being butchered!”

“Criston, he’s…he’s…?”

“He was slain in battle,” Larys informs you quietly.

Aegon staggers to his brother, shoves him roughly, receives no retaliation. “He was the closest thing you had to a father, he worshiped you, he loved you, and you left him to fend for himself after I told you over and over again that you and Vhagar needed to stay with him, and now he’s gone!” There are tears on Aegon’s face, crystalline tracks that bleed down his cheeks and jaw and throat. “You killed him, you killed him!”

“The Stark men?” you ask Larys, not wanting to know but needing to.

“Moderate losses. Now headed south towards Daeron and the Hightower army.”

“You fucking traitor,” Aegon hisses, sobbing, beating his palms against Aemond’s chest again. “Your whole life all you’ve wanted was responsibility and the second someone gives it to you, you throw it away! Why can’t I be the one with a body that works?! Why can’t my dragon be whole again?!”

And at last Aemond finds his voice. It is brittle and almost too hushed to hear. “I’ll make this right. When I defeat Daemon and Caraxes at the Gods Eye, it will be over.”

“It’s already over for Criston!” Aegon explodes. “It’s over for Helaena and Jaehaerys and Maelor, it’s over for Otto and Everett, it’s over for Sunfyre, we keep losing people and it’s all your fault! You started this war and you’re too much of a goddamn coward to end it!”

“He will end it,” Alys says in that deep placid voice like dusk, dawn, midnight.

“Don’t try that bullshit with me! I don’t want to hear about your delusions, I want him to do his goddamn job! I want him to act like the hero he’s been begging to be seen as since he was five years old! You know why no one wants to write books about him or carve his face into statues? Because he doesn’t fucking deserve it!”

“I’m sorry,” Aemond whispers, his mouth trembling.

“You should be!” Aegon hemorrhages, and then collapses to the floor, moaning with his face in his hands.

You go to him, try to soothe him, grab the wine cup from the floor and fill it with milk of the poppy, tilt it against Aegon’s lips. He gulps the numbness down with helpless, hated need. Aemond and Alys flee for the doorway.

Aegon says, suddenly more calm: “Aemond, wait.”

The prince regent stills and turns back, listening. Aegon, with great difficulty, begins to say something in High Valyrian. Aemond cuts him off. “No, that won’t happen—”

“Please,” Aegon rasps. “Listen to me.” Then he continues. And as he speaks, Aemond’s eye fills with tears, a glistening like ice over lakes in the winter, like gemstones in a crown. You look between them, searching for any clues you can read.

“I understand,” Aemond says at last.

“Good. Now get out.”

Aemond wipes his face with his sleeve and then disappears from the room. You tell Aegon as you rise to your feet: “I’ll be right back.”

Aemond is moving quickly; you don’t catch up with him until he’s passed through the castle entranceway. Down by the ocean waves beneath a blood-red sunset, Vhagar is already landing, leaving cataclysmic imprints in the sand with her claws, trenches and impact craters. From the edge of the beach, Sunfyre watches with dull, wounded interest. Alys is halfway down the staircase. Aemond stops when he hears your footsteps, waiting under the rising full moon and materializing constellations.

You demand: “What did he say to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Aemond.”

“He’s confused, he’s exhausted, he’s in pain. He doesn’t understand—”

“Aemond, what did he say?”

The prince regent sighs and looks at you. “He said he doesn’t think he’s going to get better this time.”

I can’t believe that. I can’t survive that. “Why did you have to do it?” Your voice splinters; your throat burns. “He’s right that you started this war. You’re the reason Rhaenyra will never negotiate. You’re the one who made this horror inevitable. Why did you have to kill Luke?”

The dusk is radiant on Aemond’s face like firelight. It is a long time before he speaks. “I never intended to.”

That doesn’t make any sense. “What?”

“I never gave Vhagar the order. She went after Arrax. I tried to stop her.”

It wasn’t murder. It was an accident. And you think of all the times people have told Aemond that everything that’s happened is his fault, and how he has never disagreed with them. “Who knows?”

“You. Alys.”

“No one else?”

“Who would believe me?” Aemond smiles faintly, profoundly sad. “And even if they did, would that make me so much more noble than a kinslayer? A Targaryen who can’t control his own dragon? A man who is reckless, ineffective, unworthy?”

Here in air the color of flames and gore, you tell him, perhaps more kindly than he deserves: “You’re worthy, Aemond.”

“I will end this. I will meet Daemon and Caraxes in battle. Alys saw it.”

“Did she see you win?”

“Are you worried about me?” Aemond teases, grinning crookedly. And he does something that he hasn’t tried in a long time. He swipes for your forearm and you snatch it out of the way just before his fingers can close around it, just before he can catch you. Aemond chuckles. “I don’t want you to worry. I’ll win the war for the Greens. We will return to King’s Landing, we will rebuild, Aegon will heal. He will live for a long, long time.”

“Yes,” you say, wanting so desperately to believe it.

“You know,” Aemond adds as it occurs to him. “If the king does happen to predecease you, in ten years or twenty or thirty…and you find yourself unincumbered…Aegon the Conqueror had two wives. Alys would always be first, but…”

“No, Aemond.”

“Fine,” he says, agreeably enough. He smiles down at you. “I will come back to let you know when it’s done. Then I will fly south to join Daeron in annihilating Cregan Stark’s army. And then we’ll all go home.”

Yes, yes, let that be true. “Good luck,” you tell him, soft like a whisper.

“I don’t need it.”

Aemond descends the staircase, climbs up the rope ladder into Vhagar’s saddle, takes flight with Alys into the late-autumn dusk; and you watch them vanish into the crimson horizon until the sky is empty.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 6 months

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Hi Whimsy🖤

I'm new here and this is my first ask so I'm sorry if I haven't done this right. If you're comfortable with it and are able to can I get a Prince Nuada x chubby f!reader enemies to lovers anything (with nsfw if you're fine with that).

You have full reign over the direction and themes of this, anything is appreciated!

Thank you for your time🌻

Hello! Now this is something that actually deserves a full multi-part fic, so I thought of coming up with a detailed outline for the moment. I hope you like it!

“A prince’s regard”

Pairing: Prince Nuada x chubby F! reader (Human | Second person POV)

Themes: Enemies to lovers | Soft | NSFW

Wordcount: 2.2k words

Summary: As part of a greater plan to encourage peace and understanding between humans and elves, a lottery is held for elves and humans to live amongst each other. You’re one of them, and the elf you are paired off with during the lotter is none other than Nuada himself.

A/n: If anyone wants to make use of these I say go for it, but please tag me if you do.

Minors DNI | 🔞 | You are responsible for the media you consume

🍃As part of a peace treaty with mortals, King Balor proposed an exchange of culture and knowledge between the two former warring races. Selected humans would live amongst the elves as attendants, handmaidens, stewards, and students, and elves would do the same with humans.

🍃A lottery is organized and monitored by the BPRD to stop parties with vested interests from meddling and upsetting the delicate balance of such a hard-won peace. Offices spread all over the world turn into lottery centers, and any elf or mortal wishing to add their name to the list is encouraged to do so.

🍃The numbers may not have been record-breaking, but enough elves and humans registered all the same. Your name was one of them. You did it on a dare, and with your friends, thinking nothing would ever come out of it.

🍃When the announcements start, you join the others in front of the TV, listening to names being called out, along with the names of families and individuals they would be paired with. Your name was not called on the first day. It was not called on the second or third day either. It was disappointing, to be sure, but you made peace with it. The days passed, with more and more names being announced. Then, after a fortnight had passed, you listened, dumbfounded, while your own name was announced to the world in crisp words. You were even more astounded when you found that you were being paired off with none other than the crown prince of Bethmoora himself.

🍃Your friends take you shopping as you would be moving into a series of abandoned railway tunnels he had converted into a luxurious palace. No one has seen the inside of it except for his father and sister, and the handful of attendants that served him.

🍃You’re nervous. Not just because you would be living with elven royalty, but also because Nuada is well known for hating humans.

🍃The prince was cold and aloof when you walked in through thick wooden doors full of strange symbols carved into them. “For protection,” Princess Nuala said, “against any evil that tries to make its way inside.”

🍃She was exceedingly warm where her twin is not, asking dozens of questions about your life, your friends, your family, everything. Nuala helped you settle into your new rooms and then showed you around the vast network of tunnels and chambers her brother called home. Everything was dimly lit, because that was how he liked it. There were sculptures and priceless works of art everywhere, hundreds upon hundreds of candles, thick, plush carpets, and the library was unlike anything you had ever seen.

“Do not touch anything.” He hissed, startling you. Nuada had walked up to you without making a sound. It was more than a little unnerving that he could do such a thing. “These treasures are priceless, and I will not see them sullied by mortal hands such as yours.”

Nuala apologized profusely. “Some of the sculptures you see here belonged to our mother,” she went on to explain after he disappeared down another corridor. “And my brother is quite attached to them.”

She did not say more on the matter, and she took you to her own rooms and hosted you to a light supper. At least, that was what she called it. An elaborate meal had been laid out in the dining room of her apartment. During dinner, Nuala informed she had to return to the BPRD, as her true home was there, with Abe. She would visit from time to time, but her place was elsewhere. Your heart sank, for it meant you would have to be alone with Nuada.

“Do not fret,” she urged. “My brother has a good heart; it is just that he guards it so fiercely. Give him time, y/n. He will come around. Mr. Wink will be here as well, so you will not want for company.”

“That’s comforting,” you tell yourself. Mr. Wink was large and imposing and spoke in a language you did not understand, and his loyalty would always belong to Nuada. Still, you made peace with Nuala’s leaving, and enjoyed the rest of your dinner.

🍃During the course of the subsequent days and weeks, Nuada would go out of his way to avoid you. He dined by himself, trained by himself, and kept to his own chambers when he was not needed elsewhere. If, by chance, you did run into him, he would respond with a curt grunt before walking away. If you came upon him training, he would order you to leave him in peace. Sometimes, not always, but sometimes, he would walk out of a room if you walked into it. It stung. What made it worse was knowing your stay had to last a full year before a change in placement could be requested. And that made you wretched, because the end of that year was still a long way off. Resentment took root, and you slowly began to loathe the prince for making living with him so hard.

🍃Mr. Wink, on the other hand, was surprisingly nicer, allowing you to join him while he used the mechanical toys that kept him entertained, watching TV with you, and even letting you read to him once in a while. He went so far as to ask through Nuala for you to help him learn your language.

It was a trial. Truly, it was a trial. Mr. Wink was a creature of fixed habits, and modern languages were strange to his ears. Once, he nearly flipped over a table in frustration. You had to keep to your sofa and hide your giggles while he ranted and raved and declared, through Nuala during her next visit, that human languages were languages born from the pits of hell.

“They may be languages from the pits of hell,” you tell him, “but you still need to learn. Come on. You can do this.”

The lessons continued. And Nuada’s avoidance of you continued as well.

🍃“Why do you always avoid me?” You finally mustered your courage and confronted him after breakfast. “I know you are not all that happy about it, but do you have to go out of your way to make me feel unwelcome?”

“Because you are mortal,” he rasped sharply. “That alone is enough. Now leave me. I have better things to do with my time.”

🍃And so it continued, until one dark November night, when an injured Mr. Wink brought him home, covered in wounds. A raid had gone wrong, you were told. Hellboy had taken it into his head to charge straight into a hive of tooth fairies, the largest that had been found in North America. Many in the team were injured, and Nuada was one of those who were worse off. Doctors from the Bureau came over and did the best they could. You had to see to his care after they left, as Nuala could not leave the BPRD. She too had suffered the same harm, even though she never left the facility.

For several days, Nuada slipped in and out of consciousness. You wanted to let him struggle out of spite, but seeing him helpless and weak convinced you to do otherwise. You changed his dressing, gave him bed baths to clean him up, and even changed his clothes. You avoided looking at the scars that marred an otherwise near-perfect body. It would be rude to do so, you tell yourself. He would not like being gawked at.

You brushed his hair and then read to him before making yourself comfortable on a nearby pillowed bench that served as your bed. Sometimes, you would find him looking at you with a strange expression in his eyes while you went about looking after him. You didn’t know what to make of it.

🍃“You must eat something, my prince,” you insisted one evening, holding a spoonful of soup to his mouth. “Just a spoonful. Please.”

Nuada’s appetite had deserted him, and you had to feed him his meals. He fussed and grumbled and muttered choice words in the language of his people, but he would yield to your entreaties in the end and make himself eat. It started with a spoonful, and then another, and another. Finally, when he was strong enough, he could eat properly.

🍃Then he started to talk. It’s about the little things at first: the meal before him, his sister’s wellbeing, and your lessons with Mr. Wink.

“He speaks very highly of you,” he confessed, much to your surprise. “He says you treat him with respect.”

“Do other elves treat him with respect?”

“No,” he replied. "Trolls are seen as, how do you mortals put it?" Nuada searched for the right word. "Oh yes. As the knuckledraggers of my world. Mr. Wink is a remnant of a more primitive age and, therefore, unworthy of true respect in the eyes of many. Besides my sister and myself, you are the only one who is openly kind to him."

"You are kind to him, and yet you treat me with scorn," you sighed.

The prince said nothing. He grew quiet and thoughtful. You take it as a sign to clear his tray and leave.

🍃Life with him became easier after that. While he rested, Nuada spoke of all the things he had seen and all the wondrous creatures he had met. You listened to his tales with rapt attention, for few mortals knew of such things. Finally, he opened up about his hatred for humans and why he allowed it to fester in his heart for so long.

“They killed my mother,” he spat. “When father left for war, mother traveled with him. She would stay at camp while he took off for the battlefield. He thought he had no cause for worry, for it was an unwritten rule, you see, for a military camp to be left untouched even during the height of fighting. There could be women and children present. Humans did not care for that. As soon as father’s warriors were out of sight, they attacked the camp. My mother… let us just say she did not survive.”

You did not know what to say, except for "I'm sorry.” Nuada smiled sadly and patted your hand.

“Tis not your fault,” he countered. “And it is I who should be apologizing." Nuada paused, and hesitated. "You have been nothing but considerate of my wishes the entire time, and you went out of your way to take care of me even after how I behaved in the beginning. I am ashamed of myself and must beg for your forgiveness.”

🍃Forgiveness would take a while, but Nuada did all that he could to make amends. He even invited you to accompany him to a great feast as his honored guest. That gave you pause, for while Nuada was lithe and graceful and everything a mighty warrior ought to be, you thought yourself to be the opposite of it all and told him so.

“Everyone would compare me to the other ladies,” you agonized after changing into yet another gown, one that was so soft it felt like you were clothed in nothing but air. “I cannot go looking like this.”

“No one will compare you to others,” he insisted. Nuada came into your rooms after wondering what was taking you so long. “They would not dare do so. Besides, there is nothing to give you cause for concern. Like your hair, for example. It looks beautiful the way you have arranged it.”

A flash of heat crept up your throat. No one had complimented you like this before. “It is?”

“Indeed.” Nuada came closer. “And that dress. How artfully it clings to your body. You have made a wise choice with your garments, y/n.”

“Oh.” Now your cheeks were aflame. “You’re not lying? You really like how I look?

“As my sister would tell you, lying is not something I excel at.” He grew bolder, and brushed his hand over your hip, your waist. “Soft,” he murmured. “Even softer than your dress.”

His touch was electrifying. And he was right. Lying was not something he was skilled at. You saw it with your own eyes—how he could not even pretend to be gracious in the beginning. You flushed and looked away, unsure of what to do or say. Nuada reached over and lifted your chin, making you meet his gaze.

“Did I go too far?” He murmured softly.

“No,” you mumbled. “I… I just didn’t expect such attention from someone like you. You are the crown prince. You’re dashing and skilled, and you're the greatest warrior among your people. And I… I am me.”

He went quiet for a while, as if he were thinking. “Then give me the chance to show you how you are so much more than what you believe yourself to be,” he proposed. “Can you do that, y/n? Give me such a chance?”

He was holding out his hand, his eyes bright and determined. But there was something else in those vivid golden-yellow eyes of his. Something more than determination. It tugged at you and drew you in.

He is trying, you think to yourself. He is really trying. And would it be awful to be at the receiving end of his affections?

You decided it would not be so awful after all and placed your hand in his.

tags: @nupppuff @thepjofanqueen

#prince nuada #prince nuada imagine #prince nuada x reader #nuada x reader #nuada imagine #nuada silverlance #hellboy #hellboy imagine #x reader #reader insert #reader insert request

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ass-deep-in-demons · 5 months

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✦ Seeing White ✦

Fandom: Lord of the Rings Genre: slice of life, comedy, romance Characters: Faramir, Eomer, Boromir, Eowyn, Lothiriel, Legolas, Merry Rated: G Length: 3119 words, one-shot

This work is dedicated to @emilybeemartin and directly inspired by her art, and also these recent posts circulating in the Boromir fandom: [slutty white shirt] and [rain soaked Boromir].

I am tagging the folks who got tangled in the Wet Shirts Shenanigans: @sotwk, @scyllas-revenge, @thetempleofthemasaigoddess, @konartiste, @emyn-arnens, @nihilizzzm, @emmanuellececchi. If you didn't want to be tagged I'm sorry, pls ignore :)

✦✦✦

Minas Tirith, 1st of Lótessë 3019 TA

Yes, thought Faramir. This is a great idea. The Ladies will be thrilled.

The day was perfect, too. From the windows of his chambers in the Citadel, all across the White City Faramir could spot the many signs of the long awaited Spring. Together with the verdant Gondorian flora awakening to life after the months of darkness and cold, so, too, were the people of Minas Tirith rising from their knees past the indignity of War. Just as the trees were dressing themselves up in colourful bloom, so were the inhabitants of the old Minas Anor decorating the streets for the impending coronation of their new King Elessar. The merchants, like wandering birds, were returning from distant lands to their abandoned shops and stalls, striving to make up for the losses sustained recently by the Gondorian economy.

It was, for Faramir, self-evident that such a day would be best spent in the Archives of the Grand Library. Granted, if it were for Faramir to decide, all days would be library days; this day, however, was especially well-suited to that purpose. Having the confidence of the palace wait-staff, through careful intelligence he had ascertained that Lady Eowyn, the bold and beautiful sister to the King of Rohan, had today off. It would be delightful to guide her through the collection of scrolls depicting the Fall of Numenor - Faramir could not imagine more romantic circumstances. If not his humble person, then the priceless works of illuminatory art would certainly impress the White Lady.

There remained the question of propriety, naturally. Here, too, he had both luck and days of prior careful planning on his side. Out of all of the birds flocking to Minas Tirith after the thaw, perhaps the most colourful (and certainly the loudest) was his little cousin Lothiriel. The lass was come from Dol Amroth with her brothers to join the upcoming celebrations. This was her debut among the Minas Tirith nobility and so Boromir and Faramir were expected to escort her on occasion, as a courtesy to their uncle the Prince.

What a splendid opportunity to marry duty with pleasure: give his young cousin a lesson in history and spend time in the company of the White Lady. The White Lady in the White City - such an occasion called for the whitest, most pristine of his shirts, and also his best doublet. On this day he was allowed a bit of vanity and he was quite pleased with the results, when he checked himself in the mirror one last time.

Faramir left his chambers and descended to the Courtyard, where he was met with the view that had never failed to cause a pang in his heart, ever since the tender years of his boyhood. In the centre of the sun-bathed plaza, on an islet on the Fountain grew the White Tree of Gondor. In the past, its name referenced its lush white bloom, the beauty of which, if the legends could be trusted, was an echo of the mythical Trees of Valinor. For centuries now the name had only been associated with the Tree’s dry and dead white wood, from which the bark had long been peeled off by the weather. Nary a bud had been spotted since the long gone days of Steward Belecthor.

On that day, though bare as ever, the Tree did not stand there all alone. Under its branches, seemingly caught up in his thoughts, the young King of Rohan was strolling and admiring the Fountain. Faramir, who himself had never been to Rohan, had met Eomer King only recently, in non-too-happy circumstances. All the Lords of Gondor had had the honour of attending a vigil around the bier of the old Theoden King, who had fallen in the Battle of Pelennor Fields. Even though several weeks had passed already since that ceremony, the shadows of the battle past could still be spotted lurking on the noble face of the Horse Lord Eomer. Still, his good humour seemed to be gradually returning to him, if the sharpness of his gaze and the healthy colour on his cheeks were anything to judge by.

The young King of the Rohirrim was, coincidentally, just who Faramir needed at that moment, as without his blessing Faramir’s plans would all be for naught. The matter needed to be carefully broached. Luckily, Faramir was nothing if not subtle.

“Eomer King!” he hailed and politely inclined his head in greeting.

“Just Eomer would suffice,” said the Man of Rohan. “My brother Theodred bore great love for your own brother and always hosted him gladly at the Golden Hall. For all the stories I’ve heard about you growing up, I feel as if we were best friends already, Lord Faramir.”

“And who am I to spurn the friendship of a King?” said Faramir and smiled. “Eomer, then, and you must call me by my name as well.”

“Do you think it will sprout leaves again?” asked Eomer, and Faramir understood that he was talking about the Tree. “You know, after Aragorn’s Enthronement?” This did seem too good to come true. Even though from under the Tree’s roots water continued to spring and feed the Fountain, it was difficult to believe that the dry branches held even one drop of sap.

“That, I would want to know myself,” said Faramir wistfully. He felt gooseflesh erupt on his arms at the thought that he might yet witness the Tree blossom in his lifetime. “I would very much like to see the face of my brother, when that happens,” he added quietly.

“And how fares your brother?” asked Eomer. “I’ve heard he’s been through an ordeal during the War of the Ring.”

Faramir hesitated. An ordeal would be an understatement, he thought. Boromir was not himself ever since he’d returned from the War. Faramir could see right through his brother’s facade. He had been pushing himself to the limits, working day and night like a madman. But Faramir was loath to share his worries with Eomer just yet, so he opted for a diplomatic answer.

“My brother is dedicating his every effort to the betterment of Gondor, as was always his way,” he carefully admitted. “I don’t think he’ll allow himself a moment’s respite until Aragorn is seated on that throne, at last. Thank you for your concern, thought. The sentiment is much appreciated. In fact,” Faramir grimaced, “it is rather I who ought to be enquiring about the wellbeing of your Lady sister.” He looked at Eomer and saw the man’s features soften at the mention of Lady Eowyn.

“She is better than I could have hoped for,” said Eomer with a tentative smile, “in part thanks to your patient encouragement, back in the Houses of Healing… for which I am much obliged, by the by. Of late, she’s been out more. I deem it a good sign.”

“That’s wonderful!” exclaimed Faramir, and then he quickly checked himself. “Erm… I mean, I’m glad to hear her spirits have improved…” He gathered his courage. “In fact, I am grateful for the opportunity to talk to you on this very matter. You see, I’ve devised a plan, which needs but your approval…”

“A… plan?” Eomer echoed, visibly apprehensive.

“Indeed. I’ve been meaning to take my little cousin Lothiriel to the Archives of Minas Tirith today, to show her our priceless collection of painted scrolls. Perhaps the Lady Eowyn could be persuaded to join us. It would be good… for her moods, I mean!”

Eomer raised his brow at that.

“Now that is a peculiar coincidence. You see, I had planned to take my sister out for a horse ride today, and I was meaning to propose that your cousin Lothiriel would join us in this entertainment. The other day, during dinner, she mentioned her interest in the steeds of Rohan…”

Faramir frowned. His carefully devised plan was now falling apart for this new development. Though he had started his riding lessons as soon as he had learned to walk, aware of his strengths Faramir knew: he had a far better chance at impressing the Lady with his wits than with his equestrian prowess. This matter with Eomer King required a subtle approach. He decided to try dissuasion.

“Curious, indeed. Last time I witnessed my cousin in the saddle, she fell off and broke her ankle. She has been wary of horses ever since…” Faramir mentioned casually. Granted, Lothiriel had been seven when that happened, however Eomer did not need to know that.

This was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. A vein on the Horse Lord’s temple started pulsing, Faramir noticed.

“And you, my good man, do not know mine sister, if you think a day among old parchment could ever improve her mood,” Eomer bit back.

Faramir felt a wave of hot anger roll through him. Eomer’s comment stung. Was it possible that Lady Eowyn, so eager to listen to his tales of Gondor’s history back in the Houses of Healing, could indeed reject his offer of a good time in the Archives? Reluctant though he was, he had to admit: where she was concerned, his usually clear mind became clouded. For the first time in his life, emotions made him doubt his better judgement. Eomer, however, seemed to be faring no better, judging from his face, which was getting visibly… flushed?

“Hold on, Eomer…” Faramir put two and two together. “You mean to… spend time with Lothiriel? You do!” Now this sat ill with Faramir, who was used to thinking of his cousin as a little girl, and not a woman grown, ready to be courted. “Have you any idea how young she is? Barely seventeen, I’d wager!”

Eomer levelled Faramir with a deeply unimpressed look.

“You’d loose, too, for she is twenty, and I am eight and twenty! Which is perfectly respectable, and also none of your business. The Lady’s father, the Prince of Dol Amroth, has already consented to my courting her,” siad Eomer icily.

Faramir felt momentarily mortified about his outburst. Ah, this was bad. Of course the most pressing matter for Eomer right now would be to marry well, and of course the noble, beautiful and now decidedly of age Princess Lothiriel would be his intended. And if that were so, then Faramir might have just offended his prospective brother-in-law. Still, he was convinced he could use this unfortunate situation to his advantage.

“He has? Oh, that is well then. I wish you all the luck with securing the Lady’s favour. Unfortunately, my uncle Imrahil has also already approved of my plans to take Lothiriel for a history lesson to the Archives today. You are most welcome to join us, if you will. As is the Lady your sister, with your approval,” he added hastily, hoping to repair some of the damage caused by his ill-advised words.

“Denied! I am taking my sister for a ride today, and that is that,” said Eomer, who seemed to have taken offence from Faramir’s questioning of his motives regarding Lothiriel.

“I beg, Eomer, reconsider…” Faramir began, but then something strange happened. He felt a firm shove upon his shoulder and the ground was abruptly swept from under his feet. He flailed his arms, but that did not avail him - he toppled over the edge of the Fountain and…

SPLASH!

Next he knew, he was taking in a lungful of its fresh water. When he emerged to the surface, sputtering and coughing, he was met with the sight of his brother, who took his place next to Eomer at the water’s edge. Boromir was fresh past his training, already out of his plate, only sporting an unbuttoned surcote over his shift. He was flashing his teeth in a wide grin, his arms crossed cockily over his broad chest.

“Of course it is you, brother,” said Faramir somewhat bitterly. “I see your signature subtlety has not left you over the course of the War.” He could not stay mad at Boromir for long though. Not when his moments of good-natured mischief and levity, so frequent before the Ring, were now so few and far between.

“Forgive me, little brother,” said Boromir, affecting solemnity, “but only you could have thought taking a Lady to the library would serve you well. As your elder it is my duty to tutor you in the ways of women.”

“Hold on, he wanted to woo my sister with books? Hahaha!” Eomer was in stitches about the concept. “Oh, that is rich indeed! Wait ‘till she…”

SPLASH!

Eomer landed in the Fountain right beside Faramir, giving out a most undignified squeak. This did serve to improve Faramir’s mood a great deal.

“Only I get to make fun of my brother,” said Boromir, putting his hands on his hips. “King or no king, you’d do well to mark that, young Eomer! And you will not be telling your sister about any of this. She would…”

Faramir rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding being crushed under Boromir’s bulk, as the elder brother, too, inevitably hit the water with a great -

SPLASH!

“Do not presume to speak for me, Boromir of Gondor!” warned Eowyn, towering over the three of them. “And you too, brother! I am perfectly capable of managing my own affairs, thank you very much.” She had pushed Boromir into the Fountain with such effortless grace, and told both of Faramir’s tormentors off without a hint of hesitation! She was perfection, Faramir knew. Had he not been in love with her already, he would have fallen head over heels for her at that moment. “I would be glad to join you for a tour about the Archives, Lord Faramir,” said Eowyn, and honestly, it all seemed too good to be true.

“I have never seen you pick up a book in your life, sister,” said Eomer, “save to throw it at our tutor.” He pushed his wet hair back from his face and attempted to stand up, only to slip and plop down once again.

“Slander!” cried Eowyn, and the most beautiful blush crept onto her face. “I love books! I definitely have read a lot of books in my time! And I happen to take a great interest in the history of Gondor, of late,” she fumbled visibly, which only added to her charm in Faramir’s eyes.

He stood up and shivered. His elegant brocade doublet, which he had picked especially for this occasion, was now entirely ruined. He hastily shook it off, not wanting the richly coloured fabric to stain his white shirt underneath. He wiped off the water from his face, and finally deeming himself presentable (for a given definition of the word) addressed the Lady.

“I would be delighted to personally recommend to you the best historical monographs from our Library, my fair Lady Eowyn,” said Faramir and bowed, smiling widely. “Going through them will of a certainty take some time, but I wholeheartedly offer all the assistance I could give in your studies.”

“You know not what you have signed up for, Lady,” said Boromir, who was still sitting in the water up to his chest, and not in any rush to get up.

“Oh, I think the Lady knows perfectly well what she has signed up for,” the merry voice of Prince Legolas of Mirkwood sounded from behind Eowyn, and it was only in this moment that Faramir realised the White Lady had not come here alone. Distracted by her radiant presence, he had failed to notice the Elf, who was standing a little way off with Meriadoc Brandybuck, one of the Perians, and a furiously blushing, uncharacteristically quiet cousin Lothiriel. The three of them appeared to be carrying… hammers and chisels? Although the girl seemed to have dropped hers and focused on fanning her beet-red face instead.

“We were just off to the City, to help with the renovations of the houses on the Third Level. Master Gimli means to teach us stonemasonry!” Meriadoc supplied, excitement brimming on his features.

“Though I have noticed the Ladies are acting somewhat distracted,” said Legolas. “I wonder if they are up for the task after all, or maybe they would rather stay here and admire the views that the Citadel offers on this fine day.”

Faramir suddenly felt very self-aware. He suspected he was blushing at least as strongly as Lothiriel. Luckily, Lady Eowyn did not seem to mind, or even notice. She appeared to have forgotten his face was up here and not down there. Ah, well. A gentleman must make allowances for the sake of ladies.

Boromir looked suspiciously pleased with himself. He stood up, took off his wet surcote and shook the water off like a giant dog might, splashing on both Faramir and Eomer.

“Pardon our indecent state, Ladies,” Boromir said then, jovially. “I think we should all go and help with the renovations today. Many houses have suffered during the siege and I, for one, am impatient to start rebuilding.”

“A worthy cause! One I’d be glad to join once I get the chance to change into something dry,” said Eomer, who had just managed to get up, after a few mishaps. He put his mighty arms to use and wrung out his soaked shirt. Faramir was sure he heard Lothiriel actually squeal.

“I don’t know that you should,” said the Perian, who seemed bent on making the situation as awkward as possible. “We would get more crowd engagement with you three coming as you are.”

To this, Legolas snickered with malicious glee.

“It could do wonders for the population’s morale, true,” the Elf mused. “Alas! We’d get plenty of volunteers, but very little actual work done, I expect.”

✦ BONUS: ✦

“Gondor is beautiful at this time of the year, is it not, my Queen?” said Aragorn.

He was meant to be reviewing the list of guests for his Coronation, but got distracted by Arwen’s movements about his new office. Something outside had caught her attention, apparently, for she’d spent a good while gawking through the window. And his beautiful Undomiel, ever graceful and unperturbed, could only very rarely be caught gawking, and only in private. He had to assume she was not immune to the splendour of the White City, and he was well pleased that she approved of her new domain.

“Pardon?” she startled, and a faint blush tinged her alabaster cheek. “Oh, yes. The nature is in full bloom. But, I am not your Queen. Not yet, at least,” she said, and smiled a very secretive, private smile.

Aragorn suspected a hundred years would pass before he’d learn to decipher all the subtleties of her expression. He was content to just admire them, for now.

[MY WRITING MASTERPOST]

#lord of the rings fanfiction #faramir #boromir #eomer #farawyn #lothiriel #eowyn #lotr fanfiction #ass deep in demons #[arda]

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thewritetofreespeech · 9 months

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OOOOOHH! I got it! Thor, Hermes, Nikola, and Hades with a super busty s/o who has no idea somebody is, or at least trying to, flirting with or leering at her.

Personally, he likes her large chest, as he his a breast man. He does realize the issues with it, however.

He doesn’t like to cause a seen, but he doesn’t like it when other people stare at his s/o.

Usually, his hulking presence is enough to deter them when he’s by their side. But he knows he can’t be with them all the time.

Has some concerns about their friendly attitude leading men on and causing problems, but also has enough faith in them to defend themselves.

Appears calm but is furious inside.

Of course he knows that his s/o is gorgeous, and he finds it cute that they have no idea of their visual value. Everyone else is not so dumb.

Acting as a steward of the Gods, Hermes notice everything. Including the looks his s/o gets when she is just being herself and existing in physical splendor.

Makes a point to calmly and cooly come up to the perpetrators, and whisper in their ear the horrible, painful, soul crushing things that will happen to them if they keep staring at his angel.

As oblivious as she is.

His s/o’s physical attributes are the furthest thing from his opinion of attractiveness. The mind! Their mind is what sets his passion to fire.

He does, however, appreciate her symmetry. And will usually compliment that when someone tells him that his s/o is hot. With no guile on thinking that they might have ungentlemanly thoughts about them.

Has some physics questions on how they stay upright and has done some structural mathematics in his free time to figure it out.

Bold of them to stare so openly at an Elder Gods woman. Hades has to commend their bravery (or stupidity).

He’s not a fool. He knows that people like to look at beautiful things. Hence why museums are so popular.

After a while though, he can’t stand it. Like little pins on the back of his neck, and he can’t get mad at s/o if they are too sweet & innocent to notice.

Has killed a man over it before, but the worst perpetrator is his little brother. He’s had to have a talk with Zeus, that lech, on more than one occasion that put their sibling bond in jeopardy.

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asharaxofstarfall · 8 months

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i don't really get how harwin won over criston in terms of quality of life.

criston, born a dornish stewards son, uses his talents to rise up in the world of knights and participates in many tourneys . after winning a fight with a prince, he is given a position in the kings guard. as a sworn celibate, he is put into an uncomfortable position when the crown princess attempts to have sex with him. he refuses at first, but they end up sleeping together- despite his protests- anyways. i guess the writers didn't learn anything from game of thrones and their questionable views on consent. he then later suggests that they marry and run away together so that he can preserve his honour. she tells him that he can remain a side piece, but that nothing will ever properly come of their relationship. not wanting that life, criston makes the decision to walk away. eventually the guilt over breaking his celibacy vows pushes him to attempt suicide. the queen catches him right before he stabs himself, and decides to appoint him to position of her sworn protector and shield. he forms a close bond with her and becomes like a second (or, well, a first considering viserys didnt do anything) father to her sons. he stays loyally by her side and trains her children in arms.

harwin, on the other hand, is born the son of the lord of harrenhal. being the first born male, he is heir to his homelands and set to inherit significant wealth. when we first meet him, he seems to have an interest in the princess. in a time jump, we find out that they have been sleeping together for many years and that they also have two sons. their children take after him and are viewed as obvious bastards by pretty much everyone but his boys (the catch on eventually). he has to watch another man raise his children while pretending to be nothing more than their trainer. his father is ashamed of the way he looks down upon low born people that have worked for the titles that he was handed at birth. at almost forty, he is still unmarried, depite being heir to a significant position. his younger brother murders him and his father in a brutal and horrific manner. he dies knowing that he'll never be able to tell his kids that he's their biological dad.

how on earth did criston miss out by not staying with rhaenerya???

#house of the dragon #alicent hightower #hotd #criston cole #pro criston cole #ser criston cole

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wardenparker · 3 months

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The King's Queen - chapter 9

Javi Gutierrez x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

Prince Javier of the Balearic Islands has always known that one day he would have to follow in his father's footsteps to be the caring and steadfast king that his people deserve. What he did not know is that he would be stepping into the next phase of his life alongside a woman he has never met before - and amidst a rocky sea of unusual circumstances of every kind.

Rating: M for Mature, but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 10.7k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: arranged marriage, age gap, classicism, cursing, food and alcohol, mentions of American politics, deceased parents* Lots of mystery related content this chapter, so no warnings in order to guard against spoilers! Summary: As the weeks progress, the investigation into King Miguel's death is stalling out. Until an unexpected conversation renews your suspicions about a particular member of court. Notes: We're winding down toward the end of this story, folx and thank you all so, so much for reading! It will probably be one more chapter and an epilogue -- so for now have a gif of Lucas and Javi for ✨atmosphere✨

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5 ~ Ch 6 ~ Ch 7 ~ Ch 8

In the weeks following, the palace falls into a rhythm. The ongoing investigation is the dark cloud that covers the planning of the royal wedding and coronation, but life goes on. You've accompanied Javi on multiple public outings as Crowned Princess now and the press coverage does seem to be reasonably positive. Maisie and Gabriela have made a few gossip headlines along with you, including one tabloid photo of the three of you visiting a recently opened café owned by two young women in downtown Palma. The photo op had been chosen very strategically by your brother working together with the palace's security team, and you had insisted that the business they selected for the three of you to patronize needed to meet certain standards. The small shop had served you one of the most fantastic lunches you had ever had, and you were sure to tell the women so. The photo of you savoring your crema catalana had gone up on your official royal Instagram account that night.

You're settling in, is really what it comes down to, and at Javi's encouragement you've decided to clean up a room in the palace that hasn't been used much in the last few decades to turn into your receiving room. The Queen's office is one thing. That's a separate space in the working wing of the house, and your brother's office is adjacent to it. But a room for you to receive guests in or have meetings in...it's something that the palace hasn't needed since Javi's mother passed away.

“Your Highness, the furniture movers have arrived.” Despite having an abundance of nicknames for you growing up, and being your brother, Sebastian insisted on making sure that during working hours he addresses you by your title rather than any nickname. Wanting there to be no slip ups in protocol, or for visiting dignitaries to believe that they could also address the future Queen so informally.

“Thank you, Sebastian.” The room had been emptied of its former furniture set and divested of its previous rugs and trinkets. The fireplace had been scrubbed and all of that. Curtains taken away to be replaced with the set that you had chosen. Now the team from the palace steward’s office will be bringing in that expansive set of blue velvet upholstered walnut wood pieces, with their silver accents and silver-embroidered curtains to match. It will be your space and yours alone, just the way you like it. Even the paintings that are going up for decor were your choice, and the collection of Spanish impressionists that will hang on the walls is stunning.

"Of course." He smiles slightly and nods his head in deference to your position. "They have also located a rug for the space, I have told them to bring that first for your approval." The storage for the palace holds all of the furnishing through the years.

Just as he defers to your title during working hours, you’ve kept yourself to using his full name during those times as well, not wanting any rumours to build around why you hired your brother for this position — or even fuel the incredibly stupid theory that went around at first that he isn’t your brother at all. Some tabloid had printed that they thought he was your secret lover but thankfully that had gone nowhere with the people. You look far too much alike for anyone to not realize you’re related. “Do we know when Maisie and Gabriela are due back from their appointments?” Your ladies had gone into Palma for something that you hadn’t quite caught the explanation for but you’re hoping they will be back before dinner. The two women really have become you close friends in almost no time at all. And you’ve noticed a little bit of flustering on your brother’s part around Gabriela that is very sweet.

Sebastian looks down at the tablet in his hands and checks the calendar. Any appointments your ladies in waiting have are also kept by him so he can inform you. "They will be returning to the palace in thirty minutes."

“You are a font of useful information.” And you’re so incredibly glad that he’s here. Having someone nearby who just knows you as a person — what makes you tick and what makes you anxious — on staff is so helpful.

He smirks and holds up the tablet. "You just like me for my schedule." He teases playfully.

“Honestly?” You waggle your eyebrows at him, aware that until the movers from the steward’s office come into the room, the only people who will see or hear this interaction are the security officers watching the cameras that have been discreetly installed around the room. “I’m starting to see why so Dad was mad that I stole you away.”

"You understand and appreciate my work." Sebastian smirks, preening slightly. "Dad's new assistant isn't completely incompetent, but apparently he's not me and that infuriates the old man."

“C’est la vie, I guess. That’s why you should always appreciate the people who make your life easier.” As if on cue, a set of four workers from the steward’s office appear. They’re toting an enormous rug with them and look a little apprehensive.

“Y-Your highness?” The first man holding the rug bows his head. “This was – for your approval? If you do not approve, we will carry it back to the storage.”

“I’m sure you’ve made a wonderful choice.” And considering you know next to nothing about rugs, you’re willing to bet that they made a decision far more educated than yours would be. “Will you let it out, please? I’m very excited to see your choice.”

There’s a grateful smile on the third man and they begin to quickly unroll the rug. “It, uh, the blues and silvers in the rug could work with the furniture.” The first man explains.

"Then it will be perfect." You and Sebastian step back to give the men room, and soon enough the enormous Turkish carpet is rolled out to reveal its intricate patterns and subtle colors. It's exactly the right thing to bring warmth to a room that was once stark whites and ladylike pinks and pale greens, and you smile gratefully. Your color palette is slightly more robust than the last queen's, but there's nothing wrong with that. In fact, this piece will be what ties the room together. "Que maravillosa," you hum, seeing it all laid out. "Gentlemen, you have made the perfect selection. I could not have done better myself."

The pride that filters out from the men's faces would make Sebastian think that you had just knighted them. He hides a small smile and nods, stepping forward. "I think that it is safe to say that the Queen will keep the rug that you have chosen with her upmost gratitude." He tells him.

“We will return shortly with the first truck of furniture.” The seeming leader of the group tells you, bowing his head politely before he herds the others out to the hallway. They have two large, motorized hand trucks to bring down the king palace hallway and then they will arrange the pieces to their princess’ satisfaction.

"They chose well." Sebastain comments as he examines the plush rug. "Almost as if they were eager to please the crowned princess or something." He has felt the love the palace staff have started to extend to you, finding less pushback on his requests than he had once expected.

“I’m grateful it hasn’t been difficult,” you admit, smiling softly as your engagement ring winks in the late morning sun. “Javi is already having a hard enough time with the investigation still ongoing. I can’t imagine if he was fighting pushback in the press, too.”

"They still have found nothing substantial, and the King is growing impatient." He nods. glancing around to make sure no one else has come into the morning room.

“Remarkably, the investigation seems to conclude that it may have been accidental.” You keep your voice low as well. “But I still find that conclusion…unsettling.”

"As do I." Your brother hums, even if he agrees quietly.

The men from the steward’s office stay with you for the better part of an hour. It turns out that moving the furniture about takes seemingly no effort at all when it’s done by four men who could probably bench press you, and soon the seams of 1920s artisan-made study furniture is set precisely around the room in the perfect way to make it look nonchalant yet elegant. You didn’t even know furniture could look nonchalant, but now there is an art deco chaise lounge in your morning room ready to prove you wrong.

"Should I have tea and a light snack brough in?" Sebastain asks, knowing that you would want to settle into the room, get a feel for her. "I have some paperwork that needs attending, and you have nothing on your schedule until after lunch."

“Bring me everything you need me to sign,” you sigh dramatically in resignation but flash your brother a grin. “And if you could ask the kitchen for a tea tray, I would be eternally grateful.” In the last few weeks, the palace chef has gotten the contents of your personal tea tray down to a science, and you swore up and down to Javi that night that this is true luxury. Having your favourite snacks on hand at all times is what it’s all about.

"As you wish, your highness." Sebastian bows gracefully and sends you a small wink before sailing out of the room.

The room is better than you had envisioned it would be. The paintings are light and bright and bring a sense of invitation to the art deco furniture. It's a mix of styles so it doesn't feel too stuffy, making the room feel a little bit more personable. You sit down at the writing desk by the fireplace, admiring the elaborate carvings and the personalized touches. The men from the steward's office had also come in with a case of your personal stationary and a set of the pens that had been ordered with the emblem of the Crowned Princess of Mallorca on them. It had all been very overwhelming at first, but you're starting to settle in to it. One sheet of stationery and one of the pens find their way out of their cubbies in and into your hands, deciding that you'll write a note to be delivered to Javi as he goes about his work during the way. Your little notes make him smile, and if even a moment of smiling eases some of his burden, then they are well worth the few minutes they take to write.

He watches you from the shadow, frowning and furious. About to step out and speak when the silly little maid arrives with a tea cart. Making him curl his lip in disgust. You would have everyone believe you were an English queen with your teas and little treats.

You thank the girl and smile when she curtsies, knowing that being on your best manners with the palace staff is everything. The tea tray is laden with a mix of things and you sip your cup with a happy sigh. Until Sebastian comes back with your paperwork, it's just you and your tea and your love note to Javi.

"Well, aren't you just settling in nicely?" The voice comes from the far exit, carrying across the room. "Already changing things, causing disruptions."

If his voice causes a slight twitch in one eye, it isn't your fault. It's just that Lucas has been a needle in your side since the day you met him and there is nothing you can really do about it except be overly kind to the point of making him uncomfortable. "Lucas." You turn your head, setting down your teacup and folding your hands in your lap to offer him the most witheringly perfunctory smile you can manage. "Or shall I start to call you cousin? After all it won't be much longer before the wedding."

“Yes…the wedding.” He walks into the room as if he owns it, sniffing as he looks around the room. “Very…quaint.” He decides. “How fitting.”

"Is there some reason you have sought me out this morning?" He has a tendency to try to bait you into debates or arguments with polite insults, but you are in far too good of a mood today to be bent out of shape by petty words. "Can I offer you a cup of tea?"

“No.” He scoffs the word, almost close to a chuckle as he strolls around the room. Taking pains to touch different things, adjusting them to his own liking. “I have to admit that I’m surprised you are still here.” He glances up at you and then down the small Tiffany music box on a table. His finger running over the gilded lid. “Perhaps the prize is too large to let go?”

“Whatever gave you the impression that I might leave?” There hasn’t really been a serious moment since meeting Javi where you’ve considered it. Is the job difficult? Of course. But Javi makes every single second worth it. And you would never disappoint him by leaving — or so coarsely abandon the man you love.

“The king is dead.” He shrugs slightly. “Unless an arranged marriage is something you actually wished for.”

“King Miguel is dead; may he rest in peace. But King Javier is very much alive and well.” His refusal to accept that his cousin has ascended the throne is something of a curiosity to you. Like there is a full block in his mind that prevents him from accepting it. “And happily I will tell you, as well as anyone else who wishes to hear, how very much in love with my fiancé I truly am.”

“Come now.” He tuts and sends you a pitying look. “No one would be in love with Javier. Expect perhaps my wife.”

“I think it would be more difficult to find someone not at least a little in love with him.” A pinched, derisive smile makes you tilt your head. “The only exception seems to be you, cousin.”

“I have known Javier my entire life, believe me, there is nothing special about him.” Lucas sneers.

"I'm very sorry that you believe that," you reply placidly. Lucas truly has a talent for getting under your skin — and it's really all to do with his attitude toward Javi. He seems to think his cousin is the least remarkable man in the world, which is a thought process that you just can't wrap your head around. Javi's goodness is what will make him a kind and sympathetic leader. "Javi's ability to be kind in the face of an unkind world is one of the most special things I have ever witnessed in a human being. It seems to me that you might not know your cousin as well as you think after all. But that is merely an observation."

There’s a mean little grin on his face, making the classically handsome exterior appear almost rotten because of the evilness inside. “I think you might actually believe that load of horse shit.”

He truly seems to have come to see you just to be cruel today, which is rare, but it isn’t the first time. Lucas taunts and intimidates and spits venom as his surest means of communication. It is who he is. But he is also exceptionally talented at hiding his true nature, which leads to unfortunate circumstances like the group of loyal followers he still has here at the palace. Allowing yourself one more sip from your teacup, you set it down again and give him your patented Senator’s-Daughter placid smile. “Is there something that you needed, Lucas?”

“I was wondering if you had heard anything about the investigation?” He picks up a book that has been strategically placed and smirks as he opens it, glancing up and you and snapping it closed loudly.

"I am not at liberty to discuss the investigation," you remind him, interested in what he might have to say about it. Lucas has been relentlessly present during the investigation.

He rolls his eyes and snorts. “There’s no one here.” He huffs and lifts a brow. “I’ve heard your investigators have been probing, asking very pointed questions.”

“Well of course they are, a king has died.” You don’t say that he was killed, always very careful about your wording with Lucas — but something about his wording strikes you a moment later. ‘There’s no one here’ he says, blatantly encouraging you to speak liberally with him. As though you are entirely in private. Lucas…does not seem to know that your morning room has already been wired for security. “Of course…” you venture, keeping your breathing even and your voice steady so he doesn’t sense any change in your whatsoever even though your heart rate is now racing. “We will all be very glad when the matter is resolved. The country deserves to heal. To move forward.”

“It will, with a new king.” He is very certain of that and straightens slightly. “I understand the pressures of the throne might be too much for my cousin. He has always been a follower. Meek.”

Not so long ago, insulting the king so overtly would have been enough to have Lucas censured or even stripped of his title, but you bite your tongue on that point and simply tilt your head. "Do you really think so little of your own flesh and blood?"

“It is more that I know my own flesh and blood.” Lucas chuckles. “He is not the brightest Gutierrez, unable to figure out what is right under his nose.”

It's like Lucas wants to keep talking. Now that the topic has been breached and you are not shutting him down immediately as you usually do, he seems to be as unstoppable as the enormous boulder that chased Indiana Jones. "King Miguel believed in his son. He named Javi his heir and paved the way for him to take the throne. You think you know things about Javier that his own father did not?"

He smirks and shrugs slightly. “Miguel had to have faith in his son.”

"Had to?" That piques your interest, and you fold your hands in your lap even as you turn toward him a little more fully. There is a camera and microphone built into the clock above the mantel of the fireplace and you want to make sure this entire conversation is very firmly in the line of sight and sound. Though you doubt Lucas would ever overtly incriminate himself, he is being fairly damning if anyone ever called his loyalties into question. "King Miguel could easily have named another heir if he felt it was the best course of action."

“That would never have happened.” He hisses, face twisting into an angry scowl. His fist tightening in fury.

It might be the first time you've ever wanted to reel back from one of Lucas's outbursts, but you hold yourself steady in your chair and try not to make it obvious that you've just swallowed hard out of discomfort. "Never? Then King Miguel must have believed in Javi quite a lot."

“Not because he believed in him.” Lucas sneers. “But because the old bastard wouldn’t stand the shame, the humiliation of having such a weakling for a son.”

There will be time to take umbrage with Lucas's characterization of Javi later on. Right now, you have to stay laser focused on what is being spit out right in front of you. It is absolutely no secret between you and your fiancé that you both believe Lucas had something to do with King Miguel's death. But you still have no idea how to prove it. "And so...you believe that the late king would rather...gamble with the future of his country? Surely he would have wanted Javier to have help if he thought it was necessary."

“He had changed it.” Lucas growls, the fervor in his eyes nearly manic. “I saw. He had changed his directives – but the bastard guarding him refused to let me read it.” He curls his lip in disdain. “More of a lap dog than an assistant.”

"You think that Julius had something to do with the king's death?" That would be a grave accusation if it were true. Or, hell, it's a grave accusation anyway. Thankfully it will never be given any credence because of how hard Julius has worked for Javier.

Lucas barks out a rough laugh, throwing his head back. “You are made for my cousin!” He chortles. “Just as dim witted.”

You have no choice but to swallow the insult, finding your heart beat faster every second you are more and more hellbent on getting himself to cough up something that you can have to the investigators that will incriminate him. "It seems obvious that my mind does not work the same way yours does."

He chuckles, sending you a pitying look. “It’s a shame that you are so wrapped around my cousin’s thumb.” He tells you, “it would be fun to take another of his toys away from him. He’s already lost so much to me.”

"He already has the throne, Lucas." Not dignifying that idle threat with a response is causing you actual physical pain but sitting in your chair is currently taking enormous concentration. Anywhere else in the world and you would rather be wringing Lucas's slimy little neck. "Everything else is a trifle."

“Does he?” Lucas tilts his head and smiles. “Perhaps. Long live the king.” He intones sinisterly.

The irrevocable shiver that his tone sends down your spine is withering, and for a second you almost close your eyes against it but you are somehow convinced that taking your eyes off of him physically for even a second would be a terrible mistake. "He does," you state again, watching Lucas carefully. "And our child will have it after him. That is how the line of succession works. I know that you know this."

“Unless my dear cousin suffers the same fate as his father.” Lucas counters, waving his hand as if offering a solution. “Before you make that child.”

"How do you know we haven't already?" The surety in his voice is chilling, but you have to keep your own tone even.

“Because any child before your vows would be a bastard.” He hums. “Ineligible for the throne. Then the line of succession falls to…” he perks up and feigns excitement. “Well, me.”

"That is only true up to a point," you challenge, pressing the point if only gently. "Javi will not be dying of a heart attack anytime soon."

Lucas only stares at you, his dark eyes lifeless as he stands there quietly for nearly thirty seconds. “Of course not.” He says after that silence is up, his body relaxing and his face shifting into an innocent expression.

It might be the most unsettling and least reassuring ‘reassurance’ of all time, and the sinking feeling in your chest and stomach makes you feel positively sick. “In time,” you swallow bile as it rises in your throat. “You’ll see. Javi’s goodness is what will make him a great king.”

“Perhaps.” He shrugs as if the past few minutes of conversation hadn’t happened, and he shoots you a charming smile. Or it would have been if there wasn’t malice layered under it. “I will leave you to enjoy your new room then. Princess.”

“Good morning, your Grace.” You don’t stand, nod, or give him any other formal acknowledgement, but you definitely breathe easier when he turns and strides from the room. It’s like being in the same space as a cartoon villain, and you’ve found out that that is much more disturbing than you ever imagined.

“Your highness?” The maid who had been sent to check on your tea hurries into the room and her eyes are glancing around worriedly. She had seen the man most of the staff loved but she loathed walk out with a dark look on his face, one she is well acquainted with, and was concerned.

“Ah, Beatriz.” There is no choice but to shake off your unsettled nerves and pretend everything is fine, even though the sinking feeling in your stomach is sinking that much harder. “What can I do for you?”

“Are you—” she bites her tongue, knowing the question is inappropriate for the Princess. “I am checking to make sure you did not need anything, your highness.”

“I suspect that is not the only question you wish to ask me, Beatriz.” There are some members of the staff who have been more or less assigned to you, like your ladies’ maid and a few of the stewards or other staff, and you have generally been trying to get to know them and have them be comfortable with you within the bounds of what is considered proper. Probably being American fosters some of that in your mind all on its own, but you don’t like the idea of anyone being frightened to come near you in the palace.

“I— the count—” she starts before she stops again. “I saw the count hurry by me looking very unhappy.”

“I’m afraid the count is feeling a bit worse for wear today,” you lie, gracefully not indicating whether you mean he’s in a bad mood or that he’s actually ill. “I’m sure it will pass.”

“He- you are feeling well?” She asks, eyes searching you worriedly.

“I am perfectly fine.” The last thing you or Javi need is anyone on the palace staff spreading word that you might be ill, so you dispel the maid’s fear immediately. “And my tea is wonderful. Thank you for checking. If you would not mind waiting a moment, I am just finishing a note that I would like delivered to the king.”

“Of course, your highness.” She bows her head quickly. It was expected that you would never take her into your confidence, but it’s enough to find that you are…undisturbed. She breathes a quiet sigh of relief as she waits for you to finish writing your missive.

What was once a love note full of encouragement to your fiancé has quickly transformed into a gently coded indication that you have something you need to talk to him about privately. As soon as it is written out you fold the card and slip it into an envelope, sealing it with a small sticker bearing the royal seal of the Crowned Princess. "Please deliver this directly to the king," you instruct her, handing the maid the sealed card. "From my hands, to yours, to his. Is that understood?"

“Yes, your highness.” She nods solemnly, feeling very proud of being tasked with something of such importance. “For the king only.”

"Gracias, Beatriz." She curtsies and you nod, turning back to your desk as she hurries from the room. It's not exactly that you have evidence against Lucas, but at least now you have something solid to hand to the investigators to prove Lucas has a vendetta against Javier. There hasn't been anything besides hearsay until now.

Hurrying through the halls, Beatriz nods at different personnel but doesn’t stop. Not allowing herself to be waylaid on her mission. Once in front of the door to the king’s office, she stops and smooths her uniform out before knocking.

The door to the king’s office opens with a distinct click, and Julius steps out into the hallway. “Sí?” He knows Beatriz, of course, and knows that she tends to you, but does not know why the maid has come here of all places.

“I have a message for the king from her highness.” Beatriz tells him, shaking her head when he holds out his hand for the message. “The Princess said from my hand to King Javier’s.” She insists.

“I see.” Julius purses his lips in amusement. Normally when the king receives a note of that nature it results in copious blushing and clearing his throat. “Very well. You had best deliver it, then.”

It’s an honor to be allowed into the king’s office and she’s well aware of it. Bowing her head, she waits for him to open the door and follows him inside.

“Your Majesty.” Julius hums softly, breaking the king’s concentration as he bends over his desk. “A note from Her Highness.”

“Oh?” His head pops up and his brow furrows as he sees the maid in front of him.

“To be delivered from her hands to yours.” Beatriz tells him, barely stepping up to his desk and curtsying while she holds out the envelope.

“Thank you…Beatriz.” He finally comes up with the maid’s name, having a flurry of new staff being changed around with your arrival, his father’s death and the upcoming wedding.

The maid curtsies and exits promptly once the envelope is in his hands, blushing over the fact that the king knows her name. Julius, for his part, smiles and nods to the door. “Shall I leave you?” He asks, hoping to offer privacy if it is wanted.

“Please.” Javi nods, barely looking up from the closed note in his eagerness to see what you have written. “Give me just a minute and we will continue.”

With a nod Julius is gone, leaving Javier to his reading.

Mi amor, A very interesting conversation with someone we are both interested by may pique your curiosity. If you would like to relive it for yourself, I will show you this evening. M

Javier frowns at the paper and wonders what the hell has happened today. A mystery would once have thrilled him, but he knows this is concerning one particular person and he feels a sense of dread.

******

His busy schedule keeps him occupied until dinner time, but the now-designated one night a week that you and Javi eat alone is proving to be a blessing. The serving cart is wheeled into your chamber and the table on your balcony set with candles, and you’ve taken off your heels to let your aching feet rest for the night in comfortable slippers when the door to your suite opens to let him inside.

Javier feels the mantle of responsibility seemingly lift. Even if he could be interrupted by any manner of emergencies, the idea that for tonight, he’s just your fiancé is a comforting one. The guise of not being responsible for a country needed as he has worried about your note for the rest of the day after receiving it. “Margarita?”

“Javi!” It would be a lot to pretend you aren’t excited to see him, and why would you pretend that at all? Instead, you pad across the sitting room of your suite eagerly and wrap him up in your arms. “How was your day, querido?”

“It was good, but it is better now.” He accepts the easy affection and snuggles close to you, burying his nose in your neck. “How was yours? Beatriz gave me your note.”

“Lucas paid me a rather interesting visit today.” It’s a shame that your dinner together has to be overshadowed by this but there is no way around it. “In the morning room.”

“You just set that up.” In fact, Javi had been put out that there had been no wiggle room in his busy schedule to allow for a visit to the room to see how you had redone it. He had planned to see to it tomorrow, but now he is wondering if it’s been tainted by his cousin.

“It seems he disapproves of my choice of decor.” You roll your eyes to show it does not bother you and place a kiss on his cheek. “Come. Eat with me. I’ll tell you what happened over our supper.”

“It is your space, like my mother’s.” He huffs, but he eagerly lets you lead him out onto the balcony. “The staff loves to make sure our private dinners are romantic.” Javi smiles at the candles on the table.

“They do wonderfully for us.” Tonight there are pink gin tonics in the cocktail pitcher that awaits you, and a beautiful seafood supper with fresh bread and bright vegetables. A feast that won’t make you feel over full or too tired afterward is a gift in its own right.

“Perhaps we should have a party for them.” Javi suggests. “Catered food, nice drinks. They can relax and be served.”

“That would be a very kind thing to do, I think.” You’re not sure if there’s precedent for that kind of thing, but you have to think it’s been done in some form before. “Maybe I can look into what it would take? And include the clean up being done by someone else, of course. It would be useless to give them a party that they have to clean up after themselves.”

“Of course.” Javi nods seriously. “Everything taken care of.”

“But…” You take it upon yourself to pour two glasses and hand him one, inhaling the wonderful scent of the plates he has set down on the table. “Lucas seems…more devious than usual.”

“Is that even possible?” Javi asks, rolling his eyes slightly. Ever since you arrived, it seems as though the blinders have been pulled away. Showing Javi how rotten his cousin’s soul really is.

“I hadn’t thought so.” It’s unfortunate to be wrong on that front, but here you are. “But he came the closest he’s ever come to incriminating himself today and we were standing right in front of the fireplace in the morning room while he was doing his…I hesitate to call it an interrogation of me, but it wasn’t comfortable. Either way he was very candid, and I watched the footage after retrieving the file from palace security. I think it’s damning enough to encourage the investigators to look into him again.”

“Really?” Javi has just sat down, leaning forward and his eyes narrow. “Tell me what he said, Margarita. I want my father’s death explained. I want to know why we lost our king too early.”

As you eat your recount every detail. The conversation is burned into your brain from this morning and though you’ll show the footage to Javi later so he can see it all for himself, you’re confident in your ability to tell the encounter to him completely. “I can’t help but think it all seems…sinister. But that may be my own bias against him showing. It might m be best just to let the investigators decide.”

“That’s what we will do.” Javi nods. “Although, I don’t want you to be alone with Lucas again.” He admits. “Will you keep Sebastian or one of your ladies with you?”

"A rotating witness along with my security detail?" Of course, to Javi's point — the guards who are meant to protect you are usually some small distance away so that you don't feel smothered. Today they had been at the door to the morning room while you were inside. Perhaps it is time to make better friends with them after all. "If that will make you more comfortable, querido, then I will make sure I keep someone with me."

“I just do not wish for my cousin to do something.” Javi admits. “I cannot banish him for any reason, and I cannot risk your safety.” If Lucas is plotting something, he would rather he not have access to you.

“I am not an enormous fan of your cousin trying to do something to either of us,” you reason. It is plenty enough work to run a country without having to worry about your own family trying to sabotage you or worse. “I will keep someone around me and so will you. The only time we should be alone is to be with each other.”

“I can agree with your logic.” Javi nods as he spears a stalk of broccolini. He doesn’t mention that it will give plenty of alibi for anything Lucas tries to cook up. Especially with the extra surveillance that has been discreetly installed under the guise of ‘redecorating’.

"I will have Sebastian contact the investigators first thing in the morning and hand the footage over to them personally, with a full explanation of what they are watching." It won't be fun, but at least it's some kind of progress. And progress desperately needs to be made.

“Perfect.” Javi nods even though it’s painful to admit that this can come from inside his own family. “Make sure that the investigators know that we are more than willing to be interviewed again.”

“I will.” A short reach across the table is all it takes to fit your hand in his, and you squeeze his fingers gently. “We will see this through. Your father deserves to be able to rest peacefully.”

He doesn’t want to monopolize the dinner with talk of his cousin, or his father. It pains him in a way that’s indescribable. “How has Sebastian settled in?” He asks curiously. “Has he had time to explore the country? You should take him, have a driver give you a complete day.”

“It’s probably asking too much to think you could get away for a day?” You know it is, but you still prefer to spend as much time with him as you can.

“I might be able to take half a day.” He would have to double check with Julius, but his schedule wasn’t too taxing the next few days.

“I don’t want to crowd your schedule with more things,” you assure him. “But it would be nice to spend time together.”

“I have relatively light days.” He promises. “I can try to combine the days to block out an afternoon. Or would you rather a morning?”

“I suppose it depends on what you want to show me.” The prospect of spending time together — even in public with cameras flashing and admirers stopping to spot him on the street — is a bit thrilling. While the investigation is ongoing, royal security isn’t keen to let the two of you eat at establishments they cannot control. Very few exceptions have been made and you haven’t been able to begin your date night idea quite yet. “Maybe we ought to consult security if we plan on doing anything besides going for a drive.”

“I will talk to Julius and send you a note?” He asks, knowing that it can’t be tomorrow. “Unless you have some appointments to plan the wedding?”

“Julius and Sebastian share our schedules for exactly this kind of reason.” They’re miraculously well-coordinated, actually, and you continue to be impressed with your brother’s work the longer he is with you. “We’ll ask them to find the day that works best.”

“Perfect.” He nods and smiles. “We are getting closer.”

“We are already very close, mi amor.” A smile even wider than his graces your lips and you hum happily around a bite of your dinner. “Would you like to hear about the wedding preparations?”

“I would love to hear.” He leans forward eagerly. “And anything you would like for me to help with, I will.” He assures you. “Even those little gift bag things. We are having those, right?”

“If you would like to have them, I will make sure they are included.” Javi always lights up when wedding plans are mentioned, so it seemed like a very good topic for lightening the mood of your meal. “I can ask our wedding planner to put together a list of ideas she suggests to fill them and you can pick whichever you like best?”

“Yes.” Javi nods. “Something local. Show off the art and craftsmanship of our people.” He tells you.

“I completely agree.” The more locally made everything at your wedding, the better it all will be. This is going to be a celebration for many more than just you and Javi.

“Local sweets. A handcrafted piece of jewelry that commemorates our day?” He suggests. “I want that to come from my personal wealth and not the budget.”

“Maybe a small pin, as the jewelry?” Something universal would be best, so it does not matter which bag goes to which guest. It will relieve an enormous headache on your wedding planner’s part. “Something symbolic, rather than the typical image of us smiling out from a white background.”

“That would be perfect. Maybe our flag? Made from local stone? Or gems, whatever you think is best.” Javi tells you. “I’ve just always loved the gift bags in wedding movies.”

"I'll see what the wedding planner thinks is doable in a fairly short amount of time and then you'll get a list to choose from," you promise him. After a few more bites in relative and enjoyable quiet, you put your fork down again and take a sip of your drink. "I've...been thinking about something. And I was wondering if I could talk to you about it."

“Anything.” It sounds serious and Javi is immediately giving you his full attention. Fork down and looking into your eyes. “You can talk to me about anything, Margarita.”

“That is actually what I wanted to talk to you about.” You reach across the table to take his hand and leave a kiss on his knuckles for good measure. “I’ve been doing some reading, and I had Bastian pull records. And it seems to me to be a sort of…unofficial Balearican tradition for foreign born spouses of monarchs to take a regnal name.” The whole concept of taking a regnal name — a name you will be known as, as queen — seemed positively odd to you at first. But the tradition seems to stem from taking pride in leading the people of these lively, engaging islands. A way of embracing the place and the people and promising to honor them. “I wondered how you would feel if…I did that, too.”

“What would you like to change it to?” He asks curiously. “I would love whatever you do, but I will still call you Margarita.” He admits with a bashful smile.

“Well…” It seems almost embarrassing, or it would be embarrassing if it were anyone but him, and you feel your cheeks heat as you swallow. “I thought…Margarita might actually be the right choice. I looked it up and it’s not too uncommon of a name. I thought it might be…romantic is the wrong word, but loving.”

“Queen Margarita?” Javi hums as he thinks about it and nods. “It would be a beautiful tribute to our future.”

“I always knew I would come here eventually.” For your whole life, you’ve waited for it. Waited to be summoned, and waited to be married, and waited to be with him. “But I only truly fell in love with this place after I met you.”

“It is easy, no?” He asks with a grin. “Our country is easy to love.”

"Very easy." You can agree to that easily. "But not as easy as it is to love you, querido."

The way Javi blushes makes you smile and he’s happy about that. Nothing is forced, nothing is put on with you and that’s what he loves. If you were just normal people, there would still be these tender affections between the two of you.

“Anyway, I just… I wanted to ask you how you felt about it.” He is blushing and he is adorable when he blushes. You shift a little in your seat and a pleased smile curls your lips. “Because ‘Margarita’ was just your name for me, and now I’m thinking about sharing it with the world. If you aren’t okay with it, I will choose something else.”

“I don’t mind.” He admits quietly, leaning in and staring into your eyes. “As long as we are together, I will happily share you with my country.”

“I’ll always be with you.” That is a promise you will make to him without hesitation. Now that you’re with him, the last thing you want is to be separated from Javi in any meaningful way.

“Hopefully your interaction with my cousin did not ruin your day?” He asks quietly. “How are your ladies doing?”

“Gabriela sat with me for some time this afternoon.” A small, mischievous smile curls your lips as you finish your meal. “My brother mentioned that it might be helpful to have some help in learning the geography and history of the country, as well as cultural tradition. Gabriela volunteered to be my tutor, essentially. And she’s been wonderfully helpful.”

“Good.” His affection for Gabriela will always be there, but it has shifted to a more brotherly love than anything else. Or perhaps it was always meant to be that way and he had been rebelling against his fate. Regardless, he’s happy you and Gabriela have formed a friendship. “She was much better in her studies than I.”

“She and my brother are also getting along very well,” you venture, wondering if that is too sensitive or inappropriate of a topic. True that Gabriela is married, but it’s abundantly clear to anyone with eyes that they are miserable, and she did not make the choice to marry Lucas willingly.

“Do you think there could be something there eventually?” He asks softly, knowing that it would be unlikely unless Lucas were out of the picture. Gabriela was loyal and would never shame the royal family with a divorce, even though she should divorce her husband.

“Maybe?” It’s just theoretical right now. Just a little gossip. But you know that Javi’s comfort level with the situation means a great deal to everyone involved. “Nothing will happen, of course. Not with Lucas in the way. But I think it’s sweet.”

“I want her to be happy.” Javi tells you. “As happy as we are.”

“That’s very admirable.” You admit, knowing that there are a lot of complications in the way of anything realistic. Still, you offer him an encouraging smile. “But I don’t know if anyone is as happy as we are.”

“It is quite a lofty goal.” He teases with a smile. “Perhaps it can be achieved.” He still marvels over how lucky he is and is grateful for it.

“Perhaps.” Just knowing how much he loves you makes your heart soar, and the familiar warmth returns to your cheeks. “Although it is a very lofty goal.”

Javi pauses for a moment, and he frowns as he reaches for your hand. “As long as you are never uncomfortable.” He shakes his head, aware that it’s coming out wrong. “As long as you know my feelings are genuine and I no longer will ever think about any woman the way I think of you.”

“I think the fact that you’ve stayed friends with Gabriela after breaking up speaks volumes about both of you as people. You’re good and kind and deserve to have those things visited back to you. And besides,” you reach out to squeeze his hand reassuringly. “Gabriela is also my friend. I want her to be happy, too. And my brother is a fantastic guy. She’d be lucky to have him.”

“Gabriela would be a wonderful partner to anyone who wishes a partner.” Part of Lucas’s problem is that he thinks he’s better than everyone. He had decided on Gabriela simply to hurt Javi.

“And Lucas deserves a good clobbering.” It’s mumbled, but only slightly, and you definitely mean it. In fact, you’d like a hell of a lot worse than a clobbering to happen to Lucas Gutierrez. A lot of people would.

Javi smirks slightly, hearing you perfectly but he doesn’t comment on that. “And what if Maisie?” He asks. “How is she settling into the role?”

“I think Maisie might have been born for it,” you chuckle. Javi clears away your empty dinner plates and you uncover the slices of Basque cheesecake smothered in cherry rioja sauce that the kitchen made for your dessert tonight. “Her husband is away on business as of this morning so she’s taking the chance to buckle down in helping with wedding and coronation plans.” Sending Javi a smile as you set out the smaller plates, you lean on the banister beside your small table while he pours out the last of your cocktail pitcher. “I think she deserves a very large ‘thank you’ after all this is finished. Gabriela does, too.”

“Perhaps a girl’s weekend on the royal yacht?” Javi asks, wondering what you had in mind.

“I was thinking of a getaway for Maisie and her husband. Something wonderfully romantic where they don’t have to worry about anything but enjoying themselves.” The first bite of cheesecake makes you both groan happily and break out into contented grins. “Maybe by that time Gabriela will be able to spend time with whoever she wishes.”

“Perhaps.” Javi frowns slightly. “If – if Lucas is as bad as we think that he might be, we will have to circle the wagons, as that American saying goes, around Gabriela. She will be distraught.”

“I would think she will be glad to be free of him.” You do shake your head, though, and nod. “If his true colors turn out to be as black as we suspect, we will take care of Gabriela. Make sure that she comes out of the thing unscathed.”

“Yes.” He nods seriously. “It will be good for her to be your lady if everything is as bad as we expect.” He admits quietly. “I am so sorry that you have been thrown into such a mess, amor.”

It might surprise him to hear, but the truth comes out of you alarmingly fast as you sit together at the little balcony table. “I don’t care,” you tell him truthfully. “I’m just glad that you didn’t have to go through all of this alone.”

He pauses, in awe of you and picks up your hand. “You are the most gracious and loving woman.” He murmurs softly. “I hope to never take that, or you, for granted.”

******

"Your Highness." Sebastian has been in and out of your office all morning, but this time when he steps inside he has a much more determined set to his face. "Inspector Jefe Blanco is here to see you."

"Oh, good. Excellent. Bring him in, please." Waiting for the Chief Inspector's arrival this morning has had you on edge. It will be good to get all of this out of the way and put the evidence into the hands of professionals. "And Sebastian, will you stay, please? While he's here. I would feel more comfortable."

“Should I order some tea?” He asks, knowing that it might set the tone from the grim talk into a more open conversation.

"I asked the kitchen to prepare a tray this morning. If you could just ring down and ask them to send it up?" His instincts are good and you appreciate your brother's attention to detail, especially in these moments. "I'm sure that will put us all a bit more at ease."

“Good. I will have Flores bring it in so no more staff than necessary needs to come into the room.” Sebastian decides. He will instruct the staff to leave it outside with your personal maid.

"Thank you, Bastian." For one more second, it's just you and your brother in a room, and you flash him a grateful smile before putting your official princess countenance back on. "Please show the Inspector Jefe in."

Sebastian nods and moves to the door, opening it and stepping back to allow the very official visitor in. It’s clear the man has taken special care with his appearance, every medal shined and his uniformed neatly pressed.

"Thank you for making time to come and see me this morning, Inspector Jefe." You stand from your desk and shake the man's hand. He has been very diligent and professional in investigating this case but you have to admit that you have now known the man quite a bit longer than you would prefer. In a perfect world, this case would have been over before it began. "I'm afraid I have some information to share with you, but I do not know how helpful it will end up being."

He frowns slightly, confused as to how you can have more information. “What do you have, Princess?” He asks curiously. “I must confess I am surprised to have been contacted by your office.”

"I had a conversation yesterday with the Count of Ibiza that...unsettled me." Polite wording is necessary here, so that you don't appear to be accusing Lucas of anything outright. "The conversation was videotaped by our security system here in the palace, and I would be very much gratified if you would consent to watch the footage with me and tell me if there is anything to it. If the count's manner seems suspicious, and his threats genuine, as I suspect they are. Or if I am perhaps too sensitive to the topic being touched so deeply by the late king's sudden death."

“The Count has an excellent reputation.” The inspector informs you, a little wary when it comes to potentially implicating members or the royal family. “However, he was slightly evasive during questioning.”

"It is my sincerest hope that my worries are unfounded," you lie as cleanly as you can. It is the only lie you have ever told the inspector and what you do hope is that it stays that way. "But I will not claim any kind of expertise in law enforcement or investigative technique."

“Even though you say there is video evidence of the conversation, I find that it is always helpful to have someone describe the interaction. Posture, tone, facial expressions cannot be accurately displayed at times through a security system.” He explains quietly, pulling out a notebook from his jacket pocket. “Princess, will you please tell me about this conversation with the Count?”

"Besides deeply insulting both myself and King Javier, the Count outright stated that he believed the late King Miguel made the wrong choice as to his successor and expressed anger over not being considered in the choice. Or, rather, not being chosen outright." You pause when Flores brings in your tea tray, thanking her as she pours out three cups and sets one beside each of the three of you seated in the room. "Thank you, Flores. We'll manage from here."

“Yes, your highness.” She bows respectfully as she eyes the inspector. There are many questions as to why he is here, but she won’t voice them.

“So, you see, Inspector,” you continue once the door is shut securely behind your maid. “When outright statements like that are made in the same conversation where the Count also voices his opinions that King Javier is not fit to rule, or that I have some ulterior motivation for being here and accepting my role in his country…it makes me quite worried. That perhaps the Count may not have the most honorable intentions after all.”

“I can see why that would raise your suspicions.” He frowns and flips back through his notes to look at the impressions he had jotted down from the interview with Lucas Gutierrez. While some of the men question his old-fashioned methods and claim that he wants to model his investigative style after American style gumshoes, he finds it good to have those notes easily accessible rather than having to go back to the system computers. “And you say that he felt like he was threatening you?”

“I felt that he was threatening the king.” The clarification is important here, you know that. But you’re very glad to have your brother in the room with you to be an emotional anchor so you don’t end up seeming distraught or too forceful with the inspector. “The Count made it very clear that he did not consider me worth threatening. He appears to regard me as an ornament to His Majesty. Which is insulting, but not threatening.”

“I hope that regardless of what I find, you informed his majesties security team?” He asks seriously. “Another king lost in a short span such as this would throw our small country into chaos.”

“It would.” Especially considering Lucas is the next in line to the throne. A horrible alternative that you can’t even begin to comprehend. “And I have. I informed His Majesty and he has taken it to his team.”

“Good.” Inspector Jefe might have some private concerns about the new king, but he would never dream of making them public.

“With this background, will you be willing to watch the footage that my security team gathered yesterday morning?” Convincing him that it is worth looking into Lucas again is the key here, even though you know it’s a hard sell. As the Count of Ibiza, the people have come to mostly love Lucas Gutierrez. But they do not see his true nature.

“I have learned in my time as an inspector that some people’s true nature is always concealed until they believe they are immune from reproach.” He picks up his tea and takes a polite sip. “Would you be able to provide a copy or would I need to view the footage here only?” Sometimes the security for the palace had certain protocols in place that he would not be able to change.

After discussing it with Javi, Julius, and the head of security, it has been decided that a copy of the footage could be handed over to the police for their own use, and you open your desk drawer to retrieve it. “The copy has been made for your use, but of course I expect you will want to view the original here as well so you can be assured that no changes to the footage have been made.”

“Thank you, Princess.” He nods his head slightly, grateful that you understand the delicate nature of these things. “Once I have reviewed the footage, I may have more questions. Would it be possible to request some time in your schedule if that is the case?”

“Of course.” In fact, you would be concerned if he didn’t have more questions for you. “My assistant will make sure you are afforded access to me when necessary. This investigation remains of the utmost importance.”

“I appreciate that.” He knows that you must be busy, the announcement of your wedding accompanying the coronation had been announced and it wasn’t too far away.

“Just as I appreciate you being available this morning.” The footage is already queued up on the computer display monitor on your desk, and you turn it to face outward so both the Inspector and Sebastian can see. “Cooperation is everything in these matters.”

“The tales of your wisdom have not been underestimated.” He hums, turning to the screen and leaning forward so he can watch.

This is the fourth time you've watched this conversation, not to mention the fact that you lived through it the first time, and while the Inspector Jefe listens to Lucas spit his vitriol, you sip your tea in silence. Every time you listen to him it makes you angry all over again. But you can't afford to show any kind of anger in front of the inspector.

There will be several notes that come from this video, and he frowns as he looks back up at you. “This is very disturbing.” He admits. “The count did not know that he was being recorded, yes?”

"That is correct." It's a relief to hear that the investigation will be taking your conversation into account, but you try not to show it too much. "But I did not make any effort to hide the fact from him. All areas of the palace that are in use by staff and the royal family are protected by surveillance."

“It almost seemed as if the count wished for you to accuse him of something nefarious or to reveal it himself.” Jefe looks around the room, and nods. “Please do not try to be alone with him, Princess, but let him talk if he comes back.” He tells you, standing up. “I will have to review this many more times, but I will be taking a closer look at the Count in my investigation.”

"If you need to speak with me again, please do not hesitate to contact my assistant. And if I have any other information to pass along to you, may I request for you to come in the same way you did today?" You stand along with him, showing the Inspector Jefe the respect that his position is due. "I have already made arrangements to ensure I will not be alone with the Count again. At the king's insistence."

“Absolutely.” He had been brought in through the tunnels under the palace to prevent speculation, and he understands that. “Whatever you wish, your highness.” He bows politely and thinks that you are also as gracious as you are beautiful.

"Have a good day, Inspector Jefe." That might be a fruitless wish, considering the task on his shoulders, but if anything? That is something you can absolutely relate to.

He nods again and quickly walks out of the room to leave you and Sebastian by yourselves.

Once the door shuts, you sit back in your chair and pinch the bridge of your nose between two fingers and sigh. “That went better than I expected.”

“I don’t think the inspector wasn’t too surprised by your claims.” Sebastian admits, curious as to the man’s true feelings about the count. Not that he seems the type to ever say. He seemed to play his cards close to the vest.

“I think he was surprised that Lucas would admit to being so vile, but maybe that’s just me being too American and imagining all these nobles constantly play nice with each other. I can’t tell.” Now that the meeting is over, you refill your teacup and pick up a biscuit gladly. “Well, darling brother. We have an hour to kill before wedding planning overtakes my day.”

“What would you like to do?” He asks, aware that he had blocked out much more time than necessary for the meeting with the inspector.

“Javi and I talked about taking a little driving tour of the islands sometime soon. Do you think that’s something you could coordinate with royal security?” You’re not asking him to do it right now, god knows, but you do rummage in your desk with a mischievous grin on your face while you ask.

“Are we talking about an actual tour?” He asks with a laugh. “Or cordoning off lover’s lane so you can make out with the king like you’re teenagers?” He’s amused by the idea but also happy that you are so happy with your future husband.

“Say what you want, but my fiancé is ridiculously sexy.” And frankly, you’re exceptionally happy about that fact. Not just because you’re glad to be attracted to your partner, but because producing an heir is such a big part of what’s expected of you. It will not be a hardship to fulfill that duty.

He snorts and shoots you a grin. “Most of the world agrees with you.” He admits. “Which is why I’m so confused as to why his cousin is so harsh on him.”

“It’s jealousy, don’t you think?” At least, that’s what you’ve always thought. Javi was graced with looks, and charm, and privilege as well as so many other attributes — and Lucas simply couldn’t stand that his cousin was more beloved. “Lucas doesn’t see that cunning is not the only worthwhile intelligence in the world. That’s the other thing.” A moment later, you extract a travel Scrabble set from your desk drawer with a squeak of triumph. “Spanish Scrabble for an hour?” You suggest, shaking it at him enticingly. “Build that vocabulary like I know you want to?”

Sebastian rolls his eyes but grins. “I don’t know why you claim my Spanish isn’t up to par.” He teases, nodding and sitting down beside you. “I’ll still kick your ass at scrabble, Princess or not.”

______

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