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darkdemeter · 3 months

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AUGURIES OF LOVE & DYNASTY

The DARK DEMETER WRITING CATALOGUE, WANDA MAXIMOFF COLUMN (ONESHOT) #4 —

—- not my gifs, credit to original posters! -—

Wanda Maximoff x Werewolf! GN/Female/Male Reader

A/N — Another little smut trial for you guys and the pup/family dynamic, most of all I'm testing out my strengths and weaknesses and what my limitations are; and if they can maybe be improved on. GN smut is rather tricky for me to really get into the groove of if I'm being honest. That doesn't mean I'll stop writing for GN entirely but I may have to find a work around. Not only that but I fucking LOVE writing the angst, hardened wolf most of all with Wanda. Fuckin' love the angst and shit... so soft stuff like this is kinda a small bone in the mix but my main go to is the more hurt and angst genre, that and the tension, the build up for me is just *chef kiss*. But little a/n rant over. Enjoy!

WORD COUNT — 2.9k

READER DISCRETION — fluff content — wolf family and pups — pregnant Wanda — SLIGHT SMUT 18+, MINORS DNI* — clawed fingering — sliver of breeding or pregnancy kink? — remote location — minor and implied torture and stuff (left to reader's interpretation) — mention of scars — profanity — use of Y/N — named pups — I think that's it?

SUMMARY — Another morning rises over the snowy peaks. Your home in the wilds is peaceful and undisturbed. This winter, your first litter of pups are eager to begin to live as the young wolves of your dynasty. Meanwhile, Wanda happily carries your second litter.

Your very heart beats in time with the earth, each heavy footfall of the paw echoes beneath. Your blood runs alongside the rushing current of rivers. The chill of snow sinking under your weight feels familiar in contrast to unclean pavement.

Sunlight bleeds over yonder just beyond the snowy mountain peaks. The amber glow of its rays paint an overlay over the blue and black tinted landscape littered with white. Branches above shiver in the breath of winter and birds chirp amongst each other, calling out in the early morning. You stalk the hidden and unmarked path now all knowing of where it leads you. When another breeze sweeps across the river beds below, its chill runs along the fur of your back with a hollow greeting.

Still, you continue to walk at your own leisure, enjoying the pleasantries of the wilds offered to you. Sanctuary is a place where one feels safe, away from the harms of the world beyond. Everywhere you have been there have been many great dangers. It was high time to return home to that sanctuary and your loved ones with you.

Your fur is dotted with a feathered dusting of white flakes, the shift in your weight occasionally shakes your coat to a near-cleansed appearance. Your long tail sways in motion to your movement, every so often lifting when a pair of small, sharp teeth graze it in hopes to play.

The pitter patter follow behind you with adoring loyalty and familiarity, your station the highest ranking, one earnt of respect and reverence since day one.

But still, there remains the habit of play. To take in the world around them, piece by piece; gathered in their clutches of their curious, short muzzles.

In your journey to scout out the territory you take a minute to admire the scenery, a specular luxury granted to you for your unwavering protection to the land. You stand atop the lifted rise of dark stone layered and moulded together by the force of nature. A perfect spot to use as a vantage point.

Your cluster of pups, the first litter of many to come, whine and yelp together in their time of playing, small paws scraping across the hardened surface. Keena and Leo engage one another in a mock fight. Their teeth pulling and tugging each other by the scruff and ears, Leo barks in retaliation when Keena becomes a little too rough.

With a snort, Keena wanders closer to you whilst Leo is entertained by his other siblings. Curious as Keena was to find whatever it was that grasped hold of your attention, there is still much to see, to smell and explore. She devises a plan and bows her body in preparation, tail wagging from side to side when your lips curl up in warning. A rumble bellows from the cavity of your large chest, steam clouds across your dark nose.

Keena’s plans are disrupted and with a tucked tail, she submits and sits between the pillars of your front limbs. Not too long are the remainder of your pups under your protective stature but with a summoning huff, you beckon them to follow after you.

They’re still new to the changes of their wolf bodies, uneven on their paws as they keep their best of balance, tricky as it might be. You sure don’t make it look easy but the grace of your form inspires them to not give in. They’re determined to share this side of their bloodline with you.

To be as steady as you, as dangerously graceful and practised as you.

The sun shines higher now and the world has grown a tad bit warmer, if only a little. That doesn’t mean your pups still endure the cold without sacrifice, shivering with a series of pitiful whines of complaint. But they have the heat of your body to thank for warming them during the trek back home, their small bodies lined down your back, nuzzling further into the thicket of your winter coat with content sighs.

They fared better this time around before the tiredness in their bodies wore them down.

You near the wooden refuge you call den and with a newfound surge of eagerness, your pups leap from the towering height of your back and race for the front door. Keena is the first to change back and pound her small fists on the door with utter demand that the door be opened, yet unable to reach the doorknob herself.

When you reach the pile up of your offspring waiting impatiently at the door, having now shifted back into the second skin not covered in fur, you reach forward and push the door open for them. Relieved to be out of the cold they charge into the house and down the stretch of hallway.

“Mama! Mama!” They bark and yell, the beckoned person answering their cries exits the kitchen. Her green eyes meet them with a light akin to a lighthouse, bright and burning in the lone distant night to call them home.

Her wide smile stretched open to reveal the row of pearly white teeth assures them that their mother’s love sparks ever true, no matter the time nor place, that their eagerness for her attention remains just the same as any other.

“My pups,” she greets softly. She bends down to meet them, arms warm and inviting to her embrace. Leo snuggles tightly against her chest when Keena tugs at the nape of his neck. “Careful! Our siblings are in her tummy.”

Truer words had never been spoken by one of your young ones. The second litter of your dynasty resides safe and snug in the large bulb of Wanda’s womb, nursing them until their eventual birth into the pack.

“Did you enjoy yourselves?” Their mother asks them, focusing one each of their round, devoted eyes that marvel her loving gaze. She made each of them feel equally special. They nod and hum, undoubtedly smiling from ear to ear as she entertains them.

You linger back in the hallway to simply take in the picturesque of it all as your pups recount their adventure with you this morning. The smile of your wife is oh so sweet, a sculpted visage of unmatched beauty to beat against your brutality.

Often you do as you’re doing now. Sit back and observe your family. The intimate nature of mother and pups is always a favoured sight of yours, how tender she caters to them and how they bask in the wonderment of their mother; the woman who gave them life and brought them into the world through darkness and pain.

She endured the months of labour for them. Forever, a mark of her true strength and courage and pure love.

All you simply do is admire and love her in return, despite it being incapable of comparison. She carried the first litter without complaint or regret and she’s a soldier for the second litter. Unfazed by the barrage of kicks and movement within the womb, pups fighting for room amidst their growth.

Truly a marvel. A woman who you happily call wife and mate. Your arms fold over your chest, the corners of your lips tilted up as you continue to observe from afar. That’s when Wanda’s eyes finally meet yours and that hunger within the glaze of green ignites your own. You growl deeply under your next exhaled breath.

‘The moment I get you alone…’

Wanda smirks at you with a cheeky glint you know well, but her attention is stolen by your pups once again. She rises to her feet, hands held to her large bump, she beckons the pups to sit at the dining table. You don’t miss the flash of scarlet warning you that your presence is mandatory.

With a submissive shrug to her silent order you follow behind. But you pause just as you pass one of the frames, reflection faint in the glass. Your eyes scan the faces of those you left back in the city for your remote life with Wanda in the wilds of your sanctuary. They were not forgotten nor were they truly left behind in the past forever. You plan to visit them sometime and vice versa, but plans become muddled and complicated in the matter of saving the world.

A feat that took its hefty toll on you. Never one to consider yourself the type to retire, it was for the best. There, the wolf was caged to fight, moving from one fight to the next it seemed or to be confined in a cell; seen as an animal unworthy of complete trust.

The ring of skin around your neck is still marred in its process to heal. For how much longer is undetermined but the pain tied to it left you no choice but to resign yourself to the wilds of home.

And Wanda would come with you.

Now here you are, sitting around the table together as Wanda fixes you both your morning coffees while your children devour their plates in record time, their mother scolding them to chew their breakfast. Keena’s face had already been stained with the sticky substance of syrup from her pancakes, Leo and Tymon opting to race each other while eating their cereal and the youngest of their litter, Peeta munches on a piece of buttered toast.

You never really had an appetite in the winter morning - if you didn’t count Wanda that is - you often kept to a simple coffee to be your wake up call. Wanda’s lips meet your hairline for a quick, affectionate peck, hand sliding your mug onto the table. But you have other plans. With a husky growl you pull her into your lap.

“Y/N!” she yelps in surprise. Her laugh fills the room as a joyful prophecy. Your pups cannot contain their own comings of laughter as well at the loving sight of their parents sharing in one another’s orbit for a short moment.

Wanda swats at you with a hand but you remain adamant she stays in your lap. “I have dishes to wash up,” she argues only for you to shake your head, nose nestling her mark. “We can do that together afterwards. Let me hold you a while.”

How can she resist your wolfish charms? You purr in your victory when Wanda gives in, knowing just how much she loves it deep down; to be held in your protective arms and your exploring hands wandering over the curve of her bump.

You feel the pups kick and push against the wall of her womb to greet your hands. Their desire to touch grows stronger by the day, it was due to happen any day now.

Wanda sighs softly and you join her in watching your pups eat together, talking amongst themselves for their planned activities for the day. Wanda’s hands fall over the top of yours and her fingers dance over the cool surface of your wedding band.

The overly large size of her winter sweater leaves the skin of her shoulder exposed for your lips to ghost across it, causing a shiver to run the length of her spine.

“You’re getting me excited,” she whispers to you and your smirk, fangs speaking over the bottom of your lip. “Good. Just how I want you, Honey.”

Wanda pushes her body against yours in the midst of her battling desire, the action screaming desperation. And you weren’t one to refuse your wife - your mate - her pleasure. After all, she was carrying your pups. Your successors.

Your dynasty.

“Tell me what you want, mate,” you say against her lips. The kiss is heated and messy, tongues mingling together in the hot throw of combined passion. She whines softly and the sound causes your hips to jerk forward.

“I want you…” you devour her words with a hungering growl. “I want you to touch me, please…”

There it was. She misses your touch. Exactly what you wanted to hear. Parting your lips from the kiss you chuckle, the sound dark and dangerous in your infatuation with the woman under you.

“Good girl.”

Your fingers brush up her exposed thigh, her little maternal dress doing things to your wolf brain that made it go haywire with unbridled, primal desire. With a groan you push aside the damp fabric of her panties and use your thumb to circle her clit.

The quiver in her legs a telltale sign of her weakness for your touch, leaving her to turn into putty and you’d only just begun. “Is this what you wanted, mate? You wanted my fingers to be buried in you?” You taunt.

“Please.” She continues to beg. You tilt you head, obvious in your torture to hear her beg for more, for what she craved.

“Please what?”

“I want your fingers inside me, oh fuck, please!”

Shit, her sounds are music to your ears. You use two fingers to smear the slick of her arousal along her awaiting entrance, her hips grinding with enthusiastic vigour.

“Fuck, you look so good like this, baby. So needy for me.”

She mewls in response to your fingers teasing her cunt. She wants to feel your fingers stuffing her full, ploughing her tight tunnel until you’re all three knuckle deep fucking her. She wants to cum around your clawed fingers, to feel that dangerous and sharp coil that leads her right over the edge of bliss.

The pools of her euphoria by your ministrations await her.

“Let me feel your claws.”

“Oh, Sweetheart,” you drawl lowly, “I love it when you ask for the claws.”

You waste no more time. You push two fingers past her folds, her walls wet and welcoming and hot; tightly wrapped around your clawed digits. She moans sharply and her head leans back into the pillow. You thrust your fingers at a steady pace. You ensure that you reach the very end of your knuckles to reach as far as you’re able, your claws gently scrape her spongy walls, dragging moans from deep within her core.

Wanda moans again when your fingers brush that sensitive, deep spot, her hips buck up to meet the next thrust of your hand in hopes of reaching it again. You chuckle again at the pure, chaotic need in her eyes that plead for you.

“You want to cum around my fingers, mate?”

“Y-yes!” she can feel it in her core, the rubberband ready to snap with her climactic high. “Please, Y/N, please let me cum.”

“Go on, Sweetheart. Cum for me.” Her mouth falls apart just as she does around your thrusting digits, her teeth sink into the plush bottom of her lip to conceal the volume of her pleasured cries. Her fingers ring the sheets in an iron grip until she’s threatening to tear them apart.

You whisper soft praises against the skin of her cheek with a smirk. Nobody knew the gorgeous visage of her face when she came, only you and that was a sight you’d treasure to the end of time. Nobody else would bear witness to the way her body silently begs for you, how she grinds and thrusts her hips in response to your electric touch.

She breathes in deeply through her nose while you slow your fingers down, dragging her high out that little bit longer until you bring a complete stop. Fuck, how her swollen form looked utterly beautiful in the sunlit curtain of day, eyes clouded in their post-sex state, you slide a hand over the curve of her belly.

“You look so beautiful like this,” you sigh with a wistful look, “so full of my pups.” Wanda can see the excitement grow in your eyes, that glow of amber unable to be hidden when your desire becomes well known.

“Your pups,” she says in agreement. You hear the lust in her tone, the want for more evident.

“Oh, little witch.” Wanda could’ve sworn she could cum again just from hearing your husky, lust-laced voice use the nickname. You lean over her until she is pinned between you and the bed; the two greatest comforts she could ever know.

She smiles shyly up at you. “So fucking beautiful, so round with my pups. Our second litter.” She moans softly and her hands run through the mused length of your hair as you ravish her neck with love bites. The sensation tickles but once your teeth graze over her mark, her legs quiver together before they lock around your hips, already pulling you down to where you both connect so perfectly.

“Fuck, I need you.”

“And I’ll give it to you.”

Before you can begin to tug down the waistband of your pants does Wanda stop you. Your amber hues glow brightly in interest to her sudden need to halt the sensual operation. You hum to her softly to urge her to continue.

“I… I thought maybe we could try something a little different,” she says, biting her lip harder this time. Okay, now you’re fucking curious. “What is it?”

She takes a moment and you see the hesitance in her eyes. She’s reconsidering saying anything but you lift her unsure eyes to meet yours. You offer a kind smile, one that she knows she can trust without fear, that you are on her side; always.

“Whatever it is, I’m game.”

That’s all the remaining push she needs from you to ask.

Thank you for Reading! (◕ ᴥ x)

TREEHOUSE TAGLIST —

@alexawynters

#marvel #female reader #gn reader #male reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x werewolf! reader #wanda x reader #werewolf reader #wanda x werewolf! reader smut #wanda x you #wanda x y/n #wanda maximoff fluff #werewolf #marvel mcu #treehouse taglist #the dark demeter writing catalogue

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afewproblems · 1 year

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Rain falls lightly, pattering in the grass. The misty gloom feels appropriate, Eddie thinks to himself as he plays with the unlit cigarette in his hands.

It's cool out, he thinks. Grey and quiet, mid-morning still by the light.

Eddie doesn't look up as a pair of sneakers enter his peripheral.

Steve sighs and sits down, despite the wet grass, close enough that Eddie feels the slight warmth radiating out from him.

Neither speak for a minute. Both content to watch the rain paint the landscape.

"Talked to your uncle today," Steve blurts out. His voice sounds rough, ragged even, as he sighs.

Eddie turns slightly, taking in the slump of Steve's shoulders, the red rimmed eyes.

"He'll probably be by later I think, same with Dustin," Steve sniffs once and rubs his nose with the back of his hand.

"Max is still in the hospital, but the uh, doc says it's looking like she'll be okay".

Eddie smiles, tucking the cigarette behind his ear.

This is the first time they've heard something definitive about Little Red, a tightness in his chest he hadn't realized was there finally begins to loosen.

"And Dustin's milking his sprain for all its worth, the little asshole knows exactly what he's doing," Steve snorts as he brings his knees up to his chest.

The rain is falling slightly harder now, plastering Steve's hair to his forehead, his grey jacket looks absolutely soaked through, but he doesn't move.

Eddie wishes belatedly that there was a tree nearby, something to shield them from the deluge.

"God," Steve barks out suddenly, "you fucking idiot, I told you, I told you, not to be a hero".

Steve presses the heels of both hands into his eyes roughly and sniffs again before swiping a hand through his wet hair, "the kids are all okay, I just thought you should know, it isn't fair that you didn't get to see the end of it".

Eddie nods, quietly, spinning a ring on his left hand as Steve stands up with a small pained groan. His hands jump to his sides before he's able to stand completely upright once more.

And for just a second Eddie swears that Steve is making eye contact, that a glimmer of recognition appears in his wide brown eyes.

But his gaze moves through Eddie, down to the black plaque embedded in the earth.

"I'll see ya Eds," Steve says softly. He lingers for a moment longer before he turns and makes his way back to the gravel path.

"I'll be here," Eddie whispers quietly after a beat.

Steve can't hear him anyway.

#uh oh we going with sad stuff today #steve harrington #stranger things #eddie munson #cw canonical character death #sorry everyone #oof baboof #afewproblemswrites

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zer05trange · 2 months

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Roaring Sea

IV. Good Things

⋆｡°✩ (childe x fem!reader)✩°｡⋆

⋆｡°✩ wc: 3.5k

⋆｡°✩warnings: angst, graphic violence, slight gore (blood), mentions of sickness and getting sick

⋆｡°✩: series masterlist

“Ivan, you can go ahead and clock out for today,” You say, with your arms deep within the oven, “I do need you all day tomorrow, though. You’ll probably need to close, if that’s okay with you.”

“Yes ma’am,” You hear him from behind you. He should be satisfied with that, he was rightfully busy with school over the past few months, so he hasn’t got many hours in recently.

The boy proceeds to leave the store after getting half of the tips, and when he opens the door, a gust of cold wind blows in. You immediately start shivering. Even with the many years you’ve lived in Snezhnaya, her cold touch always froze you half to death.

As the sun started to set, it began to be more dangerous to be outside for any longer than necessary. Your mind begins to wonder about Tartaglia, and how he’s fairing in the biting weather. It had been around 13 hours since he left you earlier that morning, so he must have felt the frostiness of the winter at some point in the day.

You need to stop thinking about him, though difficult, because the mere thought of him makes you anxious. And at this point, you can’t tell whether the anxiousness is from worriment or excitement. So instead, you try to focus your brain on closing your bakery for the day and serving your last customers.

By the time that the least customer left your bakery, and all of your. closing tasks were finished, it was close to 11:00pm. You sigh as you turn off the lights and head upstairs, locking the door behind you.

You quickly change into some comfortable house-clothes before walking over to the kitchen to heat up the leftover soup that Tartaglia brought the night before. You heat the bowl on the stove and steeping a pot of tea, flipping through pages of a novel while you wait. Eventually, you take your filled bowl and mug over to your sofa, where you begin to eat your meal.

You stare at the wall opposite you, looking at the vast amounts of pictures and paintings that mounted it. If anyone saw you, they'd be able to tell that something was bothering you. That may have been because of Tartaglia’s absence, or the whole Tartaglia situation itself. You can't tell.

You continue to eat and stare, trying to keep your peace amongst your sea of thoughts. And you do achieve some sort of peace for a few minutes.

That is, until you hear loud noises coming from outside the window of your back room.

It makes you jump, at first. There’s yelling, and clashing of metal, and even screams. You quickly, yet quietly, make your way to the source of the sound. The back window faces the other side of Snezhnaya.

There isn’t a nice city street to gaze upon, but rather the isolating and barren landscape of the Snezhanayan mountains. You get close to the window, and even with minimal lighting outside, you can see that there are two groups of people having some sort of… battle.

One group is being cornered against a large, snow-covered rock, while the other, which is much larger in size, approaches them. You realize that the more powerful group is unmistakably a Fatui squad.

There are a few agents, cicin mages, as well as a legionnaire and a vanguard. They’re massive, as well, but they’re forming a protective u-shape around someone. It must be their leader, you think, as the group seemingly follows each meticulous move from the center. You squint your eyes to get a better look at the group causing so much noise, but the darkness outside hinders your ability to get a clear look.

The vanguard lunges for the main leader of the smaller group, which you think is a band of treasure hoarders, and grabs at him. He turns the hoarder around by the back of the neck, where he’s now facing the Fatui group, about four inches off the ground as well. The Fatui leader gets closer to him, barking something unintelligible at the man before bringing his hand up to the neck of the hoarder.

The Fatuu swipes their hand across the man’s neck causing it to slit open. As the leader does so, you could swear that you saw a flash of purple-like lightning. The man’s throat opens and blood gets everywhere. Everywhere. You put your hand over your mouth to cover a gasp as the vanguard drops the man to the ground, whose body is convulsing on its way to death.

This is the first time you’ve seen someone die. Sure, you’ve beat some people up for commissions, even a treasure hoarder or two, but killed someone? Never, and you can’t see yourself doing so. It makes you feel nauseated to see how the man’s life was ripped away so fast.

But you can't look away. You keep watching as the Fatui are signaled by their leader to ambush the rest of the hoarder group. You witness how they butcher each and every one of the smaller, weaker group. You see the hoarders being bashed by the vanguard’s hammer, slashed to pieces by the agent’s blades, and how cicins and frost are released by the mage and legionnaire. You want to look away, but your eyes remain glued to the scene.

Their leader gets in on the action and is somehow more violent and bloodthirsty than the rest, despite being less muscular than the others. You can tell from here that the leader is a man, as well.

He begins to slash and stab using some sort of water-like sword, and you know that means he’s not just some Fatui soldier. He has a vision and a delusion, he must be a harbinger.

The blood of the hoarders soaks into the snow, a deep pool of crimson surrounding the entire scene. The Fatui group starts celebrating in victory as the last hoarder goes silent, and they turn around to head the opposite way. Since they now face your general direction, you attempt to hide yourself while still watching the group. They get closer and closer to the streetlights of the strip you live on, and you stay to see what exactly was going on. Their leader gets into a visible light first, and your eyes blow wide.

The leader has a disgusting grimace on his face, with eyes blown wide and a face of pure malice donning on him. His irises are so small you can barely see them, but rather, a sea of white paints over his eyes. He has a grin akin to the cheshire cat, each corner pulled to a supernatural looking upturn. It’s a face of nightmares, one so scary that it distracts you from the fact that the face belongs to

Tartaglia.

You freeze in place.

No, absolutely no way. It cannot actually be him. There’s no way that the sweet, fun-loving Tartaglia you knew is the same man you were looking at at the moment. It couldn't be possible that the left cheek which is covered in a helpless man’s blood, was the same one that you softly brushed flour off of. The face that you woke up to this morning, the face you kissed this morning, was the same face that donned such a horrifying expression. The eyes that looked at your face with so much adoration, were unrecognizable as they were clouded over in a bloodthirsty haze.

You can’t believe it.

Out the fear of being caught, or pure weakness, you fall to the floor and out of the window's view. You can feel your dinner coming up from your stomach, but you physically cannot move. You’re shaking, you feel so numb that you can’t feel the multiple tears streaming out from your waterline and down your face.

He didn’t just lie to you about his job, but he actively kept it from you. A harbinger one of the most dangerous and well-known individuals in all of Tevyat, has now been frequenting your bakery almost every day.

There’s no way people don’t know, right? More socially knowledgeable Snezhnayans visit your shop every day and must see you happily chatting to a Fatui Harbinger.

It begins to make sense to you, even in a state of shock. His body being covered in scars, the fact that he never took you outside of the bakery, or how he always left in the early hours of the morning.

How many people has he killed? How many dark deeds has he done, and then come into your home to hold and kiss you as if nothing happened?

And his face was so, so horrifying. Distorted to the point where it was almost unrecognizable to the person he’s spent almost every night with. His lightless eyes blown so wide, and even being in the darkness for so long, his pupils were almost invisible.

His smile, not that you could call it that, was so wide and full of pure bloodlust. And there was blood all over his face, the parts that you kissed, held, and brushed over with your thumb almost daily. It was in his mouth, as if he had internal injuries, and matted itself in his hair. The hair you love to brush through, grab at, and ruffle.

Your sobs are silent. At some point, you get yourself to your bathroom, where you sit beside the toilet in case you get sick after what you’ve seen. Through your choked sobs and curled up body, you feel exhaustion setting in. And eventually, with your back against the bathtub, you fall asleep against the cold tile.

the next day

Today was a good day for Ajax. He got through with training his Fatui underlings before lunchtime, and quickly finished off his day with mandatory, though grueling, paperwork. He was working efficiently, but it was very quick-paced, even for him. He knows exactly why he was so quick in his actions today, too. He can’t deny it any longer, he’s fallen for a woman who runs a bakery.

He never thought he’d see the day. He thought his heart was too cold. He wouldn’t even say he had a heart, not after falling down and witnessing the horrors of the abyss. He cared for his family so deeply that the abyss couldn’t even take it away from him, but one other person in his heart? He couldn’t imagine a world where he could let another person into it.

But now he’s living that reality.

He's never felt the feeling of it outside of his immediate family, but he has to be sure about it. The feeling that warmed his frozen heart, is love. It has to be.

And it scares the 11th.

It scares him how much he worries for you once he leaves your presence. It scares him how for the longest time, you acted as if you denied any idea of a future with him. It scares him when he thinks of you moving on from him, and finding someone else. But that recurring thought is more than fright, it brings on anger and anxiety.

As he walks down the city, he thinks of the idea, and immediately brushes it off before his electro delusion sets off. Again.

He needs to tell you about his job, and soon.

It’s not like he intentionally meant to keep it from you from the start, it was Teucer who introduced you to Ajax through his stories, and Ajax had to keep that up around his brother. You just got caught in a protective lie.

And his name, you need to know it. He’ll give it a few more dates, Ajax thinks. He needs you in his future, without the lies and without the cover-ups.

It’s only 5:00PM, and he’s sure that he can get you to close the bakery early to go on your planned date with him. He’s wearing a more put-together and warm outfit than his usual uniform and even found himself double-checking his look in the mirror to look good for you. In his eyes, you’re so gorgeous, too beautiful for his tainted eyes to look upon. So, to try and get even get close to your level of beauty, he took some extra time in getting ready.

He tightens his scarf around the bottom of his face. Man, the weather today is intense. Ajax begins to wonder whether going outside with you is the smartest idea. But it has to be, if it's what you want.

He’s always known that he wants to add to his family, regardless of whether he could ever love again or not. But now, he has someone he loves, and someone that he could see fitting in perfectly to his future. So he has to try, Ajax has to win the battle over your affections.

And if that means he has to be out in the cold, or anywhere else other than the comfort of your little apartment, he would stand out in the weather for thousands of hours. If it meant he could be with you.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he missed the bakery by a few steps. He quickly retraces them to the front door of the shop, and looks into the bakery from its large glass panes. You aren’t in there, or in sight at least, instead there’s a boy behind the counter.

Oh hell no.

He confidently enters the bakery and makes a bee-line to the front counter.

“Welcome, is there anything I can help you with today?” He hears the man speak.

“Where’s Y/N?” Ajax asks with a friendly tone. But the glint in his eyes is nothing but friendly, instead, he’s staring down the man with dangerous eyes.

“Ms. Y/N is sick at the moment. If you need me to take a word for you, I’ll gladly tell her when she’s bett–”

“No,” Ajax barks at the boy before making his way behind the counter and to the door leading up to your home. He sees who he hopes is just your employee getting ready to defend your privacy, but Ajax just side-eyes him and scoffs before opening the unlocked door, and locking it from behind him.

He makes his way up the steps, as he begins to worry over your health. Sick? In the months he’s known you, you’ve never felt under the weather. Specifically, on the one day he was going to take you out and ask you to be something official with him. That can’t be intentional–right? Not after yesterday morning.

He reaches the front door to your home, and hesitates to turn the knob. What if you’re too sick to see him, or you don’t want to see him? He finds how disgustingly dependent he is when it comes to you.

He turns the knob, finding that it is locked. So he tries to knock, three separate times. On the third, he hears your voice. Oh thank the archons, you’re decent enough to speak. Though your voice is hoarse.

“Ivan? Is that you?” You respond from the other side of the door. Who the fuck is Ivan?

He hears you unlock the door, and open it. He notices you before you notice it’s him, and you do look like you’ve been sick. Your hair is unkempt, and your eyes have darker circles around them, and they’re puffy. You’ve been crying.

He’ll slaughter the person that made you this upset.

But before he can say anything, you lock eyes with him, and sharply inhale through your teeth.

A gasp? Why are you

“How did you get up here?” You hiss at him. Your face is full of fear, as well. Ajax thinks of the thousands of reasons you could possibly be so alert, each possibility making him more anxious.

“Your door was unlocked! We were going out today... right?” He says with a nervous chuckle, trying to qualm whatever mood you were in.

“You can’t be in here,” You respond shakily, taking a step backward from him each second.

“Y/N, what’s wrong?” Ajax says, “Can we talk?”

He closes the door behind him, against your wishes. His face is now as worried as yours is, yet you’re trembling in his presence. Your face is no longer looking at his, now it faces the floor.

“You want to talk now?” Your face still looking at the floor, “Yet you didn’t want to tell me that you’re in the Fatui? That you are a harbinger?”

Oh.

“Y/N, I–”

“You what? Were you ever going to tell me?" You bark quietly.

He stays silent, so you continue.

"When were you going to tell me that when you weren’t with me, you were mercilessly slaughtering helpless people?” Your words are filled with venom, like you were condemning him with your statements.

“Y/N, who told you about this?” He responds, his voice getting shaky itself.

“Why? So you can go kill them too?” Your voice begins to raise before you take a deep breath, “I saw you! and you looked so- so…”

“Y/N–”

“Stop it! Stop saying my name,” You yell at him, “If you wanted to keep this from me, you should maybe be quieter when you go and kill someone right outside of my home.”

“I never meant to keep it from you,” He says, in a voice much quieter than your own.

“Last time I checked, a toy maker was a little different from being a harbinger, Childe.”

The use of his Fatui alias shocked him. Have you just been mulling and researching over this all day? It’s unlike you, almost too unlike you. He never said that name, did he? Where did you get this information?

“A Toy-maker is what I use to keep what I do from my young brother,” He snaps, then realizing the tone he just took with you. He takes a deep breath and a pause before continuing, “I am so sorry. I really am, and I was going to tell you. But I can’t tell just anyone what I do.”

He knows the second it left his mouth, he knew he fucked up.

“Just anyone,” You repeat with a small, pained smile, “you need to leave, now.”

“No– Y/N, I didn’t mean it like that,” He responds, taking a step closer to you. You back away in fear, while simultaneously summoning a sword out of pure elemental energy. You bring your sword in front of you, as a means to protect you.

He stands back, out of respect and shock. You drew your weapon on him... something he never thought you'd do outside of a playful spar. His eyes widen at your gesture, as he puts his hands at his side.

“I am scared,” You almost whisper. He can feel his stomach drop when you mutter it, too. The one person, in all of Tevyat that shouldn’t be scared of him, just declared it right in his presence, "What am I supposed to do, Tartaglia? I mean, I don't even know your name!"

“You have no reason to be scared, you are one of the most protected citizens in this nation. Even when I’m not there, you’re still protected,” He tries to comfort you. But that didn’t work, because your eyes were blown wide at his confession.

“What do you mean by that? Do you have people stalking me?” You yell at him, “Tartaglia I am scared of you. I was scared by what I witnessed. And I am scared of the face I saw on you last night," You spit out nervously. His heart cracks slightly, an unnerving and unfamiliar feeling.

"You enjoy it, don’t you? You enjoy stripping the lives away of others, I could tell. Honestly, Tartaglia, I would be okay with the whole Fatui thing, I would. But your face, and your smile, after killing someone? I don’t think I can–” You cut yourself off, “Please, just leave. I don’t want people watching me, so stop that too. You don’t need to come back either.”

He can’t find the words to explain himself any longer. He wants to scream that he loves you, and he never meant to keep anything from you.

But in a rare defeat, he begins to take steps backward toward the door. The entire time he gets closer to the door, he’s looking at you. He can see how a few tears escaped your eyes, and how the sword you’re holding is shaking along with your body at this point.

“Alright Y/N,” He mutters quietly, before turning the knob and softly closing the door behind him.

He could feel it physically, the heart he thought was no longer there, was breaking. He should’ve seen it coming, he had a few fleeting months of happiness, but all good things must come to an end for him.

⋆｡°✩a/n: this fic is actually anti—situationship propaganda >:). Thank you for reading, next chapter will be out soon!

⋆｡°✩tag list: @inlovewithlondonn @zamorazz @ay4tou @kur0melon @boomie-123 @esthelily @i-simp-for-giyuu @itsflowerdomethings @whatamidoing89 @luvrkise

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whencyclopedia · 19 days

Photo

Dogs in Ancient Egypt

The dog as "man's best friend" has a long history going back to the ages long before the civilization of ancient Egypt was established but the Egyptians were among the earliest people to recognize the value of the dog and show their appreciation for its particular skills and talents.

Ancient Egypt is well known for its association with cats but the dog was equally popular and highly regarded. Egyptologist Margaret Bunson notes that dogs "were probably domesticated in Egypt in the Pre-Dynastic eras" and they "served as hunters and as companions for the Egyptians and some mentioned their hounds in their mortuary texts" (67). An early tomb painting dated to c. 3500 BCE shows a man walking his dog on a leash in a scene recognizable to anyone in the modern day.

The dog collar and leash were most likely developed by the Sumerians earlier although evidence for both of these in Mesopotamia appears later than 3500 BCE in objects like a golden Saluki pendant from Ur dated to 3300 BCE. It is probable, however, that the Sumerians - among their many other inventions - also created the dog collar and leash since the dog was domesticated earlier in that region than in Egypt.

Domestication & the Dog

Animals such as cattle, sheep, goats, pigs, asses, and different kinds of birds were domesticated in the Pre-Dynastic Period (c.6000 - c. 3150 BCE) as evidenced by grave goods and overuse of the land for grazing. By the time of the Early Dynastic Period (c. 3150-c. 2613 BCE) cattle were the most important animal and were regarded as objects of substantial wealth as made clear through the Egyptian Cattle Count which was a form of calculating and collecting taxes.

Prior to the domestication of any of these animals, however, is that of the dog. Scholars have reached this conclusion based upon physical evidence from graves as well as inscriptions and tomb paintings. The dog, either a Basenji, Greyhound, or Saluki, is frequently depicted helping to herd cattle, wearing a wide collar fastened with a bow at the back of the neck.

According to historian Jimmy Dunn, dogs "served a role in hunting, as guard and police dogs, in military actions, and as household pets" (1). The Egyptian word for dog was iwiw which referenced their bark (Dunn, 1). Whether as hunters and companions or guards, police, or religious figures, the dog was a common feature of the ancient Egyptian landscape.

#History #AnimalHusbandry #Anubis #Egypt #WHE #[#]

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slippinmickeys · 4 months

Note

Prompt: ballet slippers, chocolate pudding in a can, Wyoming

The house, when they walked in, was like nothing she’d ever seen before—striped wallpaper on the ceiling, paisley carpet on the floor, a circus worth of color on every surface. It was like a Carlton Varney fever dream; like a brothel with aspirations. Mulder actually paused in the doorway and leaned back out to double check the address number on the side of the house.

“Wow,” Scully said, daintily setting down her suitcase a few feet inside the door. She wanted to make a joke, but Mulder looked appalled.

“We can go home,” he said quickly. “We don’t have to stay.”

His tone was such that she suspected he might be on the verge of having a panic attack.

“I was promised a weekend away,” she said calmly, reaching past him to close the door. She took his own suitcase from his hand and set it down next to hers.

“Anyway,” she went on, “it’s just a place to…sleep.”

With that his attention returned to her and she thought she saw his cheek tic, threatening to smile. Giving him an arched eyebrow and a squeeze of the hand, she turned away from him to explore the flat, curiosity overtaking every other impulse.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “The reviews were great.”

Scully sauntered over to the corner where there was a small kitchenette; bright green cabinets, a hot pink coffee maker. She opened up a cupboard. The inside was lined with contact paper featuring a cornucopia of citrus, upon which sat a single can of chocolate pudding. Scully didn’t recognize the brand.

“Quaint and cozy?” she asked, turning back to him.

“Whimsical and fun,” he said sheepishly.

She had to resist the urge to laugh.

Mulder finally spurred himself into action, reaching up into the nearest lamp and giving it a few futile clicks. When it failed to produce light, he began hunting along the wall for a light switch. When he finally found one, he flicked it, and it was then that Scully’s gaze was pulled upward.

Hanging from the ceiling fan was a pair of soft pink ballet slippers, tied to the blades by their satin ribbons. As the fan began to move, roused into motion by Mulder flipping the switch, the slippers began to turn, toes out, spinning gracefully in a perpetual arabesque.

Scully smiled. “Cute.”

“I’m afraid one’s going to come flying off and kick me in the face,” Mulder said, eyes still dubiously skyward. “And I already feel weirdly beat up.”

Scully ignored him and casually continued her tour of the flat, passing by a rather tame painted landscape of rocky mountainous outcrops, the script underneath reading Jackson Hole, Wyoming. However, as she continued to walk past it, the picture gradually changed in a holographic effect, revealing, when she got to the other side of it, a painting of a woman lounging provocatively spread eagled, her fleshy breasts exactly mirroring the Tetons of the landscape. Scully paused to squint at the cursive label, which now read simply Wyoming Jackson’s Hole.

She couldn’t help but bark out a laugh.

“What?” Mulder called from across the room.

“You’re going to like the art,” she told him, approaching the only other doorway in the place, which had to lead to the small apartment’s en suite.

She pulled up short. The bedroom was just as outlandishly decorated as the rest of the flat, but the room’s main draw was an absolutely palatial four poster bed, curtained on all sides by bright red velvet with fringe, pulled back just enough to reveal a monolith of a mirror tucked into the canopy.

Mulder came up to stand beside her, huffing out a long whistle.

“This in the reviews?” she asked him, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“The term ‘whimsical’ was doing a lot of heavy lifting,” he said. “But no one mentioned the bed was a mirrored grotto.”

Scully felt for him—he’d been excitedly planning this for weeks. He’d promised to take her out of town for a quiet romantic getaway. She would not let him sink into a funk over something as trivial as heinous decor. She ducked out from under his heavy arm and took him by the hand, pulling him into the room.

“Do a little heavy lifting yourself,” she said suggestively, “and we can field test the term ‘fun.’”

He finally cracked a smile and followed her into the room.

#thanks for the prompt babe #Charlotte would love it 😘

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humanpurposes · 10 months

Text

Karma is a God

Chapter 11: The Red Keep

The Dance of the Dragons begins on a lie, and Aemond owes a debt, one Lucerra will see repaid in Fire and Blood // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond x Lucerra Velaryon (fem!Lucerys)

Warnings for this chapter: spoilers for F&B and future seasons of HotD, canon divergence, descriptions of violence

Words: 6400

A/n: also avaliable to read on AO3.

The world is all black, the sky and the sea below her. Somehow she still knows where to go, which way is North, which way will lead her back home.

Home.

Home is not where it used to be.

She feels the spray of saltwater as the waves crash and burst over one another, and suddenly she remembers the hunger aching in her stomach.

Her head plunges into the water and her body after it. She doesn’t feel the cold and it doesn’t surprise her. She dives so far, snatching fish between her jaws, before she resurfaces and bolts into the air.

She does this over and over until the hunger is satisfied.

A light creeps through the sky. The light burns like fire and she feels safe. It tells her it’s time to go.

Home.

She climbs higher into the air. There are no clouds to hide in and it makes her nervous, but she follows her instincts, over the waves, towards the shore and the castle that overlooks the bay. She spreads out her wings and cuts effortlessly through the air.

The red bricks of the keep catch the light of the sun as it inches above the horizon. Her eyes are drawn to a window and a balcony that face south. She can’t explain how she knows what the window means, but she feels it.

Home.

Bound.

Soul.

It’s cold in her bedchamber and the sunrise is starting to glare through the windows.

This is the same chamber she slept in as a child, half her own lifetime ago, but it’s much changed. The tapestries depicting Valryian myths and histories have long been exchanged for what Alicent Hightower must think are more savoury images of Westerosi landscapes, images of the Seven, intertwining vines and branches.

Above the bed there used to be a tapestry that told the story of the conquest. Aegon, with his ruby set crown, his Queens by his side and their dragons dancing in the sky above them, Balerion, Meraxes and Vhagar.

In its place now is a painting of a weirwood tree, pale bark, sprawling roots and red leaves gleaming through a scene of night. In its centre a face is carved into the trunk, with red sap bleeding from its eyes. She can’t quite remember what the face means but she thinks Harwin Strong might have known. He used to know all sorts of ancient stories.

She rises in time to see Grey Ghost circle over the city and glide towards the Kingswood. He simply won’t settle in the Dragon Pit, which she supposes is only natural. He’s been wild his whole life, why would he accept confinement now?

Her feet carry her to the balcony and she traces her fingertips over the texture of the worn stone surface of the balustrade.

She can’t escape the sea, it seems. Her bedchamber faces south over the Blackwater and the Kingswood beyond that. If she cannot see it, she hears it, and even when she sleeps she dreams of it.

She used to love the sea.

She used to cling to Laenor’s hand as Jace ran ahead of them, down to the shore underneath the Red Keep to watch the sunrise and paddle her feet in the water. Their father taught them how to swim and how to sail. Rhaenyra used to bring her atop Syrax when Arrax was too little to ride, and they’d glide over the bay. When they came to live at Dragonstone she spent every spare moment she could exploring the rock pools, splashing amongst the waves and drying out on the sand. The sound of the waves used to send her to sleep and tell her that she was home, that she was safe.

She used to love the sea. And now it scares her.

Her handmaiden dresses her in a dark blue silk gown that flows and shimmers like water. Her mother would prefer her to wear black but she can’t stand the colour anymore.

She makes sure to eat most of the food her handmaiden has brought for her, and a cup of tart cherry juice before she walks unaccompanied towards the Small Council chamber.

Whispers follow her once more through the Red Keep.

Princess… Dragonstone… heir…

In Rainwood, they say a ghost circled the bay in the days after she drowned. In the North, rumours spread of an enchantress who drifted into Winterfell on a snowstorm and bewitched Lord Stark into falling deeply in love with her. Those who survived the sacking of Spicetown and Hightide celebrate the dragonrider who brought fire and fury to their attackers. The Black Princess, they call her, who defied the stranger and tamed a wild dragon.

To the world around her she is a tragedy, a cautionary tale for her uncle’s brutality, a Princess thrown into a position that should have been her brother’s, before his untimely demise.

She saw it in the faces of Alicent and Otto Hightower when they were brought before their Queen.

Rhaenyra didn’t rest the night they took the city. She sat encircled in steel swords, the crown of The Consolidator on her head, glowing dimly under the braziers, and demanded every soul in the castle be made to swear their allegiance to her. The ceremony lasted until dawn, Rhaenyra keeping a firm grip on the arms of the Iron Throne until her hands bled.

Daemon stood before their prisoners, Dark Sister unsheathed and lowered by his side. Lord Corlys, Baela, and the Lords of the Black Council watched on.

Luke stood below the throne in her red riding robes and silver breastplate, her sword on her hip and her dark curls flowing proudly down her back, made wild and unruly by her flight on dragonback.

Otto Hightower came first, with the other Lords of the Green Council.

Daemon gave him the same order he had given every other Lord, Lady, knight, maid, servant, cook and stableboy. “Swear fealty to Rhaenyra as your Queen, and Princess Lucerra as heir to the Iron Throne.”

Luke realised Otto was staring at her, his eyes heavy with what she might have named as remorse– if she thought him capable of it.

Then he glared up at the Queen.

“I recognise only one sovereign, our rightful King.”

Luke hardly flinched as Dark Sister sliced clean through his neck, and soon after the neck of Jasper Wylde. She watched their bodies slump unceremoniously and their blood paint the floor, just as she had watched Vaemond Velaryon meet the same end.

Alicent’s presence in the hall was announced by a gasping shriek. She wept at the sight of her father’s remains, clasping one hand over her mouth and reached behind her with the other. Helaena hardly seemed aware of what was happening around her, clinging onto the arm of a handmaiden, keeping her head hung and her eyes fixed upon the ground beneath her feet. When her mother reached for her, she flinched away.

“Swear fealty to Rhaenyra as your Queen, and Princess Lucerra as heir to the Iron Throne,” Daemon said, proudly and clearly.

Alicent’s red eyes trailed around the room, and settled on Luke. She stared at her like she was terrified of her, as though she had seen a ghost.

If Alicent and Otto had believed her to be dead she wondered what the chances were of Aemond thinking the same.

“Call a great council,” Alicent uttered, looking up to Rhaenyra. She came to her knees, soaking her gown in the pool of blood, clasping her hands before her chest. “Call a council as the Old King once did, and the Lords may decide who to crown King or Queen. No more blood needs to be spilled!” she pleaded as she began to sob.

Luke looked to her mother. Rhaenyra’s eyes seemed to go right through her old friend. She had been willing to negotiate in the early days, before the dispute became a war, before she had started to bury her children.

“We know how a great council would rule,” she said. Her voice was quiet but furious in a way her father had never been.

Any hope then that the Dowager Queen might have had shattered. Her grief became desperation, which in turn became fury. She dragged herself to her feet, her face red, blood trailing down her skirts. “Then where does this end? You have the city but you will not hold it for long. My son Aemond will return with fire and blood when he learns of this!”

Luke clung onto the way her voice faltered when she said his name.

Rhaenyra tilted her head to Daemon. He seemed to understand this command and ordered that Alicent and Helaena be taken to their chambers and guarded as prisoners.

Did Alicent condemn her son when he returned from Storm’s End, or did she celebrate his victory as Aegon had? Did she truly think he would be foolish enough to advance on all their dragons? Unless she thought his love for his family would spur him. That wasn’t a question Luke could answer. She didn’t know of Aemond’s love for his family, or if there was anything in his heart other than hatred and cruelty.

She takes her place amongst the Small Council, standing over her mother’s shoulder as she sits at the head of the table. Daemon sits to her right and Baela stands behind her father. Lord Celtigar of Claw Isle, Lord Bar Emmon of Sharp Point and Maester Geradys sit to the Queen’s left, and at the other head sits Lord Corlys, flanked by Alyn and Addam Velaryon. Ser Steffon, Ser Lorent and Ser Erryk stand to the side of the chamber.

Rhaenyra’s first order is that word be sent to the Eyrie, to summon Joffrey and Rhaena to King’s Landing.

Luke’s heart leaps at the hope of seeing her brother and sister again, but that hope is dispelled when she thinks of the grief that could resurface when she will get to see them.

Daemon is overseeing the questioning of Tyland Lannister, who, despite being tortured and gelded, has refused to give them any word of the crown’s treasury.

“They have left us with nothing,” Daemon says, “we cannot keep the city without gold.”

“What would you propose we do?” Lord Corlys asks, his tone subtle but scathing. He’s been irritable at best since the sacking of Hightide and Spicetown. At worst, council meetings turn into shouting matches between him and Daemon.

Luke doesn’t blame him. From Ser Laenor she knew Lord Corlys is a proud man, gradually worn down with loss after loss. What is he now? A childless widower and the Lord of an island in ruins.

Daemon smirks as he always does when he senses tension, he smells it like a shark to blood. “We increase taxes on the smallfolk. They bowed to a usurper. Now they can pay to rebuild the city’s defences.”

“They themselves have nothing,” Corlys says.

“Security comes at a price,” Daemon returns, coldly, “they will be grateful for their Queen’s protection.”

Rhaenyra nods in agreement and the other Lords follow.

“War costs us all,” Lord Bar Emmon adds, “sacrifices must be made.”

Corlys quirks his brow and his eyes fall to Luke. She remains as impassive as she can, hands tight behind her back, fingertips stroking over her own skin. There’s never much point in trying to argue against Daemon.

And he has other announcements. “We have yet to hear of Aegon’s whereabouts.”

The false King had seemingly vanished before they reached the Red Keep, along with his son, the Conqueror’s crown and his last remaining son. Larys Strong has also not been seen.

They know they couldn’t have left the city on foot or by horseback, Daemon insists, the gold cloaks would have spotted them, but if they had left by sea they wouldn’t have made it past the Velaryon fleet.

“Could they be somewhere in the city?” Rhaenyra says, “my brother used to frequent the slums, perhaps he has burrowed like a rat.”

“If Aegon were still in King’s Landing we would know,” Daemon says, quickly.

Corlys frowns and taps his finger against the table.

Daemon continues, “we will not relent in our search, but for now there is the question of the other Princes.”

There is a noticeable shift in the air.

“Aemond is at Harrenhal and Daeron marches with the Hightowers. They will be looking to King’s Landing, waiting for the moment to strike–”

“So we strike first,” Luke says before she can stop herself.

The eyes of the room fall to her, just as they did during the councils on Dragonstone. Everytime she speaks she feels as though she’s done something wrong, disturbed the room in some way.

Daemon watches her expectantly so she continues. “Vhagar is more powerful than any dragon we possess, but we can overwhelm her. If we draw Aemond out to fight he will take the bait.”

“But he holds a defensive position,” Daemon says. “We could send our dragons to Harrenhal and in the meantime, we give Daeron an opportunity to attack while we are otherwise distracted.”

“We don’t need to attack Aemond until it is necessary,” Corlys says, “either he maintains his position or he flys to King’s Landing, in which case he will have to face eight other dragons.”

A sinking feeling strikes her gut. It occurs to her that her grandfather has never tried to argue against her before. “So we do nothing?” she says.

“We fight when we need to,” Daemon says.

“And give the Greens the time they need to amass a significant opposition?” she protests.

The Queen raises her hand. “Enough, Lucerra.”

She does not object to her mother, and listens to the rest of the Small Council in silence.

When the council is dismissed Daemon places a hand on her shoulder and leans in to mutter, “fear not, Princess, you’ll get your chance.”

She stares up at him, at the undeniable excitement in his eyes, that simmering bloodlust she has come to know well.

He tells her to change into her leathers and meet him in the courtyard.

When she arrives, Baela is with him, her own sword drawn and ready to train.

Outside of her duties she spends most of her time training, in the courtyard after Small Council meetings, or she rides out to the Kingswood with Baela and Daemon, if he can spare the hours. They spar and Luke betters her skills with her bow. First she shoots at tree trunks but lately Daemon wants her to hunt too,

She can shoot from horseback now. She keeps one hand on the reins, her grey mare following Daemon’s black stallion through the forest. When she spots the movement of a smaller animal she draws an arrow and releases it to pierce the creature’s head, leaving it for the dogs to retrieve. Only once or twice has she shot a deer. They are larger and easier to spot, but Daemon says it is precision that makes her dangerous. When the Greens start recruiting rabbit and squirrels her skills will come in very handy, but she keeps that joke to herself.

She enjoys sparring with Baela. She’s elegant when she wields a blade, evasive and precise, but Luke is stronger than her.

Baela moves first and Luke meets her with a firm block, then a quick move to an offensive.

“You cannot rely on strength” Daemon calls, “stay alive until you find the weak point.”

Baela struggles against the power of Luke’s blows but she can endure a fight well enough to wait for the right moment to take control again.

Baela lifts her sword and Luke pushes against her, but when the steel clashes, she falters. A searing pain shoots through her chest, where bruises still mark her skin.

Baela stops instantly and reaches her arms out to help her, but Luke gently pushes her hands away.

“You’ll have to fight through it,” Daemon says. “No opponent you face will be as considerate as your sister.”

Luke scowls. She doesn’t need to be told that.

The pain has lessened with time but it’s still there, aching with every step she takes back to her chambers.

When she bathes she runs her hands carefully over the purple and yellow patches of skin around her ribs, sternum and stomach.

They make her think of him and what he did to her. But in turn she thinks of the marks she left on him.

Baela says the two aren’t comparable, bruises and scars, by which she means the circumstances. Luke picked up the knife to protect her brother. Aemond mounted Vhagar to seek retribution and so his brother could claim a crown that was not his.

But what’s the point, she thinks, surely it is all pain?

It’s been months and she still flinches at the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. She still dreams of the sea, the vast expanse of cold, suffocating water.

Her maid comes to rub oils into her skin and face, to comb through her curls while her hair is wet and dress her in a comfortable gown.

She tries to make a habit of visiting her aunt when she can, in the evenings before she is expected for dinner.

The prisoners are kept separately, Helaena in the Queen’s chambers, and Alicent in the tower of the Hand. Daemon had suggested moving Helaena to other quarters and leaving the Queen’s chambers for Rhaenyra, but Rhaenyra refused, insisting she wanted to disturb her sister as little as possible.

They speak of her as though she is fragile, one wrong word and she’ll shatter like glass.

The guard opens the door and Luke announces her own arrival in a delicate voice.

Helaena sits by her window, her silver hair and white gown look more golden in the light of the sunset. Her body and her eyes face North, to the Dragonpit, Luke realises when she gets close enough to look.

They usually spend their visits in a settled silence, until Helaena turns to look up at her.

“I dreamt of you,” she says.

“Something nice, I hope,” Luke says.

She stares bewilderedly, as though Luke has told her a joke and she doesn’t understand it. She shifts along the windowsill, patting the space beside her.

Luke sits, shivering at the cold emitting through the stone below her and the glass behind her.

“May I?”

She faces Helaena and her outstretched arm. She nods and Helaena’s hand settles on her cheek, staring at a space below her eye. The cut Aemond left has faded now, but Helaena looks at the skin sadly, like she can still see it.

“He did this,” Helaena whispers simply.

Not just the faded cut, the bruises and the nightmares. Not even just Arrax, Rhaenys and Meleys. The Blacks hold the city because Aemond wasn’t here to stop them. Now Helaena is a prisoner, and she cannot even find comfort in the presence of her only living child.

Does she blame him?

Helaena withdraws her hand from Luke’s face and holds her hands in her lap, tracing patterns over her own palms. “He would never admit it, but I believe Aemond is ruled by his emotions more than anything else. He can be hard to make sense of, and to know that is to understand him.”

“Do you dream of him?” Luke asks.

Helaena frowns. “In fragments,” she says, “I’ve seen rage and grief. Blood and water. Green and black. Blue and red. Dragons and ghosts.”

“And what about me?”

Helaena hesitates.

“You can tell me,” Luke whispers, gently placing her hand on Helaena’s wrist.

She looks up from her lap. For once her eyes aren’t vacant. They’re wide and bright and blue.

“There is a trail of blood. It flows to you. It ends with you.”

She’s uncomfortably aware of her chest rising and falling. “The blood ends with me?”

Helaena’s head lolls towards her shoulder, her face starting to twist and her eyes well with tears. She reaches her free arm to her side, fingers stroking and clawing at the stone walls.

“Please…” she starts to stutter through her sobs. “Please… no more. No more.”

Luke tries to help her stand, calling for the guard.

“Fetch her ladies maids,” Luke says, gradually leading Helaena towards the bed.

“She is a prisoner,” the guard says.

“She is still the sister to the Queen!” Luke snaps. “Or find a handmaiden, anyone, I don’t want her to be left alone!”

The guard returns with two handmaidens. One carries a pot of mint tea, while the other takes Helaena’s arm from Luke and helps to settle her on the bed.

She regrets having to leave her, crying and clawing at the sheets and the mattress, reaching for something she won’t find.

Dinner is quiet. Mostly Baela and young Aegon speak excitedly of Joffrey and Rhaena’s return from the Vale. The raven has been sent and it should only take them a matter of days. Joffrey and Tyraxes could make the journey faster, but he is strictly to stay with Rhaena’s ship, away from the Riverlands.

Her maid isn’t waiting for her when she returns to her chamber. She begins to undo her jewellery and the first few strings on her gown.

Something distracts her– a soft noise from somewhere in her chamber.

She pauses, letting go of the laces at the back of her gown.

Her skin feels tight, her chest restless and jittery, like she’s being watched.

She holds her breath and waits for another sound, but all she hears are the waves of Blackwater Bay rolling over the shore.

She stands frozen until her maid returns with laundry in her arms. She apologises for not being there when the Princess returned but it hadn't crossed Luke’s mind to be angry about it.

“Did you see anyone?” Luke asks.

The maid stutters, perhaps confused by the informality. “Princess?”

“I thought…” but Luke trails off. Her eyes dart around the room and she takes a few steps to peer round the few corners where someone could hide.

It was one sound in a single moment. She comes to the conclusion that it was nothing.

“Nevermind, it might have been a rat.”

Then she spots something, by the foot of the bed, a small white shape, half hidden under the bedsheets trailing on the floor.

She tries not to look at it until the maid has put away the laundry, undressed her and helped her change into a nightshift.

“Will that be all, Princess?”

“Yes, thank you,” Luke says with a gracious smile.

Once the door is closed she looks about the room once more, expecting something to happen, for someone to jump out at her in a cruel jest. Still nothing, just the stillness of an empty room and the sound of the sea.

The shape by the bed is a small piece of paper. She picks it up with the tips of her fingers to inspect it. She turns it over and makes a note of the seal, a winged insect on amber wax.

She keeps a knife beside her bed. She takes it and carefully slices open the page, so as not to break the seal.

There is only one line, written in a hand she does not recognize, and with no signature.

The Hightowers advance faster than you think.

The days slip by. Corlys and Daemon continue to bicker. Aegon and Maelor are nowhere to be found.

She continues to train and hunt. Baela takes young Aegon for walks about the garden every day, and sometimes Luke is inclined to join.

Rhaenyra doesn’t want them going down to the beach below the keep, so they circle the fountains, the roses and the orchards. They each hold one of young Aegon’s hands, encouraging him to trail his hand under running water or climb one of the apple trees.

Their little brother has never been particularly adventurous, but he’s only retreating more into himself. It’s not how a child should be. He should be running through the corridors of the castle, causing mischief and getting into scrapes with his siblings.

Only Joffrey and Rhaena are far away in the Vale, and Jace and Viserys are gone.

Baela finds two sticks and tries to show him how to duel, which Luke thinks could come back to haunt her if he picks up a habit for hitting things. She had been like that when her uncle Aegon first taught her how to punch.

They walk on until they reach the Godswood and the single weirwood that stands proudly in the shadow of the keep. Aegon seems more content here, settling amongst the roots, tearing blades of grass from the ground and letting them fall through his fingers.

Luke and Baela share an amused look to have finally found a passtime worthy of his attention.

She looks upon the face carved into the tree, red sap falling from its eyes, just like the painting above her bed.

“My father says you’re keen to attack Harrenhal,” Baela says.

Her eyes instinctively check the sky, even though she knows it's foolish. She drags her eyes back to the face on the weirwood and focuses on her breathing, in and out, slowly through her nose.

There comes that restless feeling, but she reminds herself that the eyes on the carved face are just that, carvings, shallow markings in wood.

“I can’t say I blame you,” Baela says.

She watches the trails of red fall from the eyes, as heavy and as vibrant of blood.

There is a trail of blood. It flows to you. It ends with you.

She wasn’t there to save Jace or Viserys. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera were killed in her name. Rhaenys was taken as a fair exchange.

But she drew the first blood. The scar on her uncle’s face and the sapphire in his maimed socket is evidence of that.

This war, this trail of blood, it all comes back to her.

“This is all my fault,” she utters.

She feels the weight of Baela’s hand on her shoulder. “Don’t say that, Luke.”

Driftmark, the knife, an eye lost and a dragon gained. Whose fault was it if not hers that Aemond has grown to be the man he is?

Storm’s End, a failed negotiation, the flash of fire. She could have flown faster. She could have given Aemond her eye. She could have waited out the storm.

It ends with you.

Only she doesn’t see an end. She sees lives exchanged like currency, even by her own hands, the men of Tyrosh as payment for the lives lost on Driftmark and for her brothers.

They won’t escape the cycle of bloodshed. Her mother’s reign will never be secure while the sons of King Viserys live.

She could fly to Harrenhal and finally claim the debt she is owed, for the pain, for the war, because she used to love the sea and now she constantly feels like she’s drowning.

“Luke?”

Baela’s soft hands cup her cheeks, turning her gaze away from the face on their weirwood and to her.

She feels the dampness and the cold trail her tears leave when a breeze drifts across her skin. She doesn’t see Baela’s eyes. She sees Vhagar’s open jaws and hears Aemond’s threats whispered by the wind.

Would he revel in the chance to kill her a second time, to finish what he started above Shipbreaker Bay?

The Hightowers advance faster than you think.

Patience is a virtue, she discovers, the ability to stand in a room of Lords plotting their war, and simply listening.

Their scouts have no word of where the Hightower host is, how far they are from King’s Landing. None of the scouts they send ever come back.

“They’ve all become dragonfeed no doubt,” Daemon grumbles.

“So send dragons,” Luke says.

Corlys and Daemon seem impressed by the idea. She can’t see her mother’s face, but she sees how Daemon looks at her, attempting to convince her through his own exasperation. It’s an obvious solution, to another dragon rider at least.

“Tessarion is not Vhagar, but it could still be dangerous,” Corlys warns.

“Let me lead,” Luke says, “I can distract Daeron while the others decimate the army.”

“Your daughter has an eye for efficiency,” Daemon says to Rhaenya, reaching for her wrist. It is a feat she proved the night Driftmark was attacked. One she will prove again, as many times as it takes.

Wood scrapes against stone and Rhaenyra’s black robes fall around her as she turns to face her daughter.

Her eyes are empty, the face of a woman who has lost too much and may never know peace again.

“I let you fly before,” she says, reaching for Luke’s wrist. “I will not lose you, not again.”

Luke holds her hand over her mother’s. “But I returned in the end, mother. For as long as you need me, I will always come back to you.”

In less than two days she dons her riding robes and silver armour, and rides out to the Kingswood to mount Grey Ghost. The others join her soon after, flying from the Dragonpit. Baela and Moondancer, Nettles and Sheepstealer, Addam and Seasmoke. Daemon had suggested bringing Silverwing and Vermithor, but there’s something about Hugh and Ulf that Luke doesn’t trust.

They take flight after dusk and follow the Rose Road, over Tumbleton, Fawnton and Bitterbridge, staying hidden in the clouds. They don’t know exactly where they’ll find the Hightower host, but they know what to do once they find it.

It’s not hard to miss the mass of men, horses and tents and the flickering of torches below them. The army has made camp by the river, on the bank opposite Cider Hall.

The notes was right, they’ve made quick progress. With their numbers, she hadn’t expected them to be past Highgarden yet, but here they are, inching closer and closer to the capital.

The others hover expectantly around her. There won’t be anywhere to hide once they dip below the clouds.

She tightens her grip on Grey Ghost’s reins, willing herself to be ready for another exchange of lives. She reminds herself of how many men they’ve lost at Duskendale, Rook’s Rest and the Gullet. She reminds herself of the family she’s lost.

This is war. Nothing is fair, so it is all fair.

Grey Ghost reacts before she even notices, jerking up and sideways as a burst of fire shoots from below them.

Moondancer, Sheepstealer and Seasmoke disperse as a blue dragon erupts from the clouds, with open jaws and a throaty, howling roar.

“GO!” she screams to the others.

Moondancer and Seasmoke dive down towards the camp as Sheepstealer pounces on Tessarion.

The Blue Queen is larger than she had imagined, larger than Vermax was and smaller than Grey Ghost, but that does not make her less formidable. She’s quick, twisting and evading Sheepstealer’s comparatively sluggish attacks with his teeth and claws.

The silver hair of her rider isn’t hard to spot in the moonlight and the flashes of fire.

She urges Grey Ghost forward, coming at Tessarion and Sheepstealer from above, forcing them further down.

The three dragons descend through the clouds, growling and sending bursts of flame from their mouths to make sense of the grey haze around them.

She hears a low, brutal shriek, followed by a stream of fire, hurtling towards her and Grey Ghost.

They rush down, through deafening wind, back through the clouds.

The fire below them burns as brightly as the sun, from the river to the Rose Road itself. Baela and Addam have been unforgiving in their assault. Thousands of men scream, but their cries are distant to her from this height.

She looks behind and above her, waiting to see which dragon will emerge first.

The bronze scales and the size of Sheepstealer are evident, but he’s falling more than he is flying and something dark trails from his body.

She pulls the reins to the right as hard as she can, towards Sheepstealer and Nettles clinging to his back. Luke screams her name as a colossal force slams into her dragon.

She screams again, in agony as she feels the sharp, searing pain of claws digging into Grey Ghost’s side. Tessarion keeps flying, pushing them further and further away from Sheepstealer.

Luke meets Daeron’s eyes. She can feel the heat from the fire below them, illuminating his face and violet eyes in a fierce golden light.

His eyes are the same shade of violet as Aemond’s.

But his face drops into horror when he truly sees her. The same kind of horror in Alicent’s face that night in the throne room.

His moment of hesitation is all they need. Grey Ghost rears his head, biting through Tessarion’s hide, where her neck meets her wing. Blood spurts around them as the dragons struggle for direction, locked together and bound to fall into the fire.

“Irughagon!” she orders. Release.

Grey Ghost relents his jaws from Tessarion and manages to scramble his way from her claws. Only for her to come back faster and angrier.

Luke tries to look for Sheepstealer and Nettles, but all she sees are flames, blue and grey scales and hissing hot blood as Grey Ghost and Tessarion continue to tear at each other.

The voice in her head isn’t hers.

Death.

Grey Ghost slashes a talon along Tessarion’s belly.

Death.

Tessarion soars past them, clawing her way through a scar on Grey Ghost’s rear leg as she goes by.

Death.

They circle back, hurtling towards each other. The dragons open their jaws as fire blooms in their bellies, threatening to bathe both Luke and Daeron in flame.

Perhaps this is the moment she will truly meet the Stranger, but she feels oddly at peace with her gloved hand against Grey Ghost’s scales.

Death.

It’s like she can feel the air around him, every movement, his wings slicing through the air.

Death.

The ground is closer than she realised.

She closes her eyes.

A dragon approaches with its jaws open. She feels the fire rising in her own throat.

Something wants to pull her back. Her rider tells her to duck, to avoid the flames.

Instead she rears up, thrashing in the air until the weight is gone from her back.

She opens her eyes. She checks her hands and clenches them to make sure they are there and that they are her own.

Grey Ghost has halted, his wings beating furiously through the thick, black smoke rising from the camp as it burns.

And Tessarion is chasing after Daeron as he falls into fire.

She spurs Grey Ghost on to follow them.

The ground is soft with ash, the air thick with smoke and alight with embers where there are no flames.

She slips from Grey Ghost’s back, keeping her hand on the golden seahorse hilt of her sword.

She sees the bright blue scales through the clouds of smoke and ash.

Tessarion watches her as she approaches, on her side and almost cradling a body in her claws. She expects the dragon to snap at her, or at least growl, but she just stares at her through large bronze eyes, huffing through her snout. Not quite docile, but not poised to attack.

Luke looks down, to the body. Daeron lies with half of his face in the ground.

Tessarion had thrown him from her back. She saw it– no, she felt it happen.

She doesn’t care that she cannot breathe the air, the ash fluttering about her eyes or the heat scorching her through her armour. She keeps her eyes on Daeron’s chest and waits.

Until his hand claws at the charred earth underneath him. She hears a faint grunt as he props himself on his hands and hauls himself to his knees.

What a sight must she make, standing amongst the ruins of his army, her dragon bleeding and snarling behind her, the flames gleaming on the silver and iron layered like dragon scales across her torso.

She doesn’t unsheath her sword. She doesn’t utter the command that would have Grey Ghost leave nothing of him but blackened bones.

He staggers against Tessarion. With his eyes still on her, he drags himself up to the saddle, his body slumping against the leather.

He nods to her and she doesn’t react.

She watches as Tessarion turns and bounds from the ground, flying well despite her injuries.

Addam finds her drawing her hands over the gashes in Grey Ghost’s side, her gloves discarded and her palms painted with her dragon’s blood.

“Baela’s got Nettles,” he says, “she’ll be alright, but Tessarion managed to take a whole chunk out of Sheepstealer’s neck.”

Seasmoke calls impatiently, shifting and huffing at the thickness of the air and the pained cries of those who are still alive.

“We need to go, get the dragons seen to, get somewhere we can all breathe, yeah?”

Luke nods. The voice in her head that isn’t hers calls for home.

Addam takes a step closer to her, careful not to touch Grey Ghost. “You let him go. I saw it.”

She bites down on a piece of flesh inside her mouth. “Did Baela see?”

“Not as far as I can tell.”

Daemon would never forgive her if he found out.

She turns to face him. His frown resembles Lord Corlys’, down to the silver brows, the downturned lips and the look of concern in his brown eyes.

“You won’t tell anyone,” she says.

He looks as though he’s about to speak, but he must breath in a mouthful of smoke before he starts coughing and spluttering with his fist in front of his mouth.

Seasmoke is only getting more restless.

“You won’t tell anyone,” Luke says again.

Addam shakes his head. “Where do you think he’ll go?” he chokes out, eyes turning to the empty space they have left behind.

Luke grips the saddle and starts to pull herself up onto Grey Ghost’s back.

Daeron and Tessarion had set off North and she has no doubt she knows where they are headed.

“He’ll go to Harrenhal.”

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