#blood brothers : civil war

[alex6186]

My WCW aka Woman Crush Wednesday talented actress, singer, writer and an outspoken passionate advocate for immigration reform & immigrant rights Ms Diane Guerrero.

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#WCW #WomanCrushWednesday #WCE #AJBWCW #DianeGuerrero #Actress #OITNB #Encanto #DoomPatrol #SuperiorDonuts #MyManIsALoser #BloodBrothersCivilWar #Killerman #JusticeLeagueVsTheFatalFive #OrangeIsTheNewBlack #JackieCruz #BeautifulActress #AmericanActress #AdelitaChangingtheKey #Singer #WomanintheBook #JanetheVirgin #ColumbianHeritage

#wcw #woman crush wednesday #my wcw #ajbwcw #actress #wednesday #beautiful woman #diane guerrero #doom patrol #encanto #orange is the new black #Justice league vs the fatal five #killerman #blood brothers : civil war #superior donuts #my man is a loser #Columbian American #beautiful actresses #american actress

[catilinas]

pharsalia 7.552-6 trans. duff

#lucan: i’m not gonna talk abt how bad pharsalus was #also lucan like 50 lines later: ok so there was a huge heap of corpses and a guy cut his brother’s head off and then threw it away so he #wouldn’t have to look at it and another guy trampled his own entrails and there was so much constant bloodshed #that the blood on the ground couldn’t congeal bcs there was just so much of it #oh literally Unspeakable nefas of civil war vs the vates’ need to memorialise that nefas in words we’re really in it now #pharsalia #gore — #like in the tags. jic #beeps

[antvnger]

Blood Brothers AU - Airport Fight pt. 2

When Tony’s armor starts to go offline, that scares the hell out of him.  What’s going on with his armor?  Why would…?

And then it hits him.  There’s only one person who can make this happen.

“SCOTT?”

“Looks like you’ll have to go home and take this to the shop, Tony.”

“What the hell are you–”

“Trying to fight without actually fighting.”

“Then come with me.”

“But what about the–”

“How do we know that’s true?”

“Because Cap said so.  Why would he lie?”

“To protect Barnes, Scott.’

“And what if he’s right?  What if those other Soldiers do something bad because we didn’t stop them?  That’s on us, Tony.”

“Scott–”

“I don’t want to fight you.  I don’t!  But I feel like going after those guys is the right thing to do.  Help us, Tony.  Please.”

“I…my hands are tied, Scott.”

“…Then I guess mine are too.”

F.R.I.D.A.Y. deploys the fire suppression system, and Scott escapes the armor in the nick of time.

A short time later, Scott reveals just what kind of “big” distraction he has, and for a brief moment, Tony is super impressed and super proud at what his kid brother just did.  

Like holy shit he grew big!!  He’s a giant!  

But at the same time, how long has Scott been keeping that secret under his sleeve?

“Anybody on our side hiding any shocking and fantastic abilities they’d like to disclose?”

See?  He’s amazed and impressed, even though he is annoyed by the whole fight.

At this point, GiAnt-Man is just trying to cause enough commotion and disturbance to distract everyone enough to make sure Cap and Bucky get away, and that includes damaging some stuff and throwing stuff at the others in the process.  

If they’re so keen on having this fight anyway, then fine.  Scott will give them a fight.  

He knows what he’s doing won’t hurt them too badly, but it’ll be enough of a-pain-in-the-ass stuff to bring all the attention to him, and that’s what he’s going for.

Meanwhile, Tony’s thinking what the hell happened to trying to fight without actually fighting?

To him, this is starting to get ridiculous, and it’s been going on long enough.

Time to cut the fight short, and Rhodey’s on the same page he is.  

When Pete suggests they go all Empire on Scott, Tony and Rhodey really don’t have any qualms in carrying out that plan.

It hurts Scott’s pride that he’s been KO’d, but he can’t decide if he should bothered or pleased that he was taken down in such a…nerdy way.

Taken down because of Star Wars…can’t get much nerdier than that.

“…Does anyone have any orange slices?”

Scott is KO’d and totally worn out from being giant like that, and he’s okay with staying out of the way now.  He did his part and that’s the best he could do.

Now it’s up to Cap and Bucky.

Scott just hopes this will all be worth it.  If Cap and Bucky can stop those rogue Soldiers, then that would be enough…right?

After Tony checks on Peter and before he can go check on Scott, the Quinjet takes off, and Rhodey calls for Tony to help him go after the Quinjet.

Rhodey calls for Vision to fire at Sam to get him off Rhodey’s tail, and…

Well we all know what happens then…

Scott watches the whole thing in horror from the ground.  

He can hear some of it from Sam’s comm, and he can only imagine what he can’t hear.

Oh God, no no no no no, not Rhodey!  Not Rhodey!  

Maybe if he can hurry and grow giant again, he can catch Rhodey.  Maybe that would be enough to save him.

Scott scrambles up and tries to hurry, but he’s too weak and he stumbles.  He’s fighting to stay conscious himself from being giant like that, but he still tries.  

But he watches with tears stinging his eyes as Rhodey crashes into the ground.

And Scott loses consciousness after that.

#ant-mun's thoughts #blood brothers #blood brothers au #scott lang #ant-man #tony stark #iron man #rhodey #war machine #civil war #captain america civil war #what if scott and tony were blood brothers #what if scott and tony are blood brothers #I queued the moment didn’t I?

[miquella-everywhere]

Rating the Demigods based off their Homes

Technically Leyndell is not Morgotts house but his moms, which he inherited after escaping the sewers she threw him into, but he also runs the place like the navy runs a ship, so everything is in perfect working order. Nobody has any clue who he is and I appreciate his commitment to the bit. 8/10 really cool scenery but could definitely use some dusting and giant dragon corpse removal.

The Moghwyn Dynasty is every health inspectors worst nightmare. General unsanitary setting and blood swamps, Albinaurics captured and forced to assimilate against their will, along with several war medics, and also Mohg has the body of his shriveled up half-brother in his freezer. But overall the ancient civilization that lived here before Mohg had pretty okay taste, especially since they built their city under an underground starry sky. 10/10 but only because the health inspector died and Mohg forged the health report.

Godrick snuck in after his failings at the Shattering and just straight up claimed the place as his own, so Stormveil technically isn't even his house. Also his presence alone is so rank that thorns have started festering outside of the castle. 8/10 to the Stormlords cause they've got sick sense of style, but 2/10 to Godrick because he is a literal home invader.

Radahn does not give two shits about architecture, he clearly made Redmane based off of every other fort in the Lands Between and chose function over fashion, which is fair I guess, but also kinda boring. At least he strung up the all of the swords in Redmane and gave it some flaire. 4/10 because Redmane is so basic, plus minus 1 point for the tetanus hazard.

Raya Lucaria had an architecture course as an elective and Rykard committed himself to his GPA and developed his own aesthetic. He graduated top of his class and Rennala baked a cake for him. Best day of his life. Then he went up to Mt. Gelmir and was like, "I should totally make this place my house," and then he did because nobody had the balls to stop him. 10/10 for his commitment to the blasphemy aesthetic. And props to Tannith for doing a great job keeping the foyer the cleanest place in the Lands Between, but also 1/10 for the backyard being a general crime against humanity.

Ranni follows the rule of, "if it aint broke dont fix it," which is exactly why she broke everything else in the world and then returned to her childhood home after the Shattering. Caria could definitely use some bedrooms though because where the heck does everyone sleep?? Or do anything else for that matter???? Caria: Bathroom? Never heard of it. 6/10 because the sparkly magic bits in the air are super cool but Caria Manor definitely should've been a legacy dungeon.

Miquella attended both Leyndell and Raya Lucaria architecture classes, excelling over everyone and beating Rykards score in the final exam by exactly one point, and yet has no idea why Rykard is so pissed at him. Then after disowning his dad he had the great idea to try and build a treehouse but grew his own tree first because he's an over achiever and has gifted kid syndrome. 10/10 because the aesthetic is elegant and immaculate, and everyone who has depression is trying to get there for free therapy.

Malenia went to architecture school with Miquella because she had nothing better to do and slept through every class. The most she did there was break up Miquella and Rykards final exam squabble and also couldn't care less about architecture because she's fuckin blind. Rates the Haligtree architecture 10/10 because even though she's blind, she's sure that Miquellas sense of style is very pretty. But also rates it a 2/10 because Miquella keeps stubbing his toes and tripping on the carved stone flooring even though he insists everything is fine.

The Land of Shadow is less of Messmers house and more of his eternal timeout corner. He temper-tantrumed too hard one day and Marika put him there then completely forgot he ever existed. -10/10 because the parental abandonment is so real

#shitpost #elden ring #godrick the grafted #starscourge radahn #miquella the unalloyed #ranni the witch #rykard lord of blasphemy #malenia blade of miquella #mohg lord of blood #morgott the omen king #uri posts

[itmeblog]

It's Black History Month

(Over here in the US of A) So here are some podcasts to check out.

Absolutely no Adventures - a fantasy (un)adventure story that follows Sig, the owner of Signature Eats bakery, as he aggressively avoids becoming embroiled in any daring quests or chosen one shenanigans even though the universe really seems to want him to do just that. This is a story about cutting Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey off at the knees to chill with friends and staying far, far away from the slightest whiff of adventure. And also baking. This is also a story about baking.

Afflicted - Lovecraft Country meets True Blood in this new series from award-winning producers Tonia Ransom and Jen Zink. In season one, a small East Texas town suffers supernatural disasters caused by a demonic book bound in human flesh…and only hoodoo can save the town from its affliction.

Apollyon - In the early 22nd century, the Apollyon virus wiped out 75% of the world’s population, and now most of the world is governed by the International Conglomerate of Research Scientists. Dr. Theo Ramsey is an ICRS research scientist who may have just discovered an effective vaccine for Apollyon, but the stakes to get the vaccine to the public are higher than she ever imagined.

Between Heartbeats - Tan immersive Urban Fantasy about the hurt, the powerful, and their growth within a broken world. We follow Sundiata, a guilt-ridden time manipulator with a knack for unemployment, and Nadia, a moralistic telepath determined not to lose control, as they balance frayed mental health against an unsympathetic police state. But when a malevolent presence rears is head, their neuroses become the least of their problems. Can our heroes make the most of their abilities before the option is taken from them?

Fan Wars: The Empire Claps Back - Two passionate Star Wars fans on opposite sides of the Last Jedi debate argue via Skype after their favorite forum closes down. If you love Star Wars (or call yourself a proud member of any fandom), you’ll love this romantic comedy told via

Harlem Queen - a Black historical fiction audio drama based on the life and times of Black, woman, "gangster" Madame Stephanie St. Clair during the Harlem Renaissance.

His Royal Fakin' Highness - What if Ophelia helped Hamlet get his throne back? This modern day, romantic comedy re-imagining of Shakespeare's Hamlet asks just that. As they stage an engagement in the wake of the king's death, these childhood frenemies must decide between duty and love.

InCo (This one's mine :D) - A Sci-Fi story about a disgruntled information seller, a mysterious space boy, and an android doing her best.

Janus Descending - a limited series, science fiction/horror audio drama podcast, follows the arrival of two xenoarcheologists on a small world orbiting a binary star. But what starts off as an expedition to survey the planet and the remains of a lost alien civilization, turns into a monstrous game of cat and mouse, as the two scientists are left to face the creatures that killed the planet in the first place.

Lady Lucy - Lady Lucy is an audio drama inspired by Shakespeare's "Dark Lady" Sonnets, 127-154. Between running her brothel, fighting the Church, murdering her friends' abusive husbands, and pretending to be a poet, the last thing Lucy needed back in 1586 was a surprise visit from her former flame... Will Shakespeare.

Liars and Leeches - Tonya Wright felt it all after the tragic murders of her sister and brother-in-law in a random act of gun violence. Struggling to travel outside of her home, she now lives constantly on edge about perceived threats that seem to surround her.

Nightlight - Multi-award winning horror podcast featuring creepy stories with full audio production written by Black writers and performed by Black actors. So scary it’ll make you want to leave your night light on.

Null /Void - a science fiction audio drama about a young woman, Piper Lee, whose life is saved by a mysterious voice named Adelaide. Piper soon uncovers a malicious plot by a monopoly of a tech company and must work with her friends and an unusual ally to help foil their deadly plot.

Out of Ashes - (currently remastering season 1) Follow a group of survivors as they navigate the ruins of modern civilization and battle against demons, ghosts, monsters and the looming threat of extinction from an ancient power.

Small Victories - A recently recovered drug addict tries to start her new lease on life, too bad life has it out for her.  This dramatic comedy follows Marisol through the ups and downs of her life.

The Courtship of Mona Mae - In the 1870s, pioneers Mona Mae Christophe and Zekial Montgomery search the American West for Mona Mae's mother, Clara. Mona must recall a past, long forgotten in order to survive, so that she can find her mother, love and create a way of life for herself.

Vega a Sci-Fi Adventure Podcast - In a fantasy futuristic world, Vega Rex is employed by her government to kill off the world's worst criminals. She's never met a criminal she couldn't catch…until now. Join Vega as she journeys through a world of bumbling apprentices, powerful technogods, and her biggest challenge yet. Hosted by Ivuoma Hall.

Witchever Path - is an anthology series where your decisions effect the story. Our stories are based in America’s NorthEast, featuring characters finding themselves in the thick of the unknown while tackling issues like queer identity, gender, race, and spirituality. Stories often focus on the communities not typically seen in stories taking place in New England, and giving voice to the perspectives of those communities while uniting under some universal themes. And the supernatural happens. A lot.

(All descriptions were taken from websites)

If you want to find more and there are way more there's a directory :D

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

My tears ricochet

Next chapter

summary: There are thunder clouds in the horizon that threaten Eris’s chance of being a high lord. Rhys strikes a deal. The only thing left to find out now is who gets out of this deal alive?

warning: death, blood, enemies to lovers, fighting, forced arrangements, talk of marriage of convenience.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Things were changing in Prythian. With the length of fea lives, high lords didn’t change often. But when the shift did happen, it was as if someone were to open a beast's belly, and suddenly everyone was on the fence; the territory was for grabs, and others could gain something from the new weaker high lord until the power fully settled in him.

“I’ll need you with me tonight," Rhys said, slowly swirling his drink in the glass. The tension could be felt in all the courts, but Rhys had been deep in his thoughts ever since the news about the new high lord had circled. “You’re in a mood to kill the new high lord of autumn already?", you mussed, making Cassian let out a snort. You had lost the number of meetings that had been held in the past week alone. And while you didn’t like Eris, a small part of you couldn’t help but feel sympathy for him. On one hand, this, no doubt, had to be a relief. To know that the world was no longer tarnished by Beron. But the responsibility was still hard to carry all alone.

“A diplomatic meeting," Rhys clarified, making you roll your eyes, “That can be changed real quick with a dagger." But you could see the plea in his eyes. And something else. An emotion you couldn’t quite grasp. It had been there for a couple of days now. It was hazy at first, while Rhys was still contemplating it all in his head. Now, however, it was set and done, leaving a trail of unease in your gut when you caught a glimpse of it.

“I need you." You were not sure what exactly those words implied. Knowing how fond you and Eris were of one another, it was as if Rhys had planned a civil war to break out in the autumn. Unless he needed Eris to decline whatever offer Rhys was going to propose, and you were just the thing for that, “Fine, I’ll be there," you huffed, bringing the glass to your lips. Even if you knew that not even booze could make a meeting like that bearable, "I can't wait to see Eris’s face when you walk in." Azriel’s low voice filled the room, followed by Cassian’s chuckle. “You enjoy his misery way too much, Az," you said, shaking your head with a smile. “What can I say? I’m a simple man," the spymaster smiled before downing his drink.

Eris had been dreaming of this day since the moment he realized that this brutality would only end when Beron was six feet, make it ten so the bastard wouldn’t have a chance of crowning out, below. One thing he didn’t take into consideration was that the new power would rip at him from within. Leaving him quite shaky and restless. Not to mention that he didn’t have anyone to guard his back. His younger brothers were all corrupted by his father to be of any help at all.

“Apologies for your loss once again," Beron’s right-hand man clapped Eris’s shoulder. "The council will miss Beron’s presence," the other added sympathetically. No doubt, Eris thought. All the males in this room had been fed like pigs out of the same hod for decades. And Beron fed them well with promises that were never truly delivered. “But we do not doubt you, Eris," and here was the silent warning that they expected the same treatment from the oldest Vanserra. No doubt already able to sniff out Eris’s plans on wiping the council out. “Yet we are here to guide you if..." “If that’s all, I would like to end the meeting," Eris said, raising his hand. The yapping of these old men had drilled the last bit of sanity out of him today. With a flow of “Of course, of course," and “our apologies for holding you up," Eris watched them pick up their scrolls as they hurried out of the room.

The moment the door closed, Eris let out a deep sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. Exhausted. He was just so exhausted. If only he could sleep at night. To just… “You looked like a fox kicked by a hunter," Eris opened his eyes to the sound of a familiar voice. "Lucien, my patience is running low tonight." It came out harsher than Eris intended. He was glad that Lucien had agreed to listen in on the meetings in general. He didn’t have to. But Eris had no one to turn to. “This wasn’t that bad of a meeting," the youngest Vanserra said, pulling out a chair for himself. The meeting had barely touched on serious topics. Council had tried to swing the chatter to that, but Eris had fully focused on the food supplies and growing stock.

"Would be better if you came back to stand by my side fully," Eris pressed once more. While a part of him understood Lucien's choice, another was bitter that every offer had been declined. “You know I have duties elsewhere," Lucien replied like he had ever since Beron died. “This is home," Eris pointed out, fingers drumming against the table. Their eyes met, and Eris knew Lucien’s next words before they had even touched his lips. “This was never my home," he stated with a shake of his head.

Eris knew that, it clawed at him that Lucien had been out there, going from court to court. At the time, it felt like the best choice. To take him away from all of this. To make sure that no hits, whether physical or emotional, were ever directed at him.

“How’s mother?", Lucien cut the silence upon the two brothers. "She would have happily danced on his grave if she had a chance," Eris mussed. Both brothers couldn’t help but smile. It was crazy to think that she was finally free. No more playing pretend. Their mother was finally a free woman who could do anything she wanted. And even if it hurt to admit it, Eris knew that she too wouldn’t stay back home with him. Her heart had been elsewhere for decades already.

“Why are you still here, Lucien?" Even if Eris loved having Lucien back, he knew too well that he didn’t just linger to be there. There had to be a reason. “Can’t I come over to spend quality time?" Lucien smirked right as Eris cut him off mid-sentence, “Cut the bullshit." And here they were, back at square one. With all the real emotion swept beneath the masks they have been wearing, “Rhys wants to meet with you tonight." Eris let out a deep sigh at Lucien's words. He just didn’t have it in him to go through one more toying session today. “He has valid suggestions," Lucien reassured his older brother. “He can shove them right up his ass," Eris pushed back his chair, turning to pour himself another drink. “Eris, hear him out. You need allies now; you need recognition," there was truth in Lucien’s words. Even if the times were changing, some old rules still applied, even if Eris didn’t plan to rule by the textbook his father had created. But there were still things he couldn’t escape. “I’ve already made a name for myself, Lucien; they know what to expect," Eris stated bitterly. Not daring to look back. Not daring to meet his brother’s eyes.

Swallowed by the never-ending piles of work, Eris had lost track of time. Only the footsteps that sounded down the hall made him halt as he lifted his head. Listening. “Of fucking hell," Eris muttered. All the fibers in his body twisted. Because he knew. Knew without seeing. Knew it deep within his gut. "Joy and cheer!", your voice echoed as you opened the door to Eris’s study. The devilish grin shone across your face. "Hello, kitten," you mussed up at him. Cassian was grinning, barely holding back a laugh. Even Azriel ran a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. Eris slowly gazed up at Rhys, “I would have offered you to sit, but since you brought that malice with you..." his eyes darted back at you. Looking you up and down in that profound, unimpressed expression of his. Even if deep blue had always been your color. No one wore it better than you did in Eris’s eyes.

“Oh, because you’re such a cuddly bun," you purred, crossing your arms over your chest. "Y/n," Rhys stated firmly, glaring your way. You let out a huff, “Not my problem; he has his nickers in a twist." You pointed at Eris, who pinched the bridge of his nose, “Lord forbid... I have no time for this. You know where to find the exit." Motioning with his hand, the oldest Vanserra gestured to the door. Already turning away to leave.

"Eris, at least let me make a proposition," Rhys insisted, stepping forward before glancing back at you, “And you sit." The order was degrading, at least. Like a youngster being scolded. "I'm not your lap dog," you grumbled, eyebrows knitted. “You sure look like one," Eris muttered under his breath, making you gasp.

You were about to give him a piece of your mind when Rhys cut in, “There’s unease among the high lords." Eris blinked a couple of times. The low lights were doing no favors for his already paler skin. "Rhys, you either tell me something I don’t know or you leave," the high lord sighed with tiredness. He had heard it all before. And one more conversation about this might end up being the reason why Eris was going to drop dead himself. Rhys stood silent for a moment before uttering, “They want to make a vote; they deem you not fit to rule until they know how Beron died."

And for the first time that night, Eris’s eyes were truly forced on Rhys. A new layer of tension lined his shoulders. “What?" he muttered beneath his breath. “They are planning to hold a meeting without you." Now those words cut Eris deep. That same wound Beron cut open over and over again. You’ll never be good enough. Do you think you could ever sit among them? With me gone, you will be nothing in their eyes. “That’s nonsense; I have a right to be informed about this." Eris gripped the edge of the table. A flame of anger rekindled deep within.

“You need alliances and show them that you have it under control," Rhys pointed out, no doubt having gone through all of that himself. In some ways, “I do have it under control," Eris snarled bitterly. “Well, reports say otherwise," Rhys noted, pointing at the reports in his hand. Eris’s eyes skim over the text with urgency. “Look… I’m offering you help”. Rhys's voice died down.

That same sense of chill ran down your back. It was as if something from deep within was warning you that this was way more serious than you had thought. Eris shook his head as he read. Almost all of the high lords were in on it. There were no direct threats there, but the implications were obvious.

“Marry Y/N," and the room died down for a moment. The silence was so intense that the ringing in your ears nearly made you hold onto your head. “What?”, You both breathed in unison before your eyes fell upon one another. One heartbeat. Two. “Hell no", “Over my dead body," both of your declines fell one after the other.

"Eris, you know how the council runs and how they are about the business. You need to make public appearances. You need someone by your side," and Rhys had a point. If most courts had moved on from council power, Beron had held onto them for dear life. They fed his power. Stopped the fires of rebellion for him. And now their way was Eris’s people's way. “I sure as hell don’t need that leech," Eris said in frustration. “Hey, word choice," Azriel pointed a finger his way, making the frown on Eris’s face even deeper. “I’m not marrying that monster," you hissed.

“I would once again suggest you look at yourself," Eris grumbled back, running his hand over his face. But you were done with him. He could go to hell the way he was standing now. It’s your brother who met your angered face. “Why was I not informed about this? What right do you have to even suggest this?" You stepped closer to him, your hands reaching for his shirt. “It’s a marriage of convenience," Rhys said again, trying to kill the frustration his suggestion had caused, “You play by the rules; secure the spot for Eris among that table, and then we’ll find a way to split you apart. My word will be worth more if you’re courting my sister."

No, this couldn’t be happening. Gone were the times when women were traded like pigs. This was a joke. A nightmare. You pinched your hand once, twice. Nothing. It didn’t all fade away. “No, absolutely, no," you breathed, your hand falling on your chest. This was not the life you had dreamed of. Not how it was supposed to go.

“What’s the catch here, Rhys?" Eris breathed. Was he even considering this? Surely he wasn’t. “He left Mor by the fucking border! Do you want me in ribbons by your door?", you pulled at Rhys’s black shirt, practically hissing through your clenched teeth. “I wouldn’t dirty my hands with you that much," Eris’s voice killed your huffs as you turned back at him.

"Asshole," you spat his way. “Whiny little girl," Eris huffed back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I fucking hate you," you shrieked in frustration, pulling at the roots of your hair as the situation slowly sank in. “Oh, you hate me? Do you want to know how I feel?" Eris laughed bitterly, his eyes not leaving you, “If you were my wife, I would put poison in your morning tea." His cold words sliced through you. You let out a bitter chuckle. Taking a breath to compose yourself. A shaky hand running down the skirt of your dress to smooth the material. “Ah, well, if you were my husband, I would happily drink it." Your words lingered in the air,and you could see it even if it was just a flash. A blink. That second of shock that flashed through Eris’s eyes.

With a quick step forward, you pushed at his chest, "Never do you hear me?" You hissed one more time, “Will never happen." His hand caught your wrist with a swift motion as he pulled you closer to him. Your chest firmly pressed against his as he muttered right against your face. “You’re screaming at me as if it’s my idea," Eris huffed, dropping your hand.

You blinked, turning back to your older brother. Who swore to protect you. To always look out for you. “You’re a shit brother, Rhys," you stated. Finding it so utterly hard to even look at him now. All this time. He could have warned you. Said something. Asked. But no. “I’m trying to stop another war from happening," he stated as if this were a simple transaction, not a life-altering decision. “By sacrificing me?" You hit your chest in frustration. Your youthful years would spent slaving in another country, and for what?

“Don’t be so dramatic," Eris huffed, making you let out a frustrated whimper, "Oh, my apologies for not seeing any gain in this for me." Rhys took a deep breath. “The court wants a married man with a powerful woman by his side." Here it was his lord's voice. Not your brother. He stepped closer to you, trying to reach for your hands, but you backed away instantly. “This is more about you than anyone else," he tried to reason. So you were to be a play toy. A figurine in someone else’s game. “Just unbelievable," you said, shaking your head and stepping back. Your leg hit the cabinet, sending a couple of bottles tumbling down. Rhys called your name once more, but you didn’t. Couldn't be here any longer as you bolted towards the door.

"Y/n," Rhys called out in warning, moving towards the exit as well. “Don’t you dare follow her; you’ve done enough damage for the night," Eris’s cold voice made the Lord of the Night halt. And for the first time that night, the uncaring mask on Rhys’s face slipped: “Don’t lecture me when I’m trying to help," venomous frustration seeping through, “I’m landing you my biggest asset. She’s my only blood family." Eris couldn’t help the smile that crept over his face, “If you loved her so much, you wouldn’t toy with her like that”. Rhys’s jaw twitched.

"Careful," Azriel reasoned for the second time that night. Eris had forgotten that the two of them were even there. “Stop barking from the back rows," he hissed at the two batboys. Cassian quickly placed his hand on Azriel’s chest, stopping him in his tracks. Eris shook his head, “You miscalculated, Rhys; admit it." Turning back to reach for the bottle of brandy, Eris took a swig straight out of the bottle. “You’d gain power out of this. But your precious demon of a sister will never forgive you for this." That struck a nerve deep within Rhys. And suddenly, the suggestion itself felt ingenious. So there was a catch after all, huh? “A day," Rhys said firmly, “I’m giving you a day to think this through; then my offer is off the table." Like that. He was dismissed as if he too wasn’t a high lord now. As if Eris wasn’t in an equal position to demand. Eris leaned forward,“You were never the one offering, Rhys; it was never your call to make."

#eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x you #eris vanserra imagine #acotar x reader #acotar x you #acotar imagine

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Dandelion

Summary: You usually preferred the company of dragons to most people. The presence of a certain Targaryen prince threatens to upend your quiet life. Pairing: Soft dark!Aemond Targaryen/F!Reader (No Y/N, could be read as an unnamed OC)

Warnings: Familial abuse, negative self talk, canon typical violence, dub-con bordering on non-con, obsessive behavior, power imbalance, canon typical sexism. Please do not read if this will upset you. You are responsible for what you consume. NO MINORS ALLOWED A/N: No Civil War AU! I will borrow a bit from other events that will eventually happen in ‘The Dance’ but I give them a different outcome because I do what I want. Reader is from an original Valyrian house and the only physical characteristics they have are purple eyes and silver hair. She is also a few years older than Aemond. Enjoy!

Word Count: 21k :)

You’d never been good at running. You were too slow. Too clumsy. Too self-sacrificing.

No.

You were terrible at running. You couldn’t outrun your brother as he swore and raged and tugged at your hair. You couldn’t outrun your mother’s prized stallions when they turned course toward you in the field. You couldn’t outrun your father when he saw the mess you’d tracked into your family’s manse alongside your sister.

But you were able to hide her in her rooms and take the blame for all of it. She was so small. She didn’t need to be hurt like that. You could take it, couldn’t you? If you were feeling brave, you’d take her hand in yours and sneak out to the rolling valley that was always spotted with wildflowers.

“Do you know that you can make wishes on dandelions?” Your sweet sister, Vaella, asked one day, holding a bunch of dandelions in her hand. Most of the stems had started to wilt in her too-tight childish grip. But you eased them out from between her fingers with a smile and let her tell you about the “magic” she had heard about from her friend, a little lady from House Tyrell. You righted the stems as best you could, smiling as you did. Wouldn’t that be nice? To blow away a few petals and have your wildest desires come to fruition?

“Shall we make a wish then?” You asked, holding out a few for her to take again. Her jagged little nails, something your mother always scolded her for, caught on your fingers and you tried not to hiss as you felt your skin give way beneath them. Blood bubbled to the surface as your sister quickly apologized over and over again even as you waved her off. “Make your wish!”

Vaella dutifully shut her eyes and then sucked in a deep breath before quickly blowing away all the dandelion seeds. You knew her wish, Seven knew she had told you about it enough: a kind, loving husband, with enough gold to rival kings.

You followed suit but frowned as you tried to find a wish worthy of asking. But, as you heard Vaella’s melodic giggles beside you, you knew. You tightened your blood-tinged fingers around the flowers. I wish for Vaella to have everything good and beautiful in this world.

Then you heard your father on his horse barreling toward you. You knew it would only hurt more if you tried to escape his wrath and you’d never outrun him anyway—your mother knew how to breed and train the fastest horses this side of the Red Mountains and Dorne.

So, no. You weren’t good at running. But you were almost decent at playing the part most everyone else wanted from you. You learned what to say and how to act to stymie your parents’ rage and your brother’s annoyance. You knew how to do your duties as a highborn lady who had a fortunate Valyrian bloodline. Your family had always been dragonkeepers. Even before The Doom, your family had tended to the dragons that had conquered most of Essos, knowing their likes and dislikes, calming and caring for the animals and their riders. It had been a noble profession then and it was a noble profession now. Of course, not all of your bloodline had taken up the mantle, but it was expected that at least one of every generation, no matter their gender, would take up the duties as the decades passed, even before the Dragonpit had been constructed.

Loyal to the Targaryens and their dragons. Always. (Even if your family had tried to dissuade to no avail the royal family from constructing the Pit, saying that the dragons were never meant to be caged so.)

Your family had been adamant about the Valyrian blood in their veins staying pure. When they tired of marrying Velaryons or Celtigars, and House Qoherys died out, they sought spouses from across the Narrow Sea, from Volantis and the Old Blood who could prove unbroken Valyrian ancestry, or from Lys, the city where Valyrian Blood was (said to be) strongest. But never a Targaryen. They had never asked and your family had never reached so high. You were servants to no one but the dragons and the Targaryens. Your allegiance and skillset had made your House wealthy beyond measure, it was only bolstered when accompanying Velaryons on foreign voyages or devising new money making schemes with the Celtigars. Advantageous marriages with dowries worthy of princesses helped, too.

Being a Keeper was a family tradition you couldn’t run from. And, if you were being honest, it was one of the few things about your family you did not resent. Your duties in The Pit kept you away from your father’s anger and your mother’s sneers. Your elder brother Rhogar’s duties in The Pit were easily circumvented and you knew enough to steer clear of him. You found purpose and camaraderie amongst the dragons and hatchlings. They could not speak, true, but they were your truest friends since your sister’s wish had come true and she had absconded to Volantis to live the life of a noblewoman of the Old Blood with her doting husband. It was a quiet life. But you knew better than to ask for more. You still wished for something on dandelions every time you had the chance. For a friend. For love. For the continued prospering of Vaella and her growing family on the other side of the Narrow Sea. You knew better than to wish for the love of your parents or brother. No amount of blood or dandelion magic would ever grant you that.

However, when the war with the Triarchy and the man known as the Crabfeeder proved enough of a problem that the conflict-averse King Viserys finally started to treat it as a war, you were happy to accept the summons to Dragonstone. There were a handful of dragons now roosting there, ready to be flown out by their riders to aid the Velaryon and royal fleets. After you arrived, you had been handpicked by Lady Laena Velaryon to care for Vhagar. It had been the honor of your life, alongside being Laena’s handmaiden for the day of her wedding to Prince Daemon. She had been a fierce warrior astride Vhagar, an even fiercer mother to her twins, Rhaena and Baela. She was not but a three namedays older than you but it might as well have been decades. She was so different from you. So poised and lovely and kind—and her family adored her. Her brother, Ser Laenor, whom you also saw frequently with his dragon Seasmoke, had named Rhaena the heir to Driftmark just after Baela had been betrothed to Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Harwin Strong’s firstborn son, Prince Jacaerys. The celebration Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys had thrown to mark the occasion was lavish and lovely. You had wished upon three dandelions that night, wanting the best for Baela and Rhaena.

“One day,” Laena said to you, climbing down from Vhagar’s saddle as you held one of the twins’ hands in each of your own, “you will make a fine mother.”

“Someone will have to learn to stomach the scent of dragon if they want to bed me, my lady.” Not to mention that you were nearly considered an old maid already. You were sure the only reason you hadn’t been married off was because your parents hadn’t deemed you worthy of the dowry they’d once set aside for you. They’d prefer to keep their gold which you added to with each moon. And their repeated, cruel comments about how you’d never marry because of your looks, ‘horrid’ personality, and court ineptitude and made you believe you would be alone for the rest of your life, only accompanied by dragons.

Laena laughed and let her twins leap into her arms. “You are the blood of Old Valyria, my dear. Anyone would be lucky to have you, smell of dragon or no.”

She had been kind to you. Effortlessly, so.

Then, when she had been killed by a scorpion bolt fired by devotees to the Crabfeeder, your world tilted on its axis. The twins’ hatchlings, Morning and Moondancer, had cried and trilled for ages, feeling her riders’ grief in their small nests. They only rested on the short boat ride to Driftmark as they nestled in your hold. You did your best to help them, to make sure they fed, as Daemon tried to prepare for the rest of the royal family who were descending on Driftmark for the funeral. Daemon himself was a mess. How could he not be? Everyone who knew the couple saw how in love they had been. How in love Daemon was still. You’d heard whispers that Corlys had blamed Laena’s death on Daemon’s pride. The Rogue Prince had flown out to meet the Triarchy’s forces alone and Laena had been the only aerial defense to keep him safe. And, perhaps a small part of you believed that.

The night before their arrival, Vhagar finally landed back on the island. You’d heard whispers of how she had raged against the Triarchy’s fleet after feeling Laena’s death and watching Corlys pull her body from the water. The old dragon had nearly destroyed the entirety of the enemy’s fleet singlehandedly before disappearing into the clouds. But now?

You took careful, slow steps toward her as the moon continued to climb higher into the sky. Her giant head swiveled as you approached and she grumbled, shaking the ground beneath your feet, before she recognized your scent. Laying your hand to the near-scalding scales on her neck, you tried to press all the love you could manage into the touch, your sorrow, your calm. “I miss her, too,” you whispered in Valyrian. “But it is good to have you here.”

The old dragon gave another rumble and it almost broke your heart at how sad she sounded. How much heartbreak could one beast endure?

“We will get through this together, won’t we?”

**

You stood behind Baela and Rhaena and watched as ships with black and red sails docked. Morning and Moondancer were coiled around their shoulders, finally sleeping after a night filled with more crying and your desperate attempts to feed them. Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Harwin disembarked first, followed by their sons, Princes Jacaerys and Lucerys. King Viserys followed soon after with his hand being held by his youngest, Prince Daeron. Queen Alicent was next with her other three children, Princess Helaena and Princes Aegon and Aemond, following closely. The family was greeted solemnly but warmly by the Velaryons and Targaryens—aside from the icy stares you saw thrown in Daemon’s direction by Princess Rhaenys, Lord Corlys, and Ser Laenor.

It would not be the first time you’d heard of troubles in the royal family. There had been rumors of a feud between Rhaenyra and Alicent after the latter’s marriage to Viserys. It had been quashed eventually, the pair falling back into their close bond soon after Alicent’s father, Otto, was dismissed from his position as Hand of the King and replaced with Princess Rhaenys. Apparently Otto had tried to convince Alicent that Rhaenyra would kill her friend’s children to keep her promised crown—which was preposterous because, even tucked away on Dragonstone, you’d heard how Rhaenyra had doted on her half siblings. You knew for a fact that it had been Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent together who had pushed for the new law which allowed daughters to inherit titles and lands. The princess had also been the one to pick the dragon eggs for each of their cradles, too. Only two had hatched, unfortunately. Aegon’s Sunfyre and Daeron’s Tessarion, but you had been told that Princess Helaena had claimed Dreamfyre just a few moons ago.

That left only Prince Aemond.

He was a few namedays older than the twins and offered them a small smile when he reached their side. His purple eyes flittered over to you for a moment and something passed over his face, something you could not name. But it was quickly over and he was offering a few hushed words of comfort to his cousins.

Princess Rhaenyra was the first to actually greet you, cradling her pregnant belly. “It has been some time, has it not, my lady?”

You managed to smile as you curtseyed. “It has. I hear Syrax is faring well; expecting another clutch soon, no?” You’d once been one of the half dozen of keepers tasked with the princess’ dragon and had been the most indulgent with Rhaenyra wanting to constantly be on dragonback despite the others knowing she was supposed to be humoring lords vying for her hand. You had also been the only one to be able to calm Syrax during Prince Jacaerys’ early birth while the Princess and her husband were visiting Dragonstone. Three other Keepers had perished, either burned or eaten, as the little prince was born but not you. You had calmed her. You had been the one to discover that Syrax had laid a clutch of eggs alongside her rider. The Princess had been kind and gracious when you told her of the news.

The Heir Apparent smiled, sweeping a hand over her stomach. “It is quite a blessing, truly.”

You continued to speak for a little longer, watching as Rhaena and Baela walked to their father’s side as he spoke to Alicent. Rhaenyra was just as pleasant as always. But, despite the important company, you heard something that nearly had you frowning.

“Who is that?” Aemond asked Baela. A quick glance to the side let you see the prince pointing at you.

Baela gave your name with a small smile, making sure to enunciate your House’s name, too. “She is Vhagar’s Keeper.”

The night continued and you were dismissed as the family gathered for supper. It was only when you were in the comfort of your chambers did you allow yourself to cry. Hot, giant tears slid down your face as you tried to muffle your sobs beneath your fingers. It felt like your ribs had cracked open to reveal your broken heart.

When you found little respite from your grief with sleep, you slipped out of your rooms and toward the shore where you knew Vhagar roosted for the night. She once again greeted you with a huff, nudging her head into your stomach and nearly bowling you over.

“I know,” you murmured, smoothing your hand down her dark scales. “Me too.” Movement out of the corner of your eye caught your attention and it took you a moment to realize it was Prince Aemond, trying unsuccessfully to sneak back into High Tide. His shoulders slumped when he caught your gaze and he dragged his feet to your side after you waved him over. “It is late to be out of doors, my prince.”

His mouth pulled into an even deeper frown. “I know, my lady. But you are out at this hour, too.”

You nodded, continuing to lathe attention on Vhagar. “I am not royalty. The Triarchy may have been pushed back to Essos, but it would still be deemed unwise to be without an escort for someone of your status.”

The young prince looked down at his feet, digging the toe of his fine leather boot into the sand. “I just wanted to see Vhagar. Uncle Daemon said she was the biggest dragon in the world.”

His boyish countenance had you softening. You could only imagine what it was like to be the last Targaryen without a dragon, a birthright. “She is. The last of the Conquerors’ dragons. Come, stand by me. She is tired now; she’s usually much more agreeable like this.”

Even in the dark, you saw Aemond’s entire face light up and he was quick to do as you instructed. He followed your quiet guidance to let Vhagar learn his scent before touching her, placing his hand beside yours. “She’s a beauty.”

You hummed and Vhagar shifted the slightest bit, the sand spitting beneath her giant body. “She is. A great and terrible beauty. And she mourns with the rest of you for Lady Laena.”

Aemond hummed in response and you watched his shoulders slump the slightest bit, as if he needed to be reminded of the loss his family had just suffered, or the reason why he’d been put on a boat and shuffled away from his home. He had been so enthralled with simply being near Vhagar. And you knew it was foolish of you to do anything of the sort, but you smiled and shielded his eyes when Vhagar took flight again, sending sand into the air.

“Come, I have something else to show you.”

The prince followed dutifully as you led him toward the small patch of grass near High Tide’s outer curtain. Small white and yellow flowers had sprouted not a few hours ago and you were quick to grab two. You were even quicker to grab a knife from your belt and cut across your thumb when he was not looking, instead tracking Vhagar across the sky. You let the crimson stain the flower’s stalk before handing it to him.

“This is a weed.”

You laughed at how he scrunched his nose as he stared at the flower. “There’s magic in those petals, my prince, just as there is magic in our blood, in our words. Trust me when I tell you that you will have a dragon one day. You need only wish for it and wait.”

Aemond’s face twisted, like he was ready for you to tease him, or laugh at him. But you simply held up your matching, blood-lined dandelion and blew its petals away into the ocean breeze. I wish for him to have a dragon and be happy. He watched you for a moment longer before, almost delicately, blowing the petals away to float alongside yours.

A light coming on in the fortress had you turning. Someone was probably looking for the prince. “It is time for you to retire, my prince.”

The young prince nodded as he turned to you, the pale moonlight bleeding across his silver hair. “I would have no other hands tend to my dragon.” His hands curled to fists at his side for a moment before releasing, as if he were scolding himself. “We are the Blood of Old Valyria.”

**

It had been nearly six years since you saw Aemond. Much had changed.

The war with the Triarchy had fizzled. It still lingered, of course. There were whispers that the Triarchy was attempting to hire any and every sellsword company in Essos but nothing had come of those whispers though. Not yet, anyway. Most of their forces had been pushed back (again) by Princesses Rhaenys and Rhaenyra while Prince Daemon and Ser Laenor destroyed their food and weapon stores in the Disputed Lands. It was not a surrender, unfortunately, but Westeros was thankful for the reprieve.

You had become Morning and Moondancer’s main keeper, too, your duties shifting after Vhagar disappeared into the clouds and didn’t return. It was a blow, to be sure, to lose another link to Laena even after you and the twins were moved permanently to Driftmark while Prince Daemon stayed to command the armies from Dragonstone while also flying to the Free Cities of Essos to try to broker alliances (some whispered that Prince Daemon took his nephew, Prince Aemond, alongside during his mission but you could never know for certain). But Baela and Rhaena were growing into their own and you were so happy to guide them, in any way they needed. Their dragons were now large enough to be ridden for short distances and you had nearly cried when you watched them circle the island for the first time. The twins often came to you for anything they were too embarrassed to ask their father or too impatient to ask their septas or grandmother Rhaenys. Daemon doted on them, indulging their almost every whim and laughing alongside them on dragonback whenever he had a moment to visit. Seeing them together almost always twisted at something in your chest. They were a family. You wouldn’t have that, would you? You were far past the age of majority and had stopped attending any sort of function where you could even attempt to find a suitable match. What was the point? No one had ever been interested in you in that way and you had all but resigned yourself to simply being a Keeper.

It would be a quiet life for you.

But your quiet was disrupted when Baela and Rhaena were invited to the capital for King Viserys’ nameday celebrations alongside their father. They insisted on bringing their dragons—who were you to deny them? So, you found yourself wrinkling your nose as the large boat approached the capital, the familiar and awful scent of the city wafting toward you. After docking, you were met with a few familiar faces that helped you lead Moondancer and Morning to The Pit to be safely sequestered alongside the other royal dragons. The pair took to their temporary roosts well enough, recognizing the scent of Meleys and Seasmoke through the stone halls. As Caraxes settled near them, they were more than content.

“The lost daughter finally returns home, eh?”

The grip you had on Moondancer’s reins suddenly seized at the sound of your brother’s voice. Slowly, you moved to loop them around the chain on the wall before turning to face him. Rhogar had not changed much. His mouth was still curled in a scowl. His silver hair was still cut short. His periwinkle eyes were still cold as ice. And you knew better than to instigate anything. “Lady Rhaena and Lady Baela requested I accompany their dragons.”

Rhogar hummed. “They do seem fond of you. I was sure they’d send you away after Lady Laena’s demise and Vhagar fleeing your care. It seems they were taking pity on your failure.”

“Yes, they’ve been very kind to me.” He had always been good at cutting down to bone with few words. He’d also once literally cut you down to the bone after you were selected to be Vhagar’s Keeper. You could never win with him. Ever. There was no negating his hatred of you. It had started when you were born a girl instead of a boy and Rhogar thought it meant he was ‘forced’ to be the Keeper of your generation. If he had forgotten that your aunt had also been a Keeper until her death, you could not and would not say. He had wanted to be knight, apparently, despite his poor form with a sword and shield. “You forced this on me!” he had once spit at you. When you had taken up the mantle of Keeper, you’d half-hoped that his malice would fade. It did not. If anything, it grew like a raging fire. With every compliment from another Keeper or Targaryen directed toward you, he only hated you more. It was almost as if he stayed in The Pit to show anyone and everyone that he was the better Keeper. He tried. You would give him that. But the other Keepers turned to you for advice. They asked you for the balm you had created to soothe any wayward burns. They respected you. And the dragons preferred you. Before you had been moved to Driftmark, you could easily move between duties for all the dragons, each of them never minding your presence in their stall. You would never forget when Meleys had snuffed in Rhogar’s face before turning to you. And you had a feeling that Rhogar would never forget it either.

It had been Rhogar who had first called you a witch, the word dripping with venom. After all, how could one person, a woman, be so adept at caring for the dragons? The other keepers found it hilarious and adopted the nickname for you, too. They called you a witch. Sure, it was usually said with a teasing smile or an accompanying wink, but the moniker remained and endured. You didn't deny it. The blood you always knew to spill on dandelions was your secret. If you were a witch, so be it.

“Mother and Father will expect you home tonight.”

The small fortress built just outside the walls of King’s Landing hadn’t been your home for years. Hadn’t been a home since your sister sailed away and even then, you would make the argument that it had been Vaella alone that had been your home. Your one solace. Stepping through those doors again would not be a homecoming. But you knew better to deny them. “Of course.”

You had been surprised to have your pick of the handmaidens at the Red Keep after you spoke with Lady Baela about your family requesting your presence. You had been fully prepared to be ridiculed by your parents for smelling of dragon in their fine house, but you were bathed in a fine copper tub and then lathered in rose oil before Rhaena came in with a dress she promised would look lovely on you.

And the simple gesture nearly had tears coming to your eyes. Rhaena was quick to notice and all but threw the dress onto the bed before grasping gently at your hands. “What troubles you?”

“N-nothing, my lady. I fear I am just a touch overwhelmed. It has been some time since I have been in the capital.”

Rhaena frowned, a knowing look. “Do you wish to return here perma-”

Your grip tightened on her hands before you could even think to stop yourself. “No! No, never. I am happier with you and your sister than I have ever been in this city.”

The brilliant smile Rhaena gave you as she nodded was enough to calm your rapidly fraying nerves and she was quick to change the subject to the tourney starting tomorrow, the first part of the celebrations. “But mostly I am hoping that my toes will not be crushed each night—I’ve heard the men from the Riverlands are particularly awful at dancing.”

It was with Rhaena’s tinkling laughter still in your ears that you tried to brace for the hurricane that was your family. The smallfolk of King’s Landing called your family’s home the Little Red Keep for how your forebears had modeled it after the Royal palace. There were verdant rose bushes still lining the outer walls. There was still a small pond beside one of the turrets, filled with water lilies. There was still the large white dragon of your house’s sigil painted across the grand front door, gold keys in its mouth. It had not changed.

It was not home.

The door was opened by an unfamiliar servant and you were led toward the large hall where you could already hear your family chattering. It quickly halted once you stepped inside. You father stood from his chair with a placid smile on his face which you knew only meant he hadn’t had his first drink yet.

“There is my daughter.” He skirted around the table and hugged you, smashing your cheek against his chest. The medallions on his doublet were sharp against your temple, biting and cold. “It has been too long since you have been home.”

You hummed and tucked your chin to your chest as he held you at arm’s length. “You’ve been receiving the gold I’ve sent, haven’t you?”

He laughed and you tried not to recoil as his meaty hand curled over your upper arm. “Yes. You have been a dutiful daughter. It seems being sent away from the frivolities of the capital turned you into a respectable Keeper.”

There it was. The first sting. You knew better than to argue, to say that Princess Rhaenyra had often preferred you to care for Syrax, that Prince Daemon was always pleased with your care of Caraxes, that the other Keepers (aside from your brother) seemed to defer to you for any sort of special care that the royal mounts may need when you were still stationed at the Pit. “I am happy to have pleased you.”

“Come, come,” he said with a final squeeze to your arm that nearly had you wincing, “we’ve had all your favorite foods prepared.”

A single glance at the spread of food let you know, for the umpteenth time, that they didn’t know you at all. There wasn’t a single dish you favored in any capacity. There was your brother’s favorite roasted boar alongside your mother’s favorite lemon cakes, and everything else had your father’s favor all over it. You were nowhere to be seen. But you still took the seat your father pulled out for you and hoped for the best.

You only had to bite back tears twice and hadn’t needed to dodge a punch or a slap or even a fork thrown in your direction. Perhaps it was a good night. Maybe the years away had softened their disdain for you. That happy thought quickly disintegrated when you were pulled to a stop near the manse’s front door. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Father, Mother. You as well, Rhogar.” You smiled, almost convincing yourself that you hadn’t been sitting on needles the entire time.

“Where do you think you’re going? It is nearly the hour of the owl.”

While it may have been an innocuous and reasonable question from any other parent, this was your father. “Prince Daemon has been kind enough to have chambers reserved for me at the Red Keep-”

“So your family’s home is not enough for you now?”

Your eyes closed. You shouldn’t have come.

**

“Are you well?”

You nearly recoiled from the question but managed to smile instead. “I’m fine, my lady. Thank you.”

Baela frowned, amethyst eyes traveling across your swollen cheek and the way you were favoring your left side. “Are you certain?”

“Truly. Just a bit of a tumble last night.”

She didn’t look like she believed you and Rhaena who sat beside her didn’t look convinced, either. Thankfully or not, the doors to Baela’s rooms opened and a flurry of servants filed in and set out a spread of food on the table near the window where you all sat. One of the handmaidens who had accompanied you all from Driftmark, Isla, you thought her name was, turned to Baela with a smile as she set a plate filled with boiled eggs on the table. “Are you excited, my lady?”

Baela nodded, lips turning up a brilliant smile. “Of course! And I am so pleased that you will be at my side, too.” The pair spoke for a little longer before the group was dismissed and the three of you turned toward the lush breakfast.

You slowly spread a bit of cherry jam across a hunk of bread, eyes darting between the twins as they filled their plates. While it was normal for them to invite you to break your fasts together, you did not want to gain their ire, too, by prying.

Thankfully, it seemed Baela was happy to speak anyway. “I have news.” She set her utensils down and looked at her twin and you with another smile. “Princess Rhaenyra has invited me to stay at the capital so that I may spend time with Jace and learn the ways of court.”

Rhaena beamed, reaching to lace her fingers with her twin’s with a matching giggle. “Grandmother has said it is time for me to learn how to rule High Tide.”

Your heart felt like it was being crushed beneath a blacksmith’s hammer. While you always knew this day would come, you’d half hoped it wouldn’t be so soon. You listened as they laughed, excited about their futures, before they cried about being separated, before laughing again at remembering they’d never be too far away on dragonback. But you’d wished for them to be happy, hadn’t you? They sounded so happy. Both of them looked at you, matching smiles on their faces and you hoped your smile was convincing as you reached out to lay a hand over theirs on the table. “You both will be wonderful. I am so proud of you.”

The next morning, after another cruel night under the shadow of your family, only continued to squeeze at your battered heart as Princess Rhaenys pulled you aside with a small smile and quietly relieved you of your duties for caring for Morning as there were “plenty” of Keepers in the Velaryons’ employ on Driftmark. “I’m sure you understand,” she said, squeezing your arm.

You nodded with your bruised heart in your throat. “Of course, my princess.”

“You have been an exemplary Keeper to my daughter and granddaughters. But I would not ask you to choose, so I have made the decision for you.”

The compliment did give you a small bit of levity as you walked to the Dragonpit to see to your duties—you were an exemplary Keeper. Morning was not set to leave for another fortnight and you still had Moondancer to care for, didn’t you?

“I’ve been given orders to tend to Moondancer,” another Keeper said before you could even question her presence in the dragon’s roost. “Were you not informed of it, my lady?”

Apparently not. “Oh, my mistake,” you muttered. “I-”

“You would have your hands full, my lady. I am happy to be selected to be Moondancer’s keeper. It is not of your station, anyway.”

What did that even mean? It echoed in your mind as you listlessly moved through the Pit, finding mundane things to do now that you were unanchored. Morning was already being tended to by the Keepers that had sailed from Driftmark. The most fulfilling thing you did was helping a few of the newer Keepers care for the clutch of eggs Dreamfyre had laid two moons ago. You were willing to bet that the eggs would eventually be given to the babes that would be born to Rhaenyra or Alicent’s children. Being this close to the majority of the royal family once again let you be privy to a fair bit of gossip. Apparently there had been rumors that Alicent and Rhaenyra were using the lull in the war to strengthen alliances within the Seven Kingdoms. Most believed it would be Aegon to be married off first.

You just hoped they were happy.

“I thought you’d be out in the valley,” one of the Keepers said as you helped them fit the last egg into the crackling fire pit to keep it warm.

You frowned as you pulled off your thick gloves, pushing them into your belt. “The valley?”

The other Keeper frowned, too. “Have they moved? Seven Hells, no one tells me anything!”

Before you could ask just what they meant, your attention was pulled by the sound of metal on stone which you knew only meant one thing: a knight had been foolish enough to come into The Pit. Had they not heard the stories of men being boiled between breastplates by dragonfire? You never cared for the noise and you knew most dragons did not either, the grating sound too sharp for their liking. But soon enough, two whitecloaks rounded the corner and set their sights on you.

They called your name and you stepped forward, expecting to be summoned to the Great Hall or one of the twins’ chambers. “Prince Aemond requests your immediate presence.”

You wordlessly let them lead you away, fully prepared to be deposited into the Great Hall of the Red Keep. Instead, you were all but hefted onto the back of a horse and moved through the city that had all but cleared out to attend the first rounds of the tourney just outside the Lion Gate. You could hear the cheers from the crowd, a dull roar muffled by distance. The knights escorting you said nothing, two silent sentinels on matching white destriers on either side of your horse. They led you through the Dragon Gate and a little further north where the start of the unnamed valley started to slope. “We take our leave of you here, my lady,” one of the knights said. “The prince waits for you below.”

All of this just felt so strange but years of keeping your mouth shut and your head down kept you from asking any questions. You urged your horse down into the valley, dismounting when you reached the shade of one of the few trees. The valley was speckled with wildflowers and dandelions, not unlike the small valley that had been your sanctuary with Vaella during your childhood. The grass was high and soft as it brushed against your legs with each step. It was beautiful and empty. Prince Aemond was nowhere to be seen. For a moment, you thought of getting back on your horse and riding away, far away, until you passed The Wall in the North and then kept going. No dragons. No family. No bruises. No lies.

Just as quickly as the thought came, it left. The dragons were your life. Whatever duties you were to be assigned, no matter how low or asinine, you would welcome them. Then, something prickled at the base of your skull and you turned your head toward the sky just in time to see the sun blotted out by a hulking, winged form. The ground shook but you hardly cared as you finally set eyes on Vhagar again. A familiar ladder was unraveled and you watched a tall man descend as you approached the old dragon. Her massive head swiveled in your direction and you could not help but smile as she rumbled in greeting. She remembered you.

“Good. You’re here.” The voice was cool and raspy. Dangerous.

“Prince Aemond?“ You asked, feeling more and more stupid by the second.

As soon as his boots hit the ground, he turned to you, long silver hair catching the wind as your heart leapt into your throat. A cruel cut was jagged and slashed down his face, only broken by the finely crafted eye patch securely fastened over it. And while it embarrassed you to even think it, you thought him... handsome. Almost excessively so. He had all the refinement of old Valyria now with a hardened edge. The type of beauty usually reserved for portraits in the books your family hoarded and never touched, smuggled from a home long ago destroyed in The Doom. The barest trace of a smile pressed at his already upturned mouth as he strode toward you. “Do not tell me you have forgotten me.”

“I-I have not, my prince. I...” You shook your head as if that would stop the improper and impossible thoughts from turning and quickly dropped into a shallow curtsey. “It has been some time, has it not?”

“Six years,” he said simply, taking another step toward you. “You have not changed in the slightest. You are just as I remember you.” His remaining eye drank you in, moving from your silver hair to the tips of your boots. And you felt every inch of his gaze.

“It seems I have been left uninformed about quite a number of things. I had not known you had claimed Vhagar.” At the sound of her name, the dragon huffed. It brought a smile to your face and you reached out to press a hand to her giant neck. “She is a worthy mount.”

The small smile the prince gave you grew by a fraction. “Yes. I’ve heard a few of the smallfolk call her Queen of the Dragons.”

“A fitting name,” you said, smile growing. With a final pat to her scales, you turned to him again. “Now, I’m assuming you are wanting my opinion on the other Keepers at the Pit to care for her, no? So, I-”

“You have been left wildly uninformed, my lady.”

The ice in his tone had you freezing. “I apologize, my prince, I-”

“Did I not say that I would have no other hands tend to my dragon?” He took a single step toward you and the instinct to run immediately rushed down your spine. The only thing keeping you still was the heat of Vhagar at your back. “You are to be in the valley from now on. I have been told your other duties have been relegated to other Keepers.”

It all slid into place, the strange dismissals, the aversion. All of it. “Everyone knew of this assignment, my prince?”

And his strange smile widened. “Of course. I thought it polite to let you finish your time with my cousins, but everyone knew you were to be mine.”

**

You slowly shifted in your seat, trying to relieve some of the ache in your back from your father’s latest rage as you clapped alongside Baela and Rhaena for the winner of that round’s joust. The tourney was nearing its end and you were dreading every second that passed. Your entire life had been turned on its axis. Being reinstated as Vhagar’s sole keeper meant you needed to live in the Capital once again. Your family’s ire and disappointment had become daily battles, only broken by your escape to the valley or by invitation by the twins to accompany them to the festivities. It was a strange and almost sad moment for you to realize that a valley had once again become your solace and safe place and it had been less than a fortnight since you’d docked.

Despite Vhagar’s immense size and age, she had always been easy to care for. Her scales kept her from harm from anything manmade. You were sure even scorpion bolts would do little more than annoy her. Holes in her wings, from battles long since relegated to story and song, did not grow in size nor hinder her flight. You kept an eye on them regardless. The most pressing of your duties was actually maintaining the saddle atop Vhagar’s back, making sure it was still safe for the prince in any and every capacity. The only trouble you ever had with Vhagar was when she ate too much, ten aurochs instead of her usual seven, and her stomach protested. It was an easy enough fix. At least for you. Some of the other keepers called you insane for coaxing the old dragon to eat a large bundle of flowers you had collected from the valley and then spending an hour or so pressing at the hardened scales of her stomach to help her ache.

It was easy for you to settle back into a routine with her. Even with Prince Aemond standing, unmoving, beneath the shade of the valley’s tree with his eyes trained on you. He liked to watch, you found. Quiet. The day you had met him for the first time in the valley had been your longest conversation with him, even when he handed you new robes and requested you wear them when attending to Vhagar, he said less. The clothes were finely made, of course, and had the same treatment as your other Keeper robes to keep the heat and any accidental flames from burning too quickly...not that it would be of any use against Vhagar’s flames, but you still appreciated it. What gave you pause, however, was the strange crest stitched over the heart. It was the standard Targaryen crest except it was in an unmistakable shade of blue. Deep and bright. It was Aemond’s personal rendition of the signal, his personal coat of arms. You caught him looking at it a handful of times when you told him that you needed this or that for Vhagar, a strange gleam in his eye. But you would take his strange looks and almost unnerving quiet over your family any day. Every day. You learned that the whispers of him brokering alliances in Essos alongside Prince Daemon had been correct—and that was how he’d lost an eye. An overpaid assassin had come at him in the dark of his bedchambers in Qohor and had not expected the younger prince to be so adept at defending himself. For better or for worse, the blood spilt had gained Qohor’s favor and Aemond had allowed the mages of that city to work their strange magick on his face to keep the injury from hurting him as time went on. There were also whispers that the night the assassin came was the night Aemond had claimed Vhagar. “She could smell the dragon blood in ‘im,” one of the smallfolk had said, voice carrying across the stalls of food and linen of the early morning market just a few days ago. Was that true?

“You are fidgeting more than little Viserys.”

You immediately stopped your obvious poor attempt at moving discreetly and sighed, ignoring how Baela was looking at you. “Apologies, my lady.”

Baela sighed, shaking her head. “You have nothing to apologize for. I simply wish to know what has you so agitated.”

“Tis nothing. I think I am simply nervous about the feast tonight.”

At the mention of the feast, the last of the name day celebrations for the King, Rhaena leaned around her sister with a broad smile to look at you. ”You are finally coming? You have missed all the others.”

That was true. Every night after you finished your duties, you were all but summoned back to your parents’ manse, once again trapped within the walls of your family. But apparently, tonight they deemed you “enough” to be seen in such a public arena. Or perhaps they’d tired of the questions about your whereabouts and thought the last event would calm them.

You weren’t even sure if you wanted to attend. It had been too long since you’d been invited to anything of this level of pomp and pageantry and you were certain you’d either have absolutely no fun or you’d make an idiotic spectacle of yourself if you did manage to find a bit of frivolity in it all.

After promising the twins that you would save them a dance at the feast after the tourney’s jousting finished, you excused yourself, knowing you were expected back at your family’s manse sooner rather than later. It was almost a miracle that they’d let you attend this portion of the tourney anyway after learning that Prince Aemond had dismissed you for the day after his morning flight.

“I will see you this evening, my lady.” He had said it with such certainty that you didn’t even try to argue that he’d be much too involved with other guests to even notice you, so you simply agreed and thanked him again for the time away from your duties.

The trek back to the manse was short, much to your dismay, but you straightened your shoulders as you were let inside and heard your mother chattering away with one of the other highborn ladies of court in the solar. Just for a moment, you thought you could go upstairs to your chambers, unnoticed by anyone.

“Ah, there you are. You’re late.”

But the hope was all for naught. You turned and greeted the other woman at your mother’s side after dipping your head toward your mother. “Is there something you need of me, Mother?”

Your mother gave a tittering laugh and she pointed at a rumpled bit of cloth draped over an opened box near the end of the settee in the corner of the room. You moved toward it, pulling away the fabric that must have served as a wrapping for the box, and opened it to reveal a gown. Inky black damask fabric was lined with the deepest blue beads you’d ever beheld, stitched carefully to detail a three headed dragon over the breast. Crimson hued eyes were looped on each, twinkling in the dying sunlight spilling in through the open windows. The cut would show off your shoulders and the curve of your neck, dipping only slightly between your breasts, while your arms would only be slightly covered by loops of more black fabric, cut loose to give you freedom of movement. Simply put, it was gorgeous.

As you pulled it fully from the box, you noticed a small bit of parchment tucked into the folds of the skirt. You retrieved it, careful to have the dress’ bodice lay over your arm to avoid wrinkles, and unfolded it. A small token of my gratitude. The small note was not signed but there was only one person you knew it could be. A blue dragon. Gratitude. He didn’t owe you gratitude.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” The woman at your mother’s side said with a dreamy sigh.

“Yes, it is,” you murmured. After all, there was no way you could deny it. The gown was exquisite. You would need to speak to the prince about this. It wasn’t necessary. “I-”

“I was telling Lady Webber that we’ve decided that I will wear that gown to tonight’s feast,” your mother said, a smile on her face.

“But…” The rebuttal died on your tongue as you looked at your mother’s growing smile and the unknowing look on Lady Webber’s face. This was a trick. Your mother knew you wouldn’t refuse her in front of company because the consequences would be catastrophic. So, you pushed a smile to your face and nodded, swallowing your pride and argument. “Of course. And I know she’ll look radiant as always.”

Your mother’s chin tipped up, pleased. “I’ll have one of the maids bring Vaella’s gold gown for you.”

You nodded again. The gown was beautiful but nothing like the one you held now. But still, you carefully folded it back into the box and took your leave, hiding the note between your fingers as you trudged back to your chambers and tried to keep your head held high. Letting them know they had won by crying or screaming or pouting wasn’t an option. You weren’t a child anymore.

Handmaidens eventually filed into your room and lathed you with oils that made your skin soft and made you smell like the roses that were growing outside the manse’s walls. They tightened the corset on the back of the gown until you winced and only then gave a final tug to finish, saying, “the lady of the house said you are to look your best.” They then made sure you had a dainty gold necklace around your throat, golden dragon pendant falling just above your cleavage, to finish the look after you slipped into the soft soled shoes Vaella had left behind alongside the gown. You did look beautiful. There was no denying that—there was also no denying that this gown held no candle to the one Prince Aemond had sent. And you could not forget that the necklace around your neck had been discarded by your mother years ago for being out of fashion in her mind. Your family wouldn’t have you looking like a lowborn beggar, but that did not mean they would ever allow you to shine on your own. You just hoped Prince Aemond would not be insulted. But, again, you knew he’d be too busy to notice anyway.

But it was fine. This was what you grew up with—this is what you knew how to survive. This was them being almost kind. It was a kindness that they did not remark on your poor posture on the carriage ride up to the Red Keep as the setting sun started to bleed red over the city. Your family was announced as you walked in and your parents hissed for you to behave yourself, “don’t embarrass us more than you already do,” before getting swept away by their friends to enjoy the festivities. Rhogar quickly fled your side, too.

You managed to find a seat near the doors and the others at the table greeted you politely but largely kept to their own conversations as you picked at the food in front of you. Large crowds like this always made you nervous. Mayhaps that was why you’d never found a husband. As promised, you danced with both Rhaena and Baela but when you saw Prince Jacaerys walking toward his betrothed, intent on a dance of his own, and Rhaena had tugged at your sleeve and nervously asked if she looked all right when she spotted Lord Corwyn Corbray walking toward her, you assured her that she was beautiful, and quietly excused yourself back to your seat and another few bites of dinner.

You glanced up at the head table, unsurprised to see it filled with silver haired royals. Of course, Rhaenyra’s sons inherited their father’s dark curls, and Alicent’s auburn tresses were as beautiful as ever, but it was still silver silver silver as far as the eye could see. But there was one silver-haired prince missing from the table: Aemond was nowhere to be seen.

But you hardly had the time to think of his absence when Rhaenyra’s carefully braided hair almost seemed to sparkle in the torchlight as she and Alicent stood, each with a golden goblet in hand. A hush quickly blanketed the crowd.

“We thank you all for joining us tonight as we celebrate my father, the king’s, nameday. It has been a trying few years so to be able to come together like this is a blessing from the Seven themselves.” The crowd cheered, raising their goblets in response. “And we have more to celebrate.”

Rhaenyra looked to Alicent who was smiling softly at the princess, her goblet curled close to her chest. Rhaenyra whispered something to her, a matching sweetness in her gaze, before Alicent nodded and raised her goblet higher and you heard the crowd around you murmur, trying to discern what she was about to say. “It is my honor and privilege to announce that all of Westeros will be unified with the marriage of Prince Aegon to Prince Qoren’s heir, Princess Aliandra Martell.”

The crowd erupted in applause and, as if on cue, the doors beside the head table opened and orange and gold spilled out into the hall and a Dornish delegation swept in, headed by a man you assumed to be Prince Qoren Martell. At his side was a stunning woman, draped in similar gold and yellow with a golden headpiece fashioned to look like the sun settled over her dark hair—that must be Princess Aliandra. Prince Aegon rose from his seat and walked to Aliandra’s side and dipped his head before holding out his hand for her to take. She readily did and preened as he kissed her fingers.

The crowd cheered again and room was made at the tables for the Dornish company to join the feast as Qoren and Aliandra were given seats at the head table. King Viserys stood and welcomed Qoren himself before they sat beside each other. It was only then that Aemond reclaimed his seat on his mother’s right, leaning to the side only slightly to murmur something in Helaena’s ear which coaxed a small smile from her.

But it seemed that the announcements were not finished as Rhaenyra and Alicent still stood. Again, Alicent raised her goblet, “And I am blessed to announce that Princess Helaena and Lord Stark will be married, joining the houses of ice and fire!”

The crowd erupted, again, and you watched as Helaena stood while Cregan Stark moved through the crowds and up to her side. An adorable pink had settled on both their cheeks and you weren’t sure if anyone else would notice, but Cregan slowly held out a hand toward her, low and mostly hidden, and Helaena took it, curling her fingers over his. That simple bit of affection had your heart leaping. You knew Princess Helaena had an aversion to most forms of touch, so to see her happily accepting his hand was beautiful. The men of the North were known to be loyal and devoted—the look on Cregan’s rugged features made it seem as if he were already besotted—and that was what Helaena deserved, the gentle princess who always spared a kind word whenever you crossed paths in the Pit.

You joined in the raucous applause and raised your goblet along with the rest of the crowd before Viserys stood again and announced that Aegon and Helaena would take the first dance of the night with their betrothed and soon the hall was filled with music. Aliandra and Aegon were a swirl of black and yellow fabric as they turned about the floor, a command of the dance. Cregan and Helaena were more content to take up less room and smile at each other as they moved through the steps. It was entertaining to see how vastly different the couples were, but you thought it suited them.

Soon the floor was filled with more couples as one song bled into the next and then the next. You had no girlish hope that you’d be asked to accompany someone for a turn about the floor, so you happily took advantage of the extra room at your table and let your posture fall from its rigid line and indulged in a few more bits of cake, too.

Rhaenyra danced with her sons and Ser Harwin. Alicent was swept out onto the floor by Prince Daeron. There was love there. In that large, powerful family. Ser Harwin eventually took Helaena for a spin around the floor, making her laugh, as the Princess and the Queen regained their seats at the head table. You watched them between bites of cake. They bent their heads toward each other, whispering for only the other to hear with smiles on their painted lips.

They may both be married and they may love their spouses, but you knew there was something special, something other, between them. Something that usually only existed in song and story. Just for a moment, you wondered if anyone would ever look at you like the Princess was gazing at the Queen. You wondered if anyone would ever hold you like how the Queen was tugging at the Princess’ wrists, pulling her close, like you were something to be treasured, protected.

Probably not.

“My lady.”

You nearly dropped the piece of cake you were trying to bite. Turning in your seat, you saw Prince Aemond standing behind you, hands neatly folded behind his back. His purple gaze dragged across your face as you stood and curtseyed, hoping you didn’t have any cake smeared on your lips. “Prince Aemond.”

Without a word, he curled his fingers and turned, ordering you to follow him into the shadows behind one of the many pillars of the hall. You nearly slammed not his back when he suddenly stopped before turning to you again, close enough for you to feel each of his breaths against your hair and surround you in his scent of cold mint and dragon, tinged with steel. His thin lips were set in an even thinner line as he reached out and touched the edge of your golden sleeve before you had the chance to step back. “Was the gown I sent not to your liking?”

Your heart dropped to your knees and you resisted the urge to curl into yourself, as if you could hide your dress from him. “I…I adored it, actually. It is the most beautiful gown I’ve ever beheld. But, my mother requested it for tonight’s feast. And,” you cleared your throat, trying to pass the lump growing behind your teeth. It always felt wrong to speak of your family so kindly. And it felt wrong to lie to Aemond who had only been trying to treat you kindly. Hadn’t he? “And who am I to refuse my mother anything?”

But some small voice at the back of your mind was whispering that you needed to apologize and make sure it never happened again, for both your sakes. “I am truly sorry if you feel as if I have slighted you. It was never my intention and never will be.” You paused and tried not to recoil when Aemond’s gaze did not waver from your face. “I would not be comfortable accepting such a fine gift again,” you added, keeping your voice low. “I would not have you debasing yourself in any way-”

The words stalled on your tongue when his fingers skimmed up your arm before sliding across the ridge of your collarbone to pluck at the golden chain of your necklace. He pulled until the golden dragon pendant rested in his palm. “I will give you anything I deem suitable.” Then, before you could do anything, his hand closed over the pendant and he yanked. The clasp snapped against your skin and the rest of the necklace fell slack, broken. He pocketed the necklace before reaching into the finely constructed doublet stretched over his chest and pulled out a small silver chain. A necklace. Even in the dim light, you saw that it was finely crafted, its twisted rings braided together delicately. And, at the very bottom was a charm of a dandelion, no bigger than the nail on your forefinger. And Aemond was quick to fasten around your neck, long fingers sliding over your pulse and tapping—just once—against the vertebrae just beneath the base of your skull. “It’s perfect.”

The metal, warmed by being tucked so closely to his skin, was almost scalding. The dandelion charm slipped beneath the edge of your gown and hung between your breasts. Against your heart. “Th-thank you. But, I don’t feel as if I can accept it.”

“But you will,” he said, lilac eye burning into yours. “I had it fashioned in Qohor.” He whispered it like a secret.

“I…” What could you possibly say to that? Questions upon questions started to storm through your mind but the only thing you could say was an unsteady, “you were in Qohor ages ago, my prince.”

“I was.” Then he reached out his hand. “Dance with me.” His tone broached no argument. But didn’t you owe him that much? He’d sent you a gown that you didn’t wear. You’d once again tried to refuse a gift from him. This wasn’t…this didn’t feel right. You were just a Keeper. He was a prince. You’d overstepped with Lady Laena but that had felt different, almost reciprocal, in your affections for each other but you were always aware that you were a servant of sorts, no matter your highborn status and Valyrian bloodline. This didn’t feel like that…this felt different.

You couldn’t say no.

You placed your shaking hand in his and let him lead you out toward the dancing masses. You watched the crowd part for him as you took your places off toward the side as the next song began. Eyes were crawling all over you. You could feel them. The answering whispers sounded like a buzzing fly behind your ear but you could not discern what they were saying—not when Aemond looked at you, even as your hands dropped for a moment. You were quick to wipe your sweaty palms on your gown as the song began. The dance was fairly simple, one Vaella had drilled into you during your childhood, but as Aemond reached for you, long, roughened fingers curling over yours, you nearly forgot the steps. If he noticed your fluster, Aemond didn’t say anything, continuing to lead you through the dance with all the grace princes of your childhood stories possessed. As you spun beneath his arm, his other hand sliding along your waist, you tried to steady your heart with little success, his fingers searing through your gown to brand your skin. As he pulled you closer as the dance intended, your eyes shot to the long expanse of pale skin of his throat.

“Are you going to speak or should I be content with your silence?” He asked, voice low enough just for you to hear.

The barb stung and you tried to not flinch when he pulled you closer and then urged you backward in time with the song. “What would you have me say, my prince? I am sure I would bore you with my stories of my time in the Pit or on Dragonstone.”

“Will you not let me be the judge of my own feelings, my lady? Or will you rob me of that, too?”

“What have I robbed from you, my prince? If I have offended-”

“Offended? My lady, you have done more than offend me.”

Aemond’s grip on your hands tightened when you tried to pull back, continuing to drag you along in the dance. “I am sorry, my prince,” you whispered, the words cracking on your throat. “I did not know that my mother would take your gift. She is…she takes everything she wants from me.” You hated the words coming out of your mouth, hating how weak you sounded. “I never-”

Aemond yanked you to a stop, your chest colliding with his with each hurried breath you took. The song continued on, the couples dancing beside you were a blur of colors at the periphery but all you saw was Aemond’s light eye staring down at you as he leaned closer, wrapping his arm around your back to drag you ever closer, your other hand pinned with his between your chests. “Is that what you think? That a gown has soured your presence for me?”

Your brows furrowed as you tried to understand what he was saying over the roaring of blood in your ears. All of this was inappropriate. All of this was near scandalous. All of this was Aemond.

And, just for a moment, it was silent between you, only buffeted by the music continuing to play. “You alone have consumed my thoughts. For years.”

That didn’t make any sense but you still let him push and pull you through the next few steps as you tried to understand what he was saying. “If my presence has caused you discomfort, I shall remove myself from your employ, I swear to you. It was never my inten-”

The hand that had been holding yours swept to your face and his calloused thumb pressed against your bottom lip, robbing you of your thoughts and stalling the words on your tongue. The heat of him was near scalding, even through his leather and your fine gown, enveloping you, surrounding you, like a dragon’s fire.

He hummed, pausing for a moment to think—he always chose his words carefully. “No. No, my dandelion, you will not rob me of your presence. I have waited too long for this.” He pulled in a low breath, like he was trying to restrain himself. “I shall see you tomorrow after your duties finish. I expect you do not need reminding as to where, yes?” He asked, nearly demeaning.

You shook your head, his thumb sliding across your lip and heat burning your throat.

He hummed, again, and leaned down a little further, just enough for his breath to bloom across your parted mouth before he stepped back just as the song finished. He clapped along with the other dancers for the minstrels, never once taking his eye off you. He grabbed your hand and pressed a firm kiss to the back of your fingers before turning and walking away without a word.

It was not until you were home again, hours later, that you realized he’d called you my dandelion and your neck had bled from where he’d snapped your necklace.

**

How does one say no to a prince and keep their head?

Trick question: you don’t.

It had been nearly a moon since the feast and the dance you’d shared with Aemond. While he continued his silent watching as you tended to Vhagar, he would usurp any time you might have had to yourself. He had luncheon brought out to the valley. He would have you take tea with him and Helaena in the gardens if Vhagar decided she needn’t be tended to that day, searching for sharks to eat out of Blackwater Bay. He’d have you climb up into Vhagar’s saddle as they landed to see something that he thought needed tending to or mending. (And while he never moved to touch you, he burned like a fire at your back as you worked.) He had you inspect the hatchlings’ nests to make sure they were properly cared for (as he loomed behind you). He did the same with the clutches of eggs kept within the Pit as well.

It soon became something of a common occurrence for you to be “accompanied” by the Prince to the Dragonpit. While most of the Keepers took it in stride, having trusted you in the past, your brother once ground his teeth so hard as you halfheartedly looked over the chains on Sunfyre that you could’ve sworn you heard one of his molars crack.

And when Aemond asked why your eye was swollen shut the next day, you knew he didn’t believe you when you said you’d fallen off your mother’s horse. But you never denied him anything else. Anything he asked of you, you gave. That was what you were raised to do. Loyal to no one but the Targaryens and their dragons. If Aemond felt the need to investigate, he never gave you any indication other than a soft hmm rumbling in his throat.

You told yourself that you should be thankful the prince was doting on you so. If his strange affections at the feast had been any indication that he felt more for you (which was preposterous–you were nearly ten namedays his elder!), he had not acted on them other than the infrequent murmurings of the nickname My Dandelion. The heat you had felt vanished the moment he stepped away. The only habit of his you could not truly comprehend was his nickname for you.

Lucky. Yes, that was what you were, to know he appreciated your care of Vhagar. He cared enough to essentially install you as the overseer of the Keepers. Or perhaps it was making sure that the gold you were paid was being earned and he felt the need to give you extra duties as Vhagar was fairly easy to keep appeased. Lady Laena had doted on you as well, hadn’t she? Of course, her affections had been overtly platonic and familial, and Aemond’s were decidedly not in some instances. But there was no way you had garnered his attention in that way. How many times had you been told by your parents and brother that no one would ever want you in that way?

You scratched at your chin, trying to ignore your racing thoughts as the sky was starting to bleed an inky purple. It was the first light of dawn and you had hoped to check on the hatchlings before Aemond took his morning flight. One of the other Keepers had mentioned that two of the smallest dragons had been fighting and some blood had been spilled. While dragons were largely hard to kill, they were still not immortal, especially when they were so young. You’d wanted to make sure there hadn’t been any infection in the wounds and to see if you could settle them separately.

You heard whispers from the smallfolk as you passed. Whispers of the Targaryen madness, whispers of their dragons being an abomination to the Seven, whispers of how Rhaenyra would never be a suitable queen, whispers of the crown inching closer to the Old Gods instead of the Seven with the betrothal between Helaena and Cregan. Or how the blasphemous, bloody gods of the Rhoynar would come to usurp the Seven because of the match between Aegon and Aliandra. And you wished this had been the first time you had been privy to such whispers, but only having taken true notice of them a fortnight ago.

Whispers.

Whispers.

Whispers.

They unnerved you. They weren’t…right. You heard them too often to be idle gossip and too outwardly for them to be a true passing thought. Something or someone had come to King’s Landing and had started the whispers. Purposefully.

The whispers came to a head as you hurried toward the Pit. A crowd had assembled, far larger than you’d ever seen this early in the morning, filling the street to near capacity, all of them looking toward one man that stood atop the edge of a fountain, proselytizing. He was missing one of his hands and was wearing roughhewn clothes. His unkempt, grey beard swayed with each exaggerated word that spilled from between his half-rotted teeth.

“These Dragon Filth will lead us all into ruin! Think of your families! Think of your eternal souls!”

The words themselves had your blood turning to ice in your veins but it was the answering, near-gleeful shouts that had you running. And, as if on cue, you heard the crowd turn and start to follow.

You nearly fell through the Pit’s open floors as you careened by the guards stationed near the doors, shrieking at them to be ready, that an attack was coming. But you scarcely heard if they replied as you sprinted down, down, down. You undid the chains on Dreamfyre first, screaming at her to flee, to fly. Her dark eyes nearly blazed as she looked at you before she tore past you with a roar, stretching out her wings as soon as she was able. Screams from the crowd were nearly musical as you set about freeing Vermax, Syrax, and Arrax next.

“Go! Fly!”

The thundering footsteps of the crowd were growing closer. You could hear the scrape of swords being unsheathed, of axes battering against the door or sliding against the stone floor. They were coming.

Just as you were reaching for Sunfyre’s chains you were yanked back by a rough hand grabbing at the back of your tunic. You were thrown to the ground with a scream that quickly died as your skull bounced against the stone.

A man you didn’t recognize loomed above you with a rusted sword in hand. “Dragon filth!” He raised his foot and stomped it down onto your stomach twice before you could even try to move or defend yourself but you were able to grab his ankle and roll as he went to do it again. You felt his bones twist and break beneath your fingers as he screamed and you stood, your ribs protesting. A flurry of movement to your right had you screaming, matching the scream Sunfyre let out, snapping his chains before he let out a bellow of fire just as you ducked, reducing his attackers to charred flesh and bone in moments before spreading his wings and taking flight. You scurried out of the roost and toward the next, knowing that was where the hatchlings were kept, and your heart plummeted as you heard the sounds coming from within.

The hatchlings were screaming—dying. You threw open the door to see two men hacking away at the nest, their daggers bloody.

“Stop!” You wailed, throwing yourself forward and catching one of the men’s arms. Wrestling for control of his dagger was a short affair as the other man’s fist quickly connected with your cheek and nearly took you from your feet again. But you couldn’t, wouldn’t give up. Not when you could still hear the little dragons crying for help. You lurched toward the nest and managed to curl your hand around one of the small dragons before you screamed, a dagger thrust through the meat of your forearm. But still you curled toward the nest, trying to keep them safe—if you could just save them-!

Blood coated your tongue as you picked up the dragons and you barely had the wherewithal to look down to see the handle of another dagger buried into your side as the men beside you called you a “dragon’s whore!” and a “demon’s servant!” Your knees knocked together as the dagger was pulled from your side and you clutched desperately to the hatchlings as you teetered backward, heartbeat roaring in your ears, but they were cruelly ripped away from you.

For the second time, you hit the stone floor and a heavy boot collided with your cheek as a final cry came from the nest. Just as your vision started to blur, you saw the roof of the Pit shake, raining down stone and dust. There was a thunderous roar that you could feel in your marrow just before the world went dark.

**

The world swam back into focus slowly, in a swirl of creams and blacks and reds. It took you a moment to realize you were in one of the many chambers inside the Red Keep, carefully propped up against a small mountain of pillows with a blanket across your waist, embroidered with a familiar three headed dragon in black thread that shimmered like gems in the muted sunlight, seeping into the room from around the edge of a heavy curtain. You only had a moment to appreciate the fine furnishing before a stab of pain which seemed to pop and fizzle across every inch of your body had you wincing, eyes clamping shut as you bit your lip to keep your whimper quiet.

That’s what you knew how to do. Stifle your noises. Make yourself silent. It always helped. And you could not stop the flinch which shot through you when someone’s hand settled on your shoulder.

“Apologies, my lady. I did not mean to scare you!” The Septa at your side squeaked as she yanked back her hand.

Your eyes opened again and you had to breathe through the sudden nausea that rushed over you in a wave. “N…no apology necessary.”

“I will call for the Maester. And I believe your family has been waiting to see you, shall I let them in?”

Before you could answer–a polite but firm no–the door opened and your parents and brother stormed into the room. You briefly saw a handful of handmaidens trying to keep them back before the door was firmly shut behind them. Your mother burst into tears at the sight of you, fat droplets falling down her cheeks, before all but hurling herself toward you with a cry of, “oh, my daughter!”

You bit back a yelp when her hands, covered in rings, grabbed at your arms, poking and prodding at you as her touch moved higher and higher until she was grasping at your face. If she noticed your wince when her nail scratched against what could only be broken skin, she didn’t reveal it nor did she pull back.

“My lady,” the septa started gently, rising from her seat, “the maester said-”

“I do not care what that old man has said!” She screeched, nails biting into your skin for a moment. “My daughter has been…” The rest of what she was going to say, and you were sure it was going to be quite the show, was drowned out as more tears spilled and she shook her head.

You’d only seen your mother like this once before. It was when Vaella was getting married. Of course, those were supposed to be happy tears; she was sure to cause a scene so more people looked at her than at the bride. It was all a show. Crocodile tears dabbed away with a silk kerchief. Fanning her face. Whispering to anyone who would listen that she was the mother.

Despite the throbbing of each of your limbs and the stabbing pain behind your eyes, you looked to see your father and Rhogar standing beside the bed, doing their best to look concerned as the Septa walked out of the room. If you were an outsider, you may have believed their pantomime. But you knew. They didn’t care. All of this? All of it was for show for anyone who was watching. They were the distressed family of the person being cared for by the royals.

Your father stepped to yourself and pressed a flat, unmoving hand against your shoulder, a frown tugging at the sides of his mouth. “How are you faring? You look ghastly.”

“You look like you have nearly-single-handedly saved the Targaryen dynasty from an immeasurable loss.”

Everyone in the room turned to see Aemond stride in, shoulders back and eye entirely focused on you. Your family was quick to curtsey or bow and then shuffle back to make way for him to step to your side. Aemond paid them no mind before he cupped your face. His grip was surer as he touched you, almost familiar. The touch of his thumb skirting across one of your many slow-healing bruises had you shivering, or perhaps that was the way his light eye was focused entirely on you.

“You are healing well, my lady,” he said quietly, just as his finger looped around the necklace still at your throat, pulling the dandelion charm out from under the chemise (which was definitely not yours) you were wearing.

That same, strange heat started to smolder in your stomach as you looked at him, watching that small smile you saw so infrequently start to push at his lips. But now was not the time to ponder that–after all, it could just be a bit of nausea–as you had other, more pressing, concerns. “The hatchlings, my prince, did they-”

“You saved all you could, my lady.”

That meant some had died. Hot, angry tears immediately stung your eyes as you shook your head, only exacerbating the pain radiating across your body. “How many? H-how many of the little ones-”

Aemond moved to grasp at your hands, gently, softly, as he shook his head. “You need not worry about that now. They will be avenged.”

“We apologize for her childish tears, my prince,” your mother said, voice pulling you away from the prince’s gaze. Her comment only made the tears burn hotter as you tried to blink them away. Shouldn’t you know better? Tears gained you nothing. Tears changed nothing.

“They are not childish,” the prince said, still not turning to give them a glance. “She mourns with my family.”

The Septa swept in again and cleared her throat, thick eyebrow arching high enough to disappear into her habit as she looked at your mother for just a moment, before curtseying in Aemond’s direction. “The maester has been summoned, my prince.”

The prince nodded but did not move from his place at your side, long fingers sweeping lightly over the bandages you saw over your arm and then brushing against your temple.

“We are grateful you have extended your family’s maesters and healers for her care, my prince,” your father said as he stepped forward.

“As I said,” Aemond started, not pulling away from you at all, not moving his gaze from your face, “House Targaryen owes her a great debt. It would be in poor taste for her not to receive the finest care this land offers.”

Everything burned. The skin he touched, his minted breath against your lips, his unrelenting gaze on you. It burned. For better or not, you could not tell. All it was, was consuming.

“If we may, my prince,” Rhogar said, voice low, almost shaking as he spoke for the first time since coming into your temporary chambers ears, “I know my sister would be well rested in her own bed. We can never repay your House’s kindness-”

It was only then that Aemond looked away from you, dropping his hand to his side. “I would not have my lady withdrawn from her chambers until she has fully recovered.”

“We understand the debt you feel you must repay, my prince.” Now it was your mother’s turn to try, once again dabbing at her damp cheeks with her kerchief. “But it is unnecessary. We know she is but a guest here. We would not repay one debt with another for her care.”

“Tell him,” your mother said through gritted teeth, varnished smile starting to wane. “Tell him you do not need to be coddled so!”

There would be hell to pay if you didn’t. Your mouth opened and-

But Aemond simply waved his hand, a flick of the wrist as if he were batting away a gnat. “I will hear nothing of it. The Queen and Princess Rhaenyra both have ordered daily reports on her health.”

“We understand that, my prince.” Your father argued, tone low and placating, as his own periwinkle eyes bored into the Prince. “But we have been kept from my daughter’s side since the attack. She belongs with her family-”

“She belongs here.” Aemond’s tone was cold, broaching no argument. It was the tone of a king. The tone of a dragonrider. And why did something twist behind your ribs at the sound of it? Or was it because his simple sentence had your family looking as if they’d all been collectively slapped. Your mother’s mouth dropped and you saw your brother look to her, questions in his eyes, before they both turned to your father.

“The maester is due shortly. I would advise you all make your goodbyes now and I will have word sent when it is suitable for you to come again.”

After a stretched silence, your mother came first, pressing a too firm kiss to your temple and whispering a rushed, “do not embarrass us,” into your ear before stepping back. Rhogar was next, each of them murmuring his best wishes into your cheek just loud enough for Aemond to hear but not convincingly in the slightest. Your father was last, taking your hands in his in a strong grip that had you wincing, heat rippling up your arm to burrow beneath the bandage where you were certain dozens of sutures were holding your skin together. The look in his eyes had you instinctively trying to pull back, out of his hold, but he held firm.

You knew that look well. Too well. It had been the face of your nightmares since you could dream.

“Daughter mine, I trust you will-”

His words, threats or otherwise, were drowned out by the door opening and the maester being brought in, a flurry of other healers behind him. Aemond stood back, spine pressed against the wall as you were looked over, poked, and prodded. You learned that your stab wounds were healing well, possibly aided by the three days you spent unconscious. “You didn’t move at all!” The maester said with a smile. He also said that he would leave Milk of the Poppy at your bedside to help with any residual pains you were bound to have and that he would come back after dinner to check the mobility of your arm.

It was only when he and his entourage were finished that you noticed Aemond had not left the room at all during the commotion. He stood sentinel near the door, arms crossed over his chest. And, as the chamber door closed softly behind the last of the parade of maesters, you were left alone with him. Again.

A nervous tickle started to grow at the back of your throat and you tried to will it away, head a little lighter thanks to the few drops of Milk of the Poppy you’d been given beneath your tongue a few moments ago, as you awkwardly tried to push yourself higher onto the pillows with only one arm when he started to walk toward you. The effort was only marginally successful and a sharp pain from your side nearly buckled your uninjured arm anyway. By the time you settled again, you were strangely out of breath. But still, you knew you had to say something. “I am once again in your debt, my prince.”

“There is no debt. I would do it a thousand times over, Dandelion.” He then looked you over, something you couldn’t place in his eye, a look you’d seen a dozen times before and couldn’t name. “I will have the handmaidens tend to you before the maester comes again. Dinner will also be delivered. I am assuming you still like the honeyed chicken and carrots.” It wasn’t a question and the prince didn’t give you time to say otherwise before striding out of the room as a gaggle of handmaidens—who you knew usually tended to Queen Alicent—streamed in. They were quick as they helped you move from the bed with delicate, careful movements.

A shining tub was hauled in soon after and filled with steaming water. And, even when the group of handmaidens squawked about waiting for the water to cool a little, you were quick to submerge yourself in it, only relaxing when you were enveloped and sunk down until the water hit your chin. They eventually sat at your side and scrubbed you clean, mindful of your injuries, and added rose oil to the water and massaged more of it into your damp skin.

And while they seemed to be content to work in silence, you had to ask, the question pressing on your tongue like salt, “what happened?”

“Oh, it is just the most wondrous story,” one of the handmaidens said, punctuated with a dreamy sigh. “The prince himself carried you out of the Pit and flew you across the city on Vhagar to the Red Keep where he demanded the maester see to you immediately.”

“It was fit for song,” another handmaiden said. “I would not be surprised if artisans use the scene of him standing amongst the rubble and blood and fire for their finest paintings for years to come.”

“Prince Daeron has already commissioned a tapestry of it to be made.”

An embarrassed heat started to claw at the back of your throat as they continued to chatter away, only stopping their recounting of the Storming of the Dragonpit (as you learned the attack had been dubbed by the city) to sigh, wistfully. They eventually helped you out of the tub and into a silk robe with a blue, three-headed dragon stitched over the heart, just the same as your Keeper robes. Aemond’s sigil.

“But, what happened?” You asked again, ignoring the strange swooping feeling in your stomach. “Who were they? Why?”

One of the handmaidens gave a tittering laugh. “Oh, Sevens. Please excuse us, my lady. We thought you would want to know who rescued you, but of course you would want to know who nearly killed you! The Shepherd—that rag-covered old man—was a zealot who the Triarchy paid to come to King’s Landing. He believed he was doing the Seven’s work. But they knew he would simply cause a riot—apparently he’d already done so in Lys and they offered him freedom in exchange for listening to how King’s Landing was ‘in desperate need of his teachings.’”

The revelation left something aching behind her ribs. While the Triarchy may have been outmatched before, striking at the heart of the Targaryen dynasty’s power was a well calculated and cruel move. Truthfully, you cared only for the fate of the dragons.

The handmaidens eventually helped you back into bed after the maester deemed the mobility of your injured arm as “suitable.” He also made the passing comment that your “womanly duties” would not be affected by the wound on your side, nor the repeated kicks you had sustained to your stomach. “But you may want to hurry it along. You are far past the age of majority, my lady.”

And with that unhappy reminder, you slept fretfully despite your belly being full of your favorite foods and being surrounded by the finest bedding gold could buy. You woke the next morning before the sun, wounds aching, and let a few drops of Milk of the Poppy pool beneath your tongue. Your head swam unpleasantly almost immediately, like undercooked meat in unsalted broth, but your veins no longer felt serrated after a few moments. And it seemed it was almost fortuitous as you didn’t particularly feel embarrassed when the handmaidens came again and helped you into a gown you passively did not recognize and gave you a cheese filled pastry to eat as they guided you through the winding halls of the Red Keep. It did little to settle your sloshing mind and actually seemed to make you feel nauseous the more you ate.

“Where are we going?” You finally asked, essentially shoving the half-eaten pastry into the hand of the nearest handmaiden as your stomach gave an impressive lurch.

“The Prince has asked for your presence on the steps outside the Keep.”

Well, that didn’t answer anything and your next step had your side lighting up with a sharp pain. You gritted your teeth as they continued to lead you forward and through the winding Keep and its halls and courtyards until you were gently ushered outside. Kingsguard were set out in three lines on either side, flanking the steps, their armor shining in the growing sunlight. At the center stood Aemond, sunlight framing him in a glow so bright you had to shield your eyes for a moment.

“She has arrived, my prince,” one of the knights said, taking a step to the prince’s side.

Instantly, Aemond turned and set his eye on you and moved to grasp at your hands, pulling you forward to stand at the edge of the top step. The sudden movement had your stomach rolling and your eyes shuttered. “It is good to see in the sunlight, my lady.”

“I…” The words you wanted to say were heavy on your tongue, tangling behind your teeth. “My prince, what do you need of me today? Is Vhagar-”

“Vhagar is happily roosting in our valley. She only settled once I learned of your prognosis. I shall have you back at my side shortly, where you belong.”

You heard him step to your back, his scorching heat bleeding through your gown, and nearly jumped as one of his hands settled on your hip and you could feel his next exhale against your ear. Your stomach rolled again and your breath was ragged in your throat. You needed to sit down. Needed more Milk of the Poppy. The stabbing pain in your side started to splinter out toward all of your extremities and the swimming of your mind was growing more pronounced. “My prince…”

“Keep your eyes open, Dandelion,” he prodded. “I’ve kept him alive just long enough for you to see him die. All of them.”

His words had you frowning. Who? You opened your eyes and looked out, nearly retching at the sight of it all. From the steps of the Red Keep and down into the city, all of the Shepherd’s men were tied to posts. They looked haggard and hungry. Bloody and bruised. As you pulled in a breath to try to steady yourself, all you could smell was pitch. There were puddles of it beneath the feet of each man.

“What are you doing?”

Aemond hummed. “Dragon fire would reduce the city to ash. Uncle Daemon suggested a substitute.” He grabbed a torch from one of the knights and held it in front of you as he kept his post at your back. “Light the first.”

“I-I cannot, my prince. It is the King’s justice, not mine.” And could you kill a man? Truly?

“You saved the Targaryen dynasty from ruin and nearly lost your life in the process. The King, the Queen, my sister, they all know you have saved us. Protected our dragons at the cost of your blood.” The hand on your hip skimmed up your side, thankfully light in his touch over your covered sutures, to trail up and over your shoulder blade and to the delicate bit of skin hiding your rapidly beating pulse. “You deserve vengeance, my Dandelion. Let the world burn for the blood you spilt, just as our ancestors demanded in Valyria.” Aemond paused and the roughened pads of his fingers pressed into the base of your skull, an oddly soothing pressure. “Consider it a betrothal gift.” He then reached around you and made sure you curled your hand around the torch. Then, slowly, with deliberate but careful steps, he led you toward the first man on the right as everything faded to a high pitched ringing in your ears.

Betrothal gift.

You chanced a glance at the man tied to the pole and he snarled at you from beneath the gag in his mouth, eyes blazing.

Betrothal gift.

Then, with a gentle, guiding pressure of Aemond’s hand over yours, you dropped the torch into the pitch.

One by one white cloaks and gold cloaks stepped out from their formation to drop their own torches, each man set alight, consumed by licking red flames. Further on through the city, trailing up to the still-smoldering Dragonpit, the Shepherd’s men were strung. At the base of the ruins of the Pit stood the Shepherd himself.

Aemond had carefully set you atop the saddle of his favored steed, a Courser just as silver as Valyrian hair, and led you through the city so you could see all of it.

When the flames came for the Shepherd, he screeched like the hatchlings had in their tiny nests, drooling through the gag. But you couldn’t take your eyes away from the sight and the ringing in your ears had not ceased.

Betrothal gift.

Just as the smoke started to blot out the morning sun, you heard Vhagar’s distinct roar in the distance and your eyes rolled back in your head and you were lost.

**

The war had come again in the night. Boats had come ashore, striking under moonlight. They’d targeted the Isle of Tarth, Driftmark, Duskendale, Maidenpool, and Gulltown. Only Driftmark managed to push back the assault with Princess Rhaenys atop Meleys and Lord Laenor on Seasmoke, aided by Lord Corlys’ Velaryon fleet. The others were left in ruin and the marching bands of mercenaries and Triarchy soldiers pushed further inland, dividing the crown’s armies and raining terror down on low and highborn alike.

And you were shuffled off to Dragonstone with Vhagar and Aemond. From there, the Prince would help command the royal fleet which was now dispersed around the crownlands, to keep any other forces from arriving and to keep any from running back to Essos. Prince Daemon and Caraxes were there, too, and the Bloodwyrm had trilled happily when he’d noticed your presence on the island only to be snuffed at by Vhagar—just once.

And while you were happy to be away from the stench of King’s Landing and to say hello to Vermithor who still roosted in the depths of the volcanic mountain, you found it…boring. You had thought the war would at least be a bit exciting (and you knew you should use a different word but the notion still persisted) but it was strangely boring. There were meetings between commanders and the like with Aemond and Daemon and then more meetings between the Targaryen princes and the castle’s castellan and then the island’s sworn lords.

And you should have been thankful for it. You should’ve been happy that Aemond’s attentions were elsewhere. But it only left you more confused. He had called the pyres of the rioters a betrothal gift and then had said nothing else to give you even the slightest indication that he had meant it or was expecting something in return. And by the end of the first moon since you had relocated to the ancestral seat of House Targaryen, you had deduced that he hadn’t meant it and perhaps you had even imagined it, your mind altered by the Poppy. There was no plausible way a prince would be interested in you. But you were still thankful for the quality care you had been given for your injuries, the scars the only reminder of your brush with death with no other lingering aches. And something almost good came from the storming of the Dragonpit; it had been decided that the Pit would not be rebuilt and the dragons would no longer be confined to the stone roosts when not ridden and could roost anywhere they wanted outside the city. The Keepers would still tend to them and make sure they were well fed so no farmers would lose their livelihoods (and no one would lose their lives) because a dragon was hungry. It was good—dragons were meant to be free.

You also learned that Princess Rhaenyra and her son Prince Viserys had become the official dragon-riding guardians of King’s Landing. Helaena and Dreamfyre had taken to aiding Cregan and his armies in the northern border of the Vale and Riverlands. Aegon, Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Daeron had flown out to burn any enemy encampments that had cropped up and had been successful, from what you had learned, while Baela and Rhaena were stationed at Driftmark with their grandmother and uncle, as another line of defense between Westeros and the Triarchy. You wished them well. But still…you were bored. Even news of Daeron’s betrothal to a young lady of House Lannister and Lucerys’ betrothal to the only daughter of Lord Tyrell had you excited for just a moment.

In an effort to have a bit of adventure and escape the gloom of the island, you would swim to one of the small islets that surrounded Dragonstone every morning when you weren’t tending to Vhagar in between her and Aemond patrolling out toward the Stepstones. Your favorite was just a small stretch of land with sweetgrass and wildflowers and a handful of looming trees, barely big enough to withstand the crashing waves of the surrounding ocean. Bodies of Triarchy soldiers would intermittently wash up on the shore and you would drag the corpses further inland in an attempt to help the fisherman nearby—no one wanted a dead man in their nets or on the end of their hook. You took a sharp stick and stabbed at their tattered clothes or armor and pulled them onto the wet sands, one by one, listening as the dragons roared overhead.

In the growing light of dawn, you tugged the last corpse beneath the tree you’d dubbed ‘the grave’ and haphazardly shoved it toward the rest of the mess of rotting skin and sun-bleached bone before turning away, letting the tall grass lick at your legs as it moved with the wind. The rains from last week had dotted the islet with flowers, and you stooped to pluck a dandelion. The stem was almost warm beneath your fingers as you twirled the wildflower in your grip, watching the early morning dew catch the first bit of sunlight and start to sparkle.

What would you wish for now?

You nearly yelped when you felt a sliver from your stick gouge into your thumb. And then a dragon roared overhead. By the sound alone, you knew it was Grey Ghost, one of the wild dragons of the island. He was free.

You switched the stick into your other hand, letting the smallest bit of blood smear against the stalk. You pulled in a deep breath and readied to blow the small seeds away and watch them disappear over the water. But just as you were about to exhale, something prickled at the base of your skull. A sensation you hadn’t felt since you started your Keeper training and it had your breath stalling in your throat.

Slowly, lowering the stick in your hand to a less antagonistic angle, you turned. Every curse you could have muttered dried on your tongue as soon as you locked eyes on the dragon looming at your back. Angry, blazing green eyes were locked on you. The rest of the dragon was as black as pitch with gnarled, grey scars littering his broad neck and chest, leading up to a mess of sharp teeth, left exposed on the left side by a chunk of missing flesh. The dragon rumbled and you could not look away.

This was the wild dragon known as the Cannibal. The fact that he hadn’t devoured you yet was a miracle, truly. The dragon huffed, bathing you in a green-tinged smoke for a moment and blowing away the small flower in your hands. Through watery eyes, you saw the bodies you had pulled from the sea, stacked messily together. Had the dragon done that?

When it didn’t look like he was going to eat you or burn you to ash, you slowly walked backward, keeping your head down. Submissive posture usually did wonders for an unruly dragon—it had saved your skin half a dozen times when Sunfyre had thrown a fit when Aegon was raging about something—and it seemed it worked with the Cannibal, too, because all he did was huff again before turning to feast on the dead.

And then you went back, again and again, pulling more bodies from the sea. But now your intention was less selfless and more selfish. No one had ever been able to get that close to the Cannibal and live to tell about it, their demise only being whispered by unfortunate bystanders or when their burnt husk of a corpse was discovered weeks later. But you survived. You came back to do it again, pulling more and more bodies from the sea and eventually stopped jumping when the large, scarred dragon nudged at your stick, urging you to fetch his meal from the waters. As strange as it was, you considered the large dragon a friend. Mayhaps your only friend on this side of the Narrow Sea. You would speak to him about your duties, point out the other dragons and their riders, telling him anything and everything that came to your mind. And then, when you, as delicately as you could, fed him another arm, you nearly shrieked when his jagged teeth suddenly sunk into your sea-soaked robes and all but threw you onto his back.

The scream that bubbled in your throat was short lived when he swiveled his long neck to look at you, as if making sure you were secure. He was mimicking the other dragons. The thought that this dangerous, old, angry dragon was playing pretend with you almost had you laughing. You adjusted your seat, slotting yourself between the large barbs and ridges down the dragon’s back and then grabbed at two of the curved spikes just at the base of his neck. Then, you spoke the word that changed your life irrevocably.

“Sōvēs!”

Fly.

And then he kept letting you up onto his back, letting you suggest where to go—he mostly listened. But you never truly cared if he wanted to go South when you had hoped to go North that day. He was yours. Truly, strangely, you felt as if his heart had wedged itself beside yours behind your ribs. The bond you had studied and kept sacred was now yours. You were a dragonrider. A dream, a wish you had never voiced. And you knew that if anyone ever knew, it would cost you your life.

But then you had a terrible, bordering on stupid, idea. You could see Vaella again. You could fly your dragon to Volantis and see your sweet sister again in days instead of the months it would take you to sail to her city. You could be free of all this. Of your family’s waiting wrath. Of the boredom. Of Aemond’s confusing actions. You had never been given even the opportunity to think of such things; your life was a series of going and doing what was expected of you. Pondering the possibility of true, if not brief freedom, and the repercussions that would surely follow, you stroked at the Cannibal’s flank as he ate the corpses you had piled for him earlier. The waning sunlight cast him in dark shadows as you both found solace in the seldom used western beach outside the castle’s curtain.

“Would you like to go to Volantis?”

The dragon rumbled between bites.

“Vaella tells me they have elephants there. You’ll have to promise not to eat them.”

He rumbled again and you couldn’t stop the soft laugh from escaping your lips. You could do this. Somehow. You’d offhandedly learned that Aemond and Daemon were considering flying to Braavos to meet envoys from the city to possibly form an alliance. You had heard rumblings about Braavos and Pentos both claiming dominion over the Stepstones and the Targaryen princes had hoped to resolve the issue and strengthen their armies and naval fleets in the process. It could be the perfect distraction.

A large, dark shadow suddenly washed over you in a wave and you didn’t even need to look up to know who it was. But the angry bellow Vhagar let out had you freezing. You couldn’t fight her, you wouldn’t. Even if the Cannibal rivaled her in size and ferocity, Vhagar was still your charge: you wanted her happy and healthy. Having two dragons fight to the death would destroy you. You needed to leave now.

Vhagar landed, sand spitting into the air under her weight, just as you pushed at your dragon’s side and screamed at him to fly, starting to scramble up to your perch. But before you could even try to move or take to the skies, the great dragon’s maw opened and closed around Cannibal’s neck and bit down.

You screamed alongside him as you were thrown back down onto the sand from the force of the impact, green fire spitting out from between his teeth. It nearly burned you but just as soon as the attack came, it paused. The prince’s dragon held yours down against the charred and crystallized sand. Dark blood slithered down the Cannibal’s neck to pool near your boots as you stood on unsteady legs. In a singular moment, he had been subdued. Just as you had been. Atop Vhagar sat Aemond and even as the sun blotted his features out, you knew he was entirely focused on you.

“Please,” you whimpered. “Please, let him go. He has done nothing against you.”

“On the contrary, my dandelion. He has nearly taken you from me. Did you think I did not see you climbing on his back, day after day?”

Tears gathered at the edges of your vision as you shook your head. “I am not yours, my prince. I am not-”

“Enough.” Aemond’s voice cut over the grumbling of his dragon and the seething of yours. “You have tested my patience. It is time to put this charade behind us. You are mine. You have always been mine. Just as I have been yours.”

“When have I ever been anything more than a keeper to you? I have done nothing to warrant these feelings. You are misguided.” You tried to quell the tears to no avail. Not when you could feel your dragon growing weaker by the moment. “When were you ever mine?”

But the prince was undeterred and swung out of the saddle and down the ladder to step toward you, lilac eye nearly burning. “I have been yours since you placed that dandelion in my hand as a boy that night on Driftmark and swore to me that I would have a dragon.” His hand slid against Vhagar’s neck as he stepped ever closer. His dragon released her bloody hold on Cannibal’s neck but kept her head close to his, effectively keeping him pinned.

More blood pooled in the sand as you shook your head. “You just needed a bit of kindness. That was all it was. Nothing more.”

“But it was more.” His voice was ice. “It was everything.” He moved closer still. “My entire life I have been nothing more than a spare, falling further down the line of succession with each birth. No titles of my own. I have had to fight every day to simply have my father’s attention, to make a name for myself, to be anything more than a footnote in a history book. Tis I who studies histories and battle and who rides the largest dragon in the world and leads the charge against our enemies. I have pushed them back across the Stepstones and into the Disputed Lands to lick their wounds but it matters little. Everything I have ever wanted is beyond my reach or shared with others, divided up before I can claim what is mine.” His eye blazed as moved ever closer. “Why should I not have something that is entirely mine?”

Heat crackled down your spine at his words, at his unblinking gaze anchored on you. “My Prince…”

“Mine to have. Mine to keep. Mine. You always have been and you always will be.”

“Y-you don’t mean that. I am nearly a decade your elder! I am not… My family serves yours and your dragons. We do not marry,” you tried to argue, thinking of every reason why it should not and could not come to pass. “I have no court refinement. My family reviles me. You ar-are a prince! You are the one who rides the largest dragon in the world, and you are a learned warrior worthy of song. And I cannot be the one-”

Aemond was in front of you in a flash, long fingers curling around your wrist. “You are. No matter what you think of yourself, I have seen you. I have known you. You are my only equal. Your family will be dealt with and I will give you the option as to how for their mistreatment of you.”

Still, you shook your head. “Your family will never-”

“My family has known I would wed you since I was a boy. They knew you simply needed time to see it. While my mother and sister tie the Seven Kingdoms together, you and I will maintain the old ways. Valyrian. Fire and Blood. Do not try to hide yourself from me. I knew what you were since my time in Qohor and I remembered how your blood shone on that little dandelion in the dark. You said it that night: there is magic in our blood. You would not be able to tame this beast without it,” he said, inclining his head to your dragon. “And so easily. Just as easily as you calmed all the others. They sense it in you, as I did. As I do now.”

And what could you possibly say to that?

But Aemond did not care to give you time to formulate a response and tugged you away from your coiled dragons and toward the castle. And, just as soon as the heavy door closed behind you, your back hit the cold, stone wall of the corridor and Aemond’s mouth was on yours. The kiss was not kind. Not the stuff of songs and girls’ whispered dreams. It was all hard edged lips and searching tongues after his hand fell to your jaw, pressing until your mouth opened with a whine. He stole your breath in an instant, seeming content to have you gasp against his tongue as he plundered. And then he was tugging at the laces of your trousers until they fell loose at your waist before falling with a single twist of his wrist.

You turned your head as you felt it, letting his next echo of a kiss smear against your heated cheek. Fear and something else crawled up your spine like a slow-moving spider.

He rucked up the edges of your tunic to curl his long fingers over your smallclothes and pushed them down to hang uselessly around your ankles and join your trousers. The moment he touched your clit had you keening, your own hands fisting at the leather stretched across his shoulders. To push him away, to pull him closer, you could not know. “My prince, please, you will ruin me. I am not what you want.”

“But you are,” he said. “You are all I want.” His fingers trailed lower, gathering slick as he pressed into your folds and then curled them into you without preamble. Your body shook with the intrusion, a strange burning sensation bleeding out into a pleasurable pressure as he continued to push push push in and curl his fingers, then he retreated just enough to have you gasping before he pushed back in. Again and again he pressed in, dragging the flat of his hand against your clit with each pass until you were whining against his mouth. An embarrassed heat licked up your chest when you realized what you had done. How could you like this?

“There we go, my dandelion. You sing so sweet for me.” Aemond bent his head just enough to drag his lips across the hollow of your throat, the wet, sucking sounds of your cunt nearly drowned it out. A heat was coiling in your belly, winding tighter and tighter with each flick of his wrist but you felt him shift, just slightly, and his next press had your knees buckling, sparks rippling up your spine.

“My…” Your tongue couldn’t form the words. Every inch of you was buzzing, pulling tighter, inching towards something that-

You came with a cry and Aemond kept you upright by shoving his knee between your legs, his other hand coming up to press at the base of your throat. As he slowly, carefully pulled his fingers from your sopping cunt, you couldn’t look away as he pressed his fingers into his mouth. He let out a soft noise, eye closing as his tongue wrapped around the digits to get them clean.

“You are sweet everywhere,” he said before slamming his mouth against yours in a harsh kiss that tasted of you as he pried your lips open to lick inside.

Your tenuous grip on his shoulders tightened as your blood sang through your ears. A sudden, warm pressure against your thigh almost had you retreating but the wall and his grip falling to ensnare your waist halted any movement.

“I want it all,” Aemond murmured against your mouth. “And you will give it to me.”

“Aemond-” The rest of your rebuttal choked you, stalling like a rock in your throat, as you felt like you were being split in two as he sank into you. He pushed and pushed and pushed, seeming to go on forever, and punched the air from your lungs when his hips were finally flush with yours. The prince stilled for a moment as your body throbbed with an almost uncomfortable heat and his lips dragged against your pulse, humid breath wetting your skin.

“My perfect little dragon.” And then he moved. Sliding out just enough to punch back in, dragging a yelp from your throat, and then doing it again and again and again until your yelps turned into wet, pathetic keens as the coil returned. It looped around your stomach and pulled as Aemond’s thrusts had you shoving up onto the tips of your toes, completely at his mercy. Each drag and push of him was hitting that spot inside of you that you didn’t know could possibly exist, and brushed against your swollen bundle of nerves and sent more sparks up your spine. All you could do was hold on and sob as he took what he wanted and drove you closer to another terrifying euphoria.

And then it was crashing over you, seizing your body and making you shake in his grasp, but he was not done, continuing to thrust until he suddenly stilled and a scalding heat pooled inside you before you felt it start to slip down into the crux of your thighs.

Aemond did not pull out as you thought he would, but instead stood straight and smoothed a hand across the side of your face before pressing an almost gentle kiss to your quivering mouth, just a touch too firm to be truly careful. “Let us retire. I fear we have tempted fate too much by cavorting in such a place.” Only then did he pull out, hands squeezing at your hips as his release started to slide further down your legs. You burned with something almost like shame, but the residual tingling from your own kept it from truly consuming you. “Your body is for my eyes only, those little sounds you make are for my ears only. You are mine. And I plan to have you again before I call you my wife in front of the gods of our ancestors.”

And Aemond did. He took you apart on his featherbed and he had you screaming into the hand he cupped over your mouth as he drove into you until your legs were too weak to sustain your weight when you tried to stand afterward. But it mattered little because he still had you bathed and dressed in the traditional robe of a Valyrian wedding and he’d led you out to the beach like a lamb to slaughter where the priest wed you to Aemond in the Old Ways. He cut your lip and you cut his with unsteady fingers, knowing you could not run now.

**

Much had changed.

With the tenuous allegiance of Braavos and Pentos gained with careful political maneuvering by Daemon and Aemond, the war with the Triarchy was over in three moon’s time. King Viserys lived long enough to see it and welcome the entirety of his family back to the Red Keep again in victory before succumbing to his age.

Queen Alicent was the one to place the crown on Rhaenyra’s head and proclaim her Queen of the Seven Kingdoms in front of the crowds assembled.

Your lip scarred and your husband liked to press his mouth to it whenever you were alone and you could feel his smile against your skin. And, just as he had said he would before your wedding, he had his first heir growing within you. His warm hand would curl around your ever-growing bump at every opportunity, no matter the company present. Advisors, siblings, knights, low and highborn alike. All of them saw the possessive curl of his fingers over you. You had come to expect it, almost welcome it.

It was strange…to be wanted. And to be wanted to completely. It was stifling and terrifying and all consuming. When you had come into your shared chambers and murmured the news that you were with child, Aemond had taken you again but slower than he had ever before. It was almost as if he were nervous to move too quickly, despite the power behind his thrusts, and hurt you or your babe.

The next day, he had the tongues of your mother, father, and brother delivered to you, wrapped in the dress Aemond had gifted to you and your mother had stolen. Aemond had given you a choice as to how to deal with them. You had asked for them to never speak ill of you again but for their lives to be unaltered. Horrified, you realized he had done as you had bid. They would never utter a word against you. They would never try to use you as leverage in a scheme. Aemond had taken it a step further to have you known as a Targaryen Princess rather than your House’s name.

“You make him so happy,” Alicent said as she cupped your cheeks in her soft hands, a matching smile on her face. “I cannot thank you enough.” The Dowager Queen had been endlessly kind to you and the rest of the family had welcomed you with open arms.

As if they had always expected you to be one of them.

Your dragon healed, new scars to add to his collection. He still allowed you onto his back but only when Vhagar was near. Your freedom still had caveats. But you still felt the wind beneath you as you soared through the air with your husband at your side. You still knew what it felt like to fly. You still knew the taste of clouds after a storm. You still knew what the city looked like from miles in the sky. And Aemond had sworn that he would fly with you to Volantis to visit Vaella after your babe was born.

“I love you,” Aemond spoke the words first, just after your bump started to show, only a week before you were set to fly North to see Helaena marry Cregan under the heart tree in Winterfell’s godswood. “I love you,” he said again after watching Aegon happily kiss his wife in Sunspear under the blazing Dornish sun. “I love you.” And you wanted to believe him. One day you would. And, perhaps one day you would say it, too.

A few months shy of your suspected due date, Queen Rhaenyra summoned you both to the throne room from the chambers you shared. “You may have any land you wish, brother,” Rhaenyra said with a small smile. “You have fought valiantly for this kingdom, often without reward or gratitude. It is a paltry sum for what we and the crown owes you, but I hope this is a start.” She waved a hand and a serving man handed Aemond a small scroll. “If you wish to rebuild any castle or keep on that list, you will have any materials and skilled workers you may need. If you would prefer something built new, you shall have the same. You need only ask.”

Aemond unfurled it to reveal a list of islands, vacant lands, and ruined castles. You recognized a few; Red Deer Island in the Riverlands, Bloody Isle near Oldtown, and Whispers which was the ruined castle near the tip of Crackclaw Point. But the list was extensive. Aemond had his pick of lands. He could take you anywhere he selected. How far would he take you? And why did you hate that you didn’t care? As long as it was him? It would be just you and him—forever

A/N: thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think!

#Aemond Targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fic #aemond x oc #Aemond Targaryen #aemond Targaryen x ofc #House of the dragon fic #house of the dragon #hotd #female reader

[lady-ashfade]

Fighting The Storm

—£ Twin!Lucerys Velaryon x Fem!Reader.

—£ Ask“Lucerys twin sister who went with him to storm end and you can decide what happened next.”

—£ Warning: Dragon fighting, Your dragon is called Nightshade, Short story, this is mostly seen as platonic but idk! You choose!

Luke was anxious about leaving. He had many fears of something happening along the way or from storms ends. His only since of relief was to find his way to you and share his feelings and doubts.

As always you brushed your hands into his hair and gave him a pat on the shoulder, “It is our duty.” You pulled him closer and kisses his forehead.

“But if anything happens don’t wait for me, me and nightshade will handle everything. You and arrex can not handle much, promise me this.” You grabbed his hands and made him swear on your mother.

Your whole life you had done what your mother wished for herself and trained to be a knight. You could handle yourself well and it helps that your dragon was a adult, having to claim one as your own.

The way to storms ends put a distasteful taste in your mouth and made your stomach sink but you put on a brave face for him. All your life you had been doing so, keeping him safe and calm.

When the two of your saw Vhagar you grabbed onto him and ask him if he remembers his problem. Making him swear again to keep it.

When you both arrived in the castle you both saw your uncle who sent a shiver down your spine. He looks evil and sadistic when he looked at you, a cocky grin at his lips. You hated him for years but this wasn’t the time to get into family hatred.

 Of course this was never going to be a civil night with him here so one thing lead to another and you took Luke’s hand and ran out. He was to be protected at all cost.

You both sattled your dragons and took off into the storm that now whistles and cries over the sea.

You kept yourself close to your brother and since your dragon was bigger then his, making sure to keep a eye out for aemond.

When vhagar started to appear you hopped in front of your brother and tried to keep the focus on yourself. The whole situation you were protecting your brother, yelling at aemond to stop and let you both go. War had no beginning yet. He only laughed and continued to scare Luke.

You got separated from your brother and you called out for him and listen for any sign. The rain and clouds covered most of your view that you began to panic. “Brother!” You called out for him.

You couldn’t lose him. From the moment you came into the world he was there, your twin. And best friend.

The larger dragon came into view and you couldn’t take it anymore of the torturing and games. “Dracarys.” You screamed and flew closer. Fire was blown onto the dragon as you quickly turned away to kept yourself from harm.

You hoped that Luke had gotten away and that you could buy him time to rush back home.

Seeing aemond tug his ropes back and screaming at vhagar you knew it was a mistake but one you had to own. It would have ending up badly anyway so as long as you saved Luke. That was all that matters.

Luke rushed into castle and searched for his mother while soaked in water but he didn’t feel on his skin. He was on fire, his blood pumping and heart racing. ‘I left her there, my own sister. I left her there to die.’ Those words repeated in his head since he left the storm. At this moment while he breathed in the air you could be drawings your last breath or already be died.

All he sees is your braided hair laying on his shoulder as the sun beamed down on you in kingsland. The both of you sitting by your mother as her bell swelled with a new babe on the way. He sees your smile when you kiss him goodnight on the forehead each night as you jokingly check under his bed for monsters. And, his body wants nothing more then to feel your arms wrapped around him.

“Lucerys.” His mothers voice was finally heard and his head snapped towards her. She clinched her dress and rushed over to her son and checked his body for injuries. He looked more pale then should be possible, and his lips were blue and floor trailed with rain water. “Where is your sister?” She glanced behind him for you since you were never far away from your twin but she saw nothing.

Whimpering, his eyes filled with tears. “I lost her.” His breaths started to pick up and he was losing his breath. “Aemond separated us. They both were no were insight. She made me promise to leave, and I shouldn’t have- I-” he broke down as his mother pulled his head into her shoulder and shh’d him while her own mind raced. Her brother was there, and chasing them no doubt.

“I will ride at once.” Daemon spoke from behind as he grabbed his helmet and sword. Rhaenrya watched him get up, “It is a storm- Daemon.” Rhaenrya did not know what to do at the point. Vhagar was out there and in a storm it would be hard to fight but her little girl was out there somewhere. In the cold, in the rain and probably fighting for her life while praying to get away.

Daemon went to say something but a large dragon call was heard from outside and it was a familiar call. Nightshade. They rushed through the halls to make it outside to see you return, they were anxious.

There stood the tall black scaled dragon with a few cuts on its skin with blood dripping down but it seemed to pay it no mind. The dragon watched a few guards heavily while they focused on something on the ground away from their view. “Y/n!” Rhaenrya knew what it had to be with the dragons intense gaze. She ran across the ground and over to where the scene had taken place and she saw you.

Her little girl laying there with eyes shut and blood staining your clothes. Your mouth stained the same tint as your brothers and skin almost un life like, you looked…Dead. She dropped to her knees and placed up your head into her lap and the men works on the wounds on your body and checked to see if you were still alive. You still had a faint pulse and breath but you could lose that at any moment.

The night was long as the maester did their best to keep you alive. Your mother pacing outside the door wondering if she was to lose another daughter. Daemon sharping his sword and planning a way to make aemond pay. And lucerys, who sat with tear stain cheeks knowing that if you died tonight it would be his fault. It was him who left, it was him who took aemonds eye many years ago to make him do this, it was him he was after. And all you wanted to do was keep him safe.

#lucerys velaryon #lucerys velaryon x reader #house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #lucerys velaryon x twin!reader #yandere house of the dragon x reader

[humanpurposes]

Sour Switchblade

No sooner has she landed in the courtyard of Storm’s End, she knows her mission is doomed // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x nameless female character (daughter of Rhaenyra)

Warnings: 18+, smut, childhood friends to enemies to lovers, Targcest (uncle and neice), threats of violence, bit of blood, dub-con, breeding kink

Words: 4100

A/n: Also available on AO3. Inspired by my current obsession with this song.

She knows where she is the moment she reaches the skies above the Stormlands; this part of the world was not named in irony.

She clutches tightly to Silverwing’s reigns, dragon and rider fighting through the fierce winds and heavy rain that stings the skin of her cheeks.

Lucerys and Arrax would have never made the journey. They are both too small, too young to take on such a burden as messengers on the eve of war. Jacaerys should have the more arduous task ahead of him, to fly to the Eyrie and then to Winterfell, to earn the support of the Arryns and the Starks to their mother’s cause. 

She has one destination, one objective, one Lord to win over. But no sooner has she landed in the courtyard of Storm’s End, she knows her mission is doomed.

She hears Vhagar’s call, or rather feels it reverberate in her chest, before she sees her. She is a monstrously large dragon, the oldest of her kind. Only her head and neck loom over the battlements, but it is enough to terrify the Princess. 

Because with Vhagar comes Aemond. 

He had hardly spoken so much as a word to her during the petitions for Driftmark, but his eye never left her. 

She pushes aside any childish ideas of hope for a civil encounter with her uncle. Any love between them was severed the night he claimed his dragon and Lucerys claimed his eye in the tunnels below Hightide.

Her name is announced to the Round Hall as she trails in behind an escort of guards. Rain drips from her soaked leathers and hair, the braid she wore long blown apart by the wind. She clenches her jaw, determined not to shiver in the presence of the Lord of Storm’s End, or the one eyed Prince who lurks at the edge of the room.

Aemond stands with his hands clasped behind his back. For a moment she sees surprise in his gaze, but it soon settles into a smug smile, his single eye positively gleaming through the miserable light of the hall.

Beside him is a young woman, dressed in all the finery of a Baratheon Lady. Her suspicions are confirmed when Lord Borros mentions a marriage pact.

She can’t stop herself. She looks to Aemond, knowing full well she is doing nothing to hide the fury in her face. And he stares back, like a hunter stalking prey.

She has nothing to offer Lord Borros, nothing that could compete with such a match. Her brothers are either betrothed or too young.

But she cannot fail, not when Rhaenyra has lost so much already these past few days.

Aemond’s eye remains fixed on her, vaguely amused, but still alert and intent. Perhaps he believes he has found a weakness, perhaps the shark smells blood.

If memory serves correctly, Lord Borros’ wife passed some years ago.

“I offer my hand to you, my Lord,” she says. “Pledge your banners to the true Queen, and your sons will be Princes.”

Lord Borros brings his fingers to his beard, muttering into the ear of his Maester and nervously glancing towards his other royal guest.

The amusement has faded from Aemond’s face, his moment of triumph snatched from him. Even the mere consideration of her proposal undermines him.

His chin is tilted down now, his eye dark and lips pressing together to withhold a sneer. She revels in it, taking a breath to stop herself from smiling.

“I will need time to consider,” Lord Borros says. “I will make my decision known on the morrow.”

Aemond takes one step towards her before she is whisked away by the eldest of the Baratheon sisters, Cassandra, and no less than four guards. Cassandra takes her arm in hers and leads her through the castle to a guest chamber, in a tower that overlooks the courtyard and Shipbreaker Bay beyond that. 

A bath is drawn for her and a gown of black with gold embroidery laid out of her to change into. It seems unusual to see herself in these colours, but then again, her grandmother, Rhaenys, is half Baratheon.

Dressed in her gown and with her hair newly done, she watches Silverwing seek shelter from the Storm under the battlements. Vhagar is apparently sleeping, with her wings cradled over her body to keep out the rain. 

Silverwing would be miserable here, she thinks. A dragon needs clear skies, they cannot always fight against the wind and rain.

It’s hard to tell exactly when the sun sets. There are no warm colours in the sky, no streaks of orange or gold. The sky beyond the storm clouds fades from grey, to indigo, and then to black.

Lady Cassandra escorts her to the Round Hall for supper. It is a modest affair. Lord Borros’ advisors and bannermen sit at tables in the heart of the hall, while a high table is set before the Stone Throne. Lord Borros sits at the centre, with two empty spaces either side of him. She might guess who they are for.

She sits between Lord Borros and Cassandra, and finds just enough time to steady her nerves with a sip of wine when Lady Floris enters with Aemond on her arm.

She swallows her mouthful wine thickly, meeting her uncle’s gaze for only a moment out of courtesy. 

He takes his place beside Lord Borros and the meal commences. Servants bring out whole roasted boars, and given Aemond’s reaction to the suckling pig at dinner in the Red Keep, she refrains from moving her mouth or looking in his direction. In fact she hardly has an appetite at all. She sits with a stiff spine, glancing down at the plate of potatoes and greens placed in front of her.

Lord Borros asks her a question which immediately slips her mind. It occurs to her she’s supposed to be winning him over, to prove to him that she will be a good and dutiful wife. A better wife than Aemond will be a husband for Floris anyhow.

The thought churns her stomach and leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

She allows herself another glance to Lord Borros’ other side. Aemond’s head is close to Floris’. The light from a candle on the table flickers over his chin, his jaw, the top of his neck underneath his collar. He leans in closer to mutter something in her ear.

He was always so softly spoken as a boy, subdued, even in moments of frustration. He still seems subtle, but in a different way now, a quiet kind of arrogance, a silent threat with the smallest of gestures. The few words he had spoken at that dinner, though aimed as insults towards her brothers, had ignited a thrilling sort of intrigue within her.

And now Floris gets to sit beside him, gets to feel his breath on her ear as he whispers in that low, chilling voice– 

“Princess?”

“Y-yes?” she stutters, turning her eyes back to Lord Borros.

Only she seems to have caught the attention of Aemond and the other Baratheon girls now.

“I said our union should be a plentiful one, if your mother’s talent for producing sons is anything to go by.”

The only thing that stops her from reaching for her knife and jamming it into Lord Borros’ neck is the quiet huff of a laugh coming from Aemond.

She shoots him a deadly glare but his cruel smile does not waver.

“The man who eventually claims my niece’s hand will have Strong sons, there’s no doubt about that,” he says, reaching for his cup.

She watches him drink, the way he pouts his lips, how his throat bobs as he swallows.

“What a kind compliment, uncle,” she says, “though not one I could extend to you.”

Aemond sets his cup down gently. “Meaning?” he asks, not looking at her.

“It took you a decade to claim a dragon, did it not?”

His head snaps towards her. “Yes, and I claimed the largest dragon in the world.”

“An impressive feat,” she says, “one your father was proud of, I’m sure.”

He wants to lash out, she can see it, his fist clenching on top of the table, his lips pursing together, his eye going wide, his nostrils flaring as he takes a few breaths to compose himself.

The rest of the table has fallen to an uneasy quiet. She simply reaches for her wine and takes a generous sip that slips over her tongue with a delightful burn.

Lord Borros calls for music, and his daughters, Cassandra and Ellyn find partners to dance with. Maris remains seated, with her arms folded over her chest and a sour look on her face.

Floris seems hopeful, sitting up and trying to catch Aemond’s eye from his blind side. It is a hope he will not entertain. He keeps one hand on the table, tapping a long, slender finger against the wood.

“You will forgive me,” Lord Borros says to her, “I am too old to dance now.”

She tries to smile to hide her repulsion. What an endearing match she’s managed to find for herself. But this is for her mother– her Queen, so that the throne might pass to the rightful heir and not a usurper.

In the corner of her eye she sees Aemond is watching her, and she does not shy away from his gaze. His lips curl into a smirk but she can see the calculations and strategising behind that piercing, violet eye.

What lurks on the other side, she wonders, underneath the leather eyepatch and the scar slicing down his face?

A bloody mess of flesh flashes before her eyes. She remembers how he cried out in pain, how he clutched his hand to his face, how the thick, dark blood seeped from between his fingers and spilled onto the floor as he fell. She had only watched dumbfounded, as Lucerys dropped the blade, as she and the other children were ushered into the Hall of Nine, as the gash in Aemond’s socket was sewn and their mothers both called for justice.

Could she have stopped her cousins from confronting him? Could she have defended him from her brothers? Would he have at least felt some of her sorrow if she had gone to him that night or wrote to him in the years that separated them?

Those possibilities mean nothing now. Aemond looks at her with no warmth, no fond memories of their shared youth.

He’d be handsome without the scar– he still is, but it is a severe kind of beauty. 

The moment she manages to finish the food on her plate, she excuses herself, declaring that she is tired from her journey and will need to recover before Lord Borros makes his decision in the morning.

Lord Borros presses a kiss to her hand, and she winces at the way his beard feels against her skin. When she looks to Aemond, he is suppressing a smile by bringing a cup of wine to his lips.

She walks quickly through the halls, towards the guest chamber, already taking off the heavy gold earrings and necklace she had been adorned with, and sighs at the relief of their weight. The sooner she can get to sleep, the sooner the morning will come, then the sooner she can finally leave, either a success or a failure, but she will be free of him. Free of the tight, restless feeling in her chest.

The enduring storm does not help her nerves, the rain beating down and the wind howling against the castle walls. Her heart leaps at every irregular noise, anything that might be mistaken for a voice, a breath, a footstep. She glances over her shoulder repeatedly, but all she sees are the empty hallways she leaves behind.

Two guards wait outside her chambers. They do not move to open the door for her, as they would on Dragonstone. She huffs and pushes it open herself, falling against the door once it is closed.

Borros Baratheon is hardly a man of principle. He has no love for Rhaenyra, and is only considering offering his support out if pride. She has no friends here. 

She quietly turns the lock on the door.

She heads to the vanity to set down the jewellery and release the pins from her hair, watching it fall around her shoulders.

Outside the window, she hears Silverwing’s lamenting coos through the clashes of thunder. She reaches behind her back to undo the laces of her gown as she goes to the window, but she cannot spot her dragon through the dark and the heavy rain.

“We’ll be home soon,” she whispers into the night.

She nearly screams when she hears the door rattle.

The wood clashes against its frame, but the handle does not budge, for now.

She barely has a few moments to run to the vanity, hand outstretched and eyes fixed on a long, sharp hair pin when she hears the door burst open. It slams and heavy footsteps thud against the floor, towards her.

A hand clasps over her mouth before she can make a sound. An arm wraps tightly around her waist, keeping her arms by her sides, before she can reach the closest thing she has to a weapon.

She thrashes, squirms, tries to call for help or graze her teeth against the intruder’s flesh but nothing deters him. 

She looks down at the arm around her waist. She recognises the black leather sleeve of his jerkin, the wide palm pressing down on her stomach, veins and tendons running underneath pale skin. 

He rests his chin on her shoulder, so his long, silver hair falls around her face. He smells of smoke and lavender.

He lets out a frustrated huff as she unsuccessfully tries to jerk her elbow into his side. “Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm, trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” he hisses against her ear.

She squeals in fury against his palm, trying to twist her way out of his grip. She manages to drag him with her until their sides collide with the vanity. Pieces of priceless jewellery and bottles of perfume fall to the floor, and shatter. 

She has a mere second to wrench herself from his grip, only for him to grab her again, turning her to face him as he pulls her into his chest.

Aemond’s expression is deadly, his eye wide, lips pressed together in a scarcely contained rage.

“The throne belongs to my mother,” she says through the drumming in her chest, with all the defiance she can muster. “She is the one true heir. King Viserys–”

“Viserys is dead!” Aemond bellows, pushing her back against the vanity. “His word means nothing now that he can no longer enforce it.”

With her hands suddenly free she attempts to strike him, but he sees her intention before she even moves, pinning her wrists to the wood, keeping her body in place with his own.

She clenches her fists, only able to dig her nails into her palms. “What is it that you want from me?”

Lightning ignites the sky behind her. The white light dances over his scar and the shape of his mouth. His expression is softer now, lips slightly parted.

“I will have what I am owed,” he says.

Her eyes flicker to the eyepatch and the edges of the scar it cannot conceal.

Aemond hums a small laugh at her presumption. “Fear not, dear niece, that is not your debt to pay.”

His gaze trails over her face, then lower, to her lips, along her neck, to the gown slipping from her shoulders and the bare skin at the top of her chest.

“Do you remember what you said to me, the day you left?” he says softly.

The children they were are almost half a lifetime away.

She remembers standing under the weirwood tree in the Godswood of the Red Keep, a warm breeze rustling the red leaves above their heads, the sun shining through the branches.

She remembers holding Aemond’s face in her hands, wiping away the bitter tears as they fell from his eyes. 

He had begged her not to leave, but they were powerless then.

He is the one to bring his hand to her face now, running his thumb over the lone tear that spills from her eye.

“I said I loved you,” she utters. “I said my heart was yours, and it always would be.”

Aemond hums softly. “You made a promise to me,” he says. “Do you intend to keep that promise?”

How can she? She would have to forsake her mother, her Queen, her brothers, the realm, her own dignity.

“It was a childish infatuation,” she says.

“Not to me,” he says, fury creeping into his voice once more, his grip on her hand tightening.

She pushes her one free hand against his chest but he does not budge. “Aemond, please, you’re hurting me…”

He presses his body into her, forcing her further against the vanity– a warning, a command for obedience. He trails his thumb over her cheek, to her lower lip, taking her chin in his fingers. When she tries to look away he brings her eyes back to him.

He leans in gradually, pressing his forehead and his nose against hers, before he takes a steady breath and captures her lips in his. His kiss is starved but slow, bruising, deep and desperate. The hand that was on her chin comes to her neck, angling her head precisely where he wants her.

His hands trace down the back of her neck, between her shoulders, to pull at the laces of her gown. They fall apart between his fingers and, barely breaking away from her, he tugs it down until the black and gold fabric falls to her ankles. He lifts her out of it, seating her on the vanity, raking the hem of her shift up to her thighs so he can place himself between them as he continues to kiss her.

A dazed sort of warmth pools within her. She can feel her senses and her sanity slipping.

But he cannot best her, not after everything that has happened in the days since the King’s death.

She grazes his lip with her teeth, and when he seems to welcome it, she clenches her jaw as hard as she can.

He tears himself away from her and staggers back, bright blood dripping from his mouth. She can taste it on her tongue.

“Little cunt,” he hisses.

She slips the hairpin into her hand and runs for the door. Aemond catches her in a few strides but she’s ready for that, turning to drive it into his blindside.

Even then he misses nothing, holding her wrists behind her back with one hand and snatching the pin from her grasp. She hears it clatter to the ground as Aemond drives her forwards, towards the bed.

She lands face down and tries to lift herself up, only to feel his forearm pressing into her neck to keep her down.

“You were always stubborn,” he says, planting a delicate kiss to her shoulder, “and as exciting as that is, I want you to be good for me, dōna riña.” 

The iciness in his voice sends a shudder down her spine.

“Say it, say you’ll be good.”

Hit tears prickle in her eyes. She shifts underneath his hold, but her urge to fight is already fading. “I’ll be good, qȳbos,” she whispers. 

Aemond’s chest hums with a groan. At last he relents, releasing her neck and her hands. But no sooner is she free, he turns her onto her back and slides his hands up her thighs, hooking his fingers over her smallclothes and bringing them down her legs.

“Up,” he says, dragging her by her hands to sit, so that he can pull her shift over her head.

She cannot be sure why she’s shivering, the cold air, the noise of the storm, or the hungry look in Aemond’s eye at the sight of her bare body.

She keeps her hands on his shoulders as he lays her down and trails his fingertips down her stomach, to the obvious arousal at her core.

With a lingering kiss to her cheek he presses a single finger inside her. She gasps at the sudden sting of it, digging her nails into his skin.

But he reaches deeper than she’s ever been able to, stroking against the flesh within her, until she starts to melt. He edges her closer and closer to bliss until she comes undone around him with a whimper.

“Sȳz riña,” he coos against her cheek. “That’s it…”

She tries to cling onto him as he moves away, but he is not gone for long. He swiftly undoes the buckles of his jerkin, followed by his shirt, boots and breeches. His body is lithe and lean, harsh angles and soft skin.

She glances at his eyepatch again. 

Aemond lets out a low, irritable “hmm,” as he looms over her. His hair falls around his face, tickling the skin of her collar. He leans on one palm placed by her head, as he drags the tip of his cock through her folds, teasing between her bundle of nerves and her entrance. The sensation burns brightly and has her hips bucking, but it’s not enough.

“Beg me for it,” he utters.

“Please,” she whispers, cupping his face in her hands, feeling her thumbs along the sharp edges of his cheeks. “Please…”

He pushes into her with a single stroke, filling her to the hilt with a soft sound of skin against skin.

She winces at the stretch, throwing her head back against the bed and trying to steady her breath as he rocks into her.

He’s gentle at first, but before long he is restless.

“I knew you fucking wanted this,” he pants, gripping at her waist to pull her in with every snap of his hips. “You little whore, I can feel you getting wetter.”

She should hate him for it. There is so much she should hate him for, but she cannot think past the pleasure tightening and rising within her, the sound of Aemond’s laboured breaths or the lewd, wet sounds of their coupling.

His hands grab at her legs, positioning them against her chest so he can fuck her harder and deeper.

“Oh gods,” she whines as he pushes against a spot that makes her feel weightless. 

“Take it bastard,” he hisses, pressing his forehead against hers and wrapping a hand around her neck. It’s not enough to hurt, but it’s enough to know it could. “Fucking take it.”

She is sure it’s too much, his hold on her neck, his breath over her lips, his body pressing against hers as he pounds into her without mercy. 

“I’m going to fill you up,” Aemond rasps, “return you to King’s Landing with a Prince in your belly.”

His promise sparks a new feeling entirely, her cunt clenching around him as her voice becomes a slur of desperate, wanton moans.

“Oh you’d like that, wouldn’t you, ilībõños? Want your uncle to give you a silver-haired babe?”

“Please,” she mewls, placing her hand over his, “please, qȳbos,”

With a few sharp, brutal thrusts, her body erupts with her climax, until she is a moaning, quivering mess. 

Aemond’s jaw hangs open as he fucks into her through his own release, until every last drop of his seed is buried within her.

He keeps himself nestled within her, positioning them properly on the bed, hooking her leg around his hips, keeping her body and her head close to his chest.

Her eyes flutter closed, lulled by the soft sound of his breath and the gentle thud of his heartbeat.

But the pleasant glow of her peak cannot last forever.

“I can’t go back to King’s Landing,” she whispers against his skin. Not now that Aegon has claimed the throne, not now that her mother is amassing her banners and the Greens are doing the same.

Aemond takes her chin his fingers, forcing her gaze to meet his. “Did you think I’d ever let you go? You’re mine now, dōna riña. That is what you've always wanted, is it not?”

She helplessly traces her fingers along the muscles of his arm, held tightly around her.

Perhaps she did want that, once.

“What of the Stormlands? What of our duties to our families? What of the war?”

Aemond silences her with a delicate kiss to her lips. She lets it soothe her, for the sake of a love once lost, for a moment of bliss in a world unfurling into chaos and bloodshed.

“Lord Borros will pledge his banners to Aegon or I will burn Storm’s End to the ground,” Aemond mutters between their kisses. She can already feel his cock beginning to harden once more inside her. “And no one will keep you from me, my sweet, strong girl.”

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[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Consequences | Five

Word Count: 6.9k~ | Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, dark, medieval-canon sexism, heavy dub-con/noncon, DD:DNE, mean Aemond, manipulation, abusing power, gore, blood, violence, major angst, Aemond being a possessive horny weirdo with a power complex, kinslayer aemond, graphic depictions of medieval abortions, choking (and not in a kinky way), p in v, facefuckin (oral, m receiving), choking (in a kinky way), fingering

Series Masterlist  

A/N: okaaaay let’s go, please for the love of god, read the warnings. Apologies in advance to @ewanmitchellcrumbs for this one ily 😚

Everything had changed.

 King Viserys was dead. Aegon thrust on his throne in place of Princess Rhaenyra as his heir. And the maidservants and staff had been locked up for the entirety of it, to quell the spread of rumours. Only when the staff pledged their allegiance to Aegon II as their rightful King before the now Dowager Queen Alicent, were they allowed back to their duties, threatened with death on the basis of treason if they were found to be doing anything they shouldn’t.

 It was the most surreal, frightening experience of her young life. To be clutched at Hedi’s side, shaking and trembling, wondering if she’d ever see her siblings again.

 She wondered if her brother had succumbed to his illness and if her sister was winding herself to the ground with grief, as she had when their parents had died.

 She prayed to the Gods, namely the Mother and the Crone. For equally important things. To keep her loved ones safe, even if it meant that she was put into danger. To the Crone, for guidance. Although she did not know yet what exactly for.

 Everything had changed.

 Aemond pulled her body up from the bed to rest on her knees, to support her weight on her shaking arms and the motion had his cock brushing rather uncomfortably against her cervix. Her entire body felt hot, a stagnant, heavy feeling filled his chambers, as if it were humid inside. His thrusts were harder than they’d ever been before, making her skin ripple with movement of his rhythm.

 A series of hurried and half-pained breaths are all that left her, her cheeks stinging with heat as her tears ran over them.

 “What are you crying for, sweet girl” he grunts, delivering a particularly hard thrust, his large hand slapping her buttock and gripping tightly, “I know you like your Prince’s cock, don’t you, you little slut”

 Slut.

 Whore.

 She whimpered, his fingers digging into the meat of her skin roughly, hoping it would be enough of a response for him.

 Since his father had died, plunged into a civil war between his family. He’d been unpredictable. He would start the day calm enough, sometimes frighteningly so. But now that the days were becoming shorter with the weather, a looming dark cloud forever over King’s Landing, as if the Gods knew the trouble that was afoot, Aemond temper came with the storms and the rains.

 Destructive. Washing away everything living thing in his path.

 He reached down and wrapped his hand around her neck, roughly pulled her back up to meet his bare chest. Aemond’s fingers curled so tight around her neck, that for a split second, she thought that he might actually lose control and snap. But he pressed his lips against her ear, his fingertips harshly tearing at her thin and delicate skin, “Fucking answer me”

 He adjusts the endless thrust of his cock up into her, now they are controlled, deeper, as if trying to hide further and further inside.

 She could feel her air stuck beneath his hand, desperately trying to break free. Felt her head begin to get hot and foggy, vision blurred and her lips move but a barely audible sound is all that came out.

 “Yes…” she whispered. Just saying whatever she could to appease him.

 She had been afraid of him before. Many times. But now, the way he was now, she feared that he might actually harm her and that the damage might be irreparable.

 Aemond laughs against her back, the vibration of it humming uncomfortably in her body.

 Still with one hand around her neck but loosening his grip so that she can breathe once again, she almost weeps at the relief. Aemond chuckles darkly and pushes her back against the bed, grinning when he sees the familiar sheen of tears on her cheeks, watching her breasts rise and fall with the intensity of her breathing. He eases his other hand down her body, over her feminine hips, taking the meat of her thigh in his grasp to spread them apart once again, sighing contently at her glistening cunt, ready to take him again.

 “You are a terrible liar, sweet girl” he coos down at her, lowering his face so that his hair brushes against her nipples. A flash of fear passes her face, but Aemond seems to revel in it.

 He did say once, he would have her fear if nothing else.

 He pulls her by her hair to the edge of the bed, where her head briefly hangs over the edge. She whimpers at the tug on her follicles and it sends a prickling pain down her spine. He no longer holds back his grip like he used to. He swats her cheek, again not in the usual soft manner, but as a means to punish her for the outburst.

 “Shut up” he commands, standing in front of her.

 She looks up at him from where she’s laid as Aemond stands before her, holding his cock proudly by the base, shining with her slick. He prodded his tip against her lips, looking at her wide eyes beneath him. He smelled of sex, of her and his arousal mixed with one another. His hand comes down to her jaw, thumb pressing on her chin to open her mouth and Aemond sighs when he feels her hot, shuddered breath against his cock, twitching with excitement.

 He does it slowly, and plunges into her mouth, watching how his cock disappears down her throat, where the skin around her neck bulges where it's nestled. He feels her breathe through her nose and smirks, knowing that she’s doing as he had instructed her the first time, grinning at her endless obedience.

 “Good, sweet girl…” he growls, burying himself to the hilt within her warm and wet mouth, the head of his cock rammed down the smoothness of her throat.

 Hand still at her jaw for leverage, he cants his hips slowly, grunting heavily at the friction he gets from this angle and the sound it makes. But she herself makes no sound. Not even when his heavy stones sit warm against her face, briefly blocking off her air. Aemond watches as she takes it, her saliva coating his cock just as her slick had.

 Continuing to use her mouth for pleasure he runs his hand down her body, cupping his hand at her sex and running his fingers through her folds, collecting her wetness on them.

 “Perfect fucking cunt”

 He sinks two digits inside of her, his palm delivering friction to her clit at the same time, and he both fucks her mouth and her sex with the same rhythm, taking immense pleasure in the way her body responds.

 It’s out of her control. He plucks the pleasure from her without her even thinking about it. She whimpers around his cock, deeper than she ever thought he could be in her mouth. Her neck bobs with his shallow thrusts and his other hand rests against it, pleasuring himself through it.

 “Fuck-take it” he moans loudly, nearing his climax with accelerating and shocking speed. He fucks his fingers into her faster, intent on making her shake and writhe beneath him. Aemond increases the intensity of his thrusts with it, outright moaning as her mouth trembles around him.

 She whimpers, her insides clenching uncontrollably, painful pleasure taken forcibly from her core, but any sounds she makes are stuck in her chest with the slow, methodical drag of Aemond in her mouth.

 Aemond smirks when her body shudders with overstimulation, more sounds muffled in her chest, giving her some reprieve when he pulls his fingers free and her body sags once again against the bed. Not a moment later, Aemond pushes his hips flush against her face, his seed painting the walls of her throat with a shuddered moan. He feels her gag a bit, still with his cock in her mouth, but he enjoys the slight friction it gives him.

 He stays seated in her mouth for a moment, his hand running through her hair.

“You are so good to me” he breathes as he comes down from the high.

 She felt the warmth slide down her throat, the proof of his twisted, sick attraction to her.

 And when Aemond pulled her up, to kiss her on her lips, she wanted to weep. It was too sacred. A kiss. Something that should be done before all the things he had done to her. Something to bind a love, a marriage. A respect for one another.

But he had kissed her so fiercely, to taste himself on her mouth, and she had known then there was no love. No care. No respect.

 “You won’t leave me now, will you? Sweet girl…”

There were few things in her life that were consistent up to now.

 But her moon's blood had always, always arrived on time.

 No matter how many times she willed it to come, stepping into the privy multiple times a day to find her hand completely dry, void of the usual slick of red, it would not come.

 Just the other night, Alanna had furrowed her brows and mentioned that she had not borrowed her red petticoat for a while and asked if she was feeling okay.

 That was when that hurtling drop of panic erupted in her gut.

 She didn’t understand at the time, what Princess Helaena had said. And she thought of how foolish and stupid she’d felt.

 Cold Tansy.

 The womb quickens.

 Tansy tea. In other words.

 Moon Tea.

 The liquid that so many women used and still used…had to be prepared with a flame before consumption. Had to be brewed fresh.

 She felt dizzy.

 She hid in the privy, so unbearably torn apart by the revelation that she almost made herself sick. Bile rose in her throat but it never came free, and she wretched, her body tearing her apart from the inside. She felt the pain in her womb, the little dragon inside aching to grow, she had felt their flames lick at her spine.

 She tried to muffle her cries with a hand over her mouth, but the hurried sobs inevitably broke free.

 Alanna flung the privy door open and upon seeing the crumpled mess of her bedfellow on the floor, promptly shut it again with both of them inside.

 "Gods…" Alanna whispered, bringing her into a hug, a friendly hand stroking her back.

 If the maidservant hadn't been so upset, she would have laughed. Alanna didn't like to be hugged, or any physical contact at all, even going so far as to lay on the far side of the bed to avoid touching. She found it uncomfortable.

 But right now, it was needed. And the maidservant flung her arms around Alanna, tightening her grip on her as if she was the last person in this realm to be on her side and help. Her hands had clamoured at her back, needing this closeness so badly it hurt. Alanna only shushed her and allowed her to sob.

 "Please…do not tell Hedi…" she begged, with tears still streaming down her face, voice thick with despair. Alanna pulled her face back and sighed, using her thumbs to wipe her cheeks.

 "We have to tell the Quee-"

 "No, I-I need…I need this job. I have to-" she stammers through her weeping, struggling to catch her breath, emotions running higher than they would normally, "-my siblings, th-they need me. They will send me away without my wages and no reference, I-”

 "Shh, shh, alright I will not tell Hedi or the Queen" Alanna cooed, rocking her shoulders softly.

 "Do not tell anyone, please…I-I could not bear it…" she cracks her bleary eyes open, her heart beginning to beat in its normal rhythm again. Her lashes are all stuck together from her tears, cheeks red raw.

 "Who is it, the man? You could not marry?..." Alanna asks carefully.

 It was a nice thought. But one that would never happen.

 She shakes her head, "I cannot say…"

 Alanna sighs, obviously quickly running out of ideas.

 "I can deliver it. I helped my mother when she had my brothers-"

 Everyone would see. Everyone would see you are the Prince’s whore. A child with silver hair.

 "My condition will soon start to show…" she says, resigned. Her hands shake against one another, held as if in prayer to the Gods, "Hedi has such sharp eyes…what am I to do…"

 Alanna was quiet for a long time, trying to wrack her brain for what to do. She knew she could not have the baby, nor could she tell another living soul in the Keep as it would mean she would no longer have a job, no more funds to send to her family and an even smaller chance of a future.

 “Have you any money?” Alanna asks, “there is a woman in Flea Bottom who helps whores when they need it…but…” she says carefully, watching her fellow maidservant’s reaction.

“What are you suggesting?...” she responds with a weak and shaky voice, her grasp on Alanna resting at her arms. Alanna looks visibly pained by the suggestion. Every one of them were devout, pious, to even suggest such a thing as…

 “How much is the procedure…” she asked, making Alanna widen her eyes, surprised that she was considering it.

 “One gold dragon, but it is dangerous-”

 “I cannot afford one gold dragon, ‘tis more than I earn in a year!”

 Alanna sighed, “Whoever the man is, go to him. Appeal to his better nature…he cannot turn you away if he has any decency at all”

 She really appreciated Alanna’s advice, but there was a twisting pain in her gut at what had been suggested. It was something she had heard of women doing before, in desperate times. It could be dangerous. But this woman had done this procedure plenty of times, on women who survived and lived to keep on working.

 There was a chance.

 There was a chance she could keep the job. In servitude still of Aemond, but with the knowledge that she could just drink Moon Tea, prepared correctly, and never have to do this again.

 A future.

 One gold dragon was an incredible amount of money for a common maidservant, well over a year’s wages. It was entirely intentional, gold dragons as a currency was something specifically reserved for the upper classes, and if she was to be found with it…it would arouse suspicion.

 She had to be careful.

 Should she approach Aemond…?

 …How would he react to it?

 Would he dismiss her? Send her to the streets, her and her bastard? Left on the cobblestones to die.

 He cannot turn you away if he has any decency at all.

 Appeal to his better nature.

 It cannot be.

 The words of Princess Helaena were like an incessant bell, echoing around her mind. It was all-encompassing and it took every little bit of strength she had left to not crumble under its weight.

 There was only one problem.

 Aemond was nowhere to be found.

 The Dowager Queen looked out at the skies, darkened and stormy. The rain was loud and oppressive. Thunder and lightning clapping across the sky, sending an intolerable humidity and uncomfortable atmosphere that seemed to sweep about the Keep like a disease. She tugged at the cuffs of her sleeves, opting to fiddle with them instead of destroying herself.

 Her heart was filled with worry.

 Aemond had not returned.

 She waited and waited for what felt like an eternity, not knowing if a day had passed or not. The sun had yet to make its appearance, stuck beneath layers and layers of clouds, towering high above King’s Landing. It was impossible to see a thing. Despair hung so low to the ground that it obscured everything.

 Alicent’s nervous face met the gaze of Ser Criston, who had knocked and walked past the threshold of her chambers.

 “What is it?” she asked nervously, unsure if she wanted the reply.

 Ser Criston stood straight, hands at his side, one perpetually on the handle of his sword at his side, “Prince Aemond has returned”

 She moved swiftly through the Keep, the skirts of her deep green dress in her fists and rushing to find her second son.

 Something was wrong.

 Down the long corridor, Alicent came to a halt halfway, her chocolate brown eyes wide at what she saw. Aemond had rounded the corner, absolutely sodden through his clothes, hair wet and tangled, trying with an annoyed air about him to tear his leather overcoat off his person. A maid followed closely behind, picking them up from where he’d thrown them.

 His eyes were downcast, a stoic expression on his face, which was still covered in drops of rain. His jaw was forever clenched, his lone eye ablaze with fury but also something deep and worrying inside. Shoulders hung on him, as if he had the weight of the world on them.

 “Aemond…” Alicent’s soft voice called to him, hoping to break him from his darkened trance. But he continued on, long legs striding to his one comfortable place. His one haven in the hellhole he had made.

 Her son towered over her as he strode by and she knew something horrible had happened. A mother’s gut feeling never wavers, not once. She knew her boys, in her bones. And she knew Aemond had a temper, but rationales that there was always a reason for it.

 She held his forearm to attempt to calm him. To bring him back.

 Aemond didn’t say a word, huffed and tore his arm away. Not even the soft embrace of his mother could help in what he had done. The sin he had committed. His failure.

 He refused to stop, to explain what he’d done. Everyone would know by the morrow and he need not be there for it, he reasoned.

 Right now, he wanted the safety of his chambers and the warmth and security of being buried inside her. She offered an indifference, a closeness he could not get anywhere else.

 His mother attempted once more to reach out, and without looking at her he roared, as if cornered, “Leave me!”

 He dared not to see the broken and disappointed look on her face, as he knew she would have by the morning. He felt like a child all over again. Weak and feeble. He remembered the way he had crawled to his mother’s arms and found solace.

 But he was not a boy anymore.

 Instead he would find solace the way a man would.

 The way a man should.

 At least as far as Aemond was concerned.

 The little maidservant had jolted noticeably when the chamber doors slammed shut with a force that shook the very stone walls. She held a jug of warm water in her hands, instructed to draw a bath upon Aemond’s arrival, and with the sheer shock of him storming past the threshold had some of it fall onto the stone floor below.

 With parted lips in surprise, her eyes met his form, standing before the now locked and closed doors. He was tall and foreboding, like looking at a wild animal, especially with how uncharacteristically unkempt he looked, with that fierce look in his one eye. His body vibrated with an unseen rage, his chest rising and falling quickly like he had been running. He smelled what she thought was dragon, a musky animal-like smell that clung to his riding leathers.

 He said nothing.

 “Your grace…” she greeted with a quiver to her voice.

 She would never see the internal battle in his mind. The pendulum swinging between kinslayer and dutiful Prince.

 Kinslayer

 Kinslayer.

 She saw him clench his fists until his knuckles were white.

 “Undress me” he commanded, with a low growl.

 She swallowed hard and set the jug aside, brushing her hair that she had unbraided over her shoulder. Daring not to meet his eye, she stepped forward, shaky hands reaching out for his leather doublet, the silver clinking quietly in the chambers. Aemond closed his eye, inhaling deeply when her scent flooded his very being.

 So feminine.

 Weak.

 He was about to drift into the calming waves that her presence offered, floating idly in the depths of her touch when-

 “May I speak plainly, your grace…” she asked meekly once she dropped the leather from his shoulders.

 She had never asked to speak out of turn. Not once. And Aemond opened his eye again, half lidded and looked down at her, his gaze remaining in its stoic manner. But she didn’t meet it, too afraid to, as she folded his doublet over the armchair.

 “Speak then”

 Her hands found one another, fiddling nervously with the skin at her palm, her head lowered.

 “I…wondered if I might request some-”

 “Look at me when you are speaking to me” he interrupted.

 His voice drove fear, deep into her core and she felt the dragon in her womb begin to wake from its slumber. He took her chin in his fingers once more and forced her to look up at him. Her wide, glassy eyes finally met his and she could feel her entire form tremble, and thought, he must be able to feel it too.

 “I wondered if I might request some funds from you” she finally said, in a quiet, mousy manner.

 She had known then. That now wasn’t the time to bring up the subject. But by then it had been too late. His fingers tightened on her chin, to keep her there, to watch him as his brows furrowed in frustration.

 “You said you had sufficient funds”

 He said in an accusatory way. As if her chance before had vanished.

 She inhaled, filling her lungs with the last bit of courage she had.

 Her lips quivered, and the words left her mouth too quickly.

 “I am with child”

 His entire form seemed to go cold, as well as his expression, hooded even further in what she could only assume was anger.

 “You are lying” he dared to accuse, with a firm and ever-tightening grip.

 You wouldn’t lie to me now, would you sweet girl.

 She felt the tears hot in her eyes, entire body shaking. The babe within was hot in her belly at the proximity with their father.

 “I am not” she responded with a quiver to her voice, “I…do not have the funds to…have the procedure…to…”

It was difficult for Aemond at this moment to pin down a specific emotion. So much had happened in the course of a mere few days. For him, for the realm. For the lives of every soul in Westeros it felt like.

 In the morning, everyone would know what he was. A disappointment. Weak. A failure to his family. He would see the sullen look on his mother’s face, when she found out that her entire bloodline was now thrust into danger, on account of what Aemond had done.

 He would lose his place in his mother’s good graces.

 Fathering a bastard. A blatant disregard to his duties as a Prince.

 Just like Aegon had been.

 He could not bear it. To be a kinslayer as well as that.

 He wanted control, something that had been slipping ever so carelessly from his grip since Lucerys was crushed by Vhagar’s jaws. He wanted control of his life.

 Of her.

 And her admission didn’t give him the safety he so craved.

 To think of a bastard in her belly. His bastard. The storms returned to Aemond’s one eye at the thought of even seeing her swell with it. It could not happen. It could never happen. To be reminded of his failures.

 She gasped loud, breath caught in her lungs, as his hand gripped her throat and squeezed. Previously, in the throes of passion, he had squeezed the sides of her neck, so as not to cut off her air entirely. But this time, his grip around her was so tight that his thumb pressed against her pulse point. Her eyes widened, one hand coming to his to pry his hand off her. But he never relented. Not once.

 Ordinarily, a primal part of his brain would adore to see her swell with his child. To see her breasts grow heavy with milk and her stomach taut with his little dragon inside. If she were his wife. If she were highborn, a real lady.

 But she had dared to exist in a moment of Aemond’s most tumultuous times.

 The realm had played a game. Aemond was a loaded cannon and the game was to see which gunner could fire his rage in the right direction.

 And it had been her. Her mere existence as a woman.

 She could feel her head become heavy with the lack of air, her hands clamouring desperately at his to let her free, fear climbing its way up her spine, both at the situation and the look in Aemond’s eye. Calm but with a white hot rage inside.

 He shook her by her neck, “You are mine” he growled at her face, his grip tightening.

 “Until the day you die, you are mine”

 She wished she could die.

 He would never let her go. He would never let her truly live. She would never have a husband. Have children to raise. No ordinary life.

 Gods, take me away, she prayed silently, closing her eyes, as if she felt Aemond might kill her right here and now.

 He pushed her away forcefully, wanting to be rid of her presence as if he could by the click of a finger. Could not bear to see her and her supposed betrayal of his servitude to his family.

 She crumpled to the floor, gasping and coughing, her hand around her neck from where he had grabbed her tightly. The stone floor hit hard on her body, air flooding her head. Aemond, frustrated and wronged, scrambled for the purse on his side table, unknowing and uncaring of the contents. All he knew was there were sufficient funds there.

 He threw it to her crumbled body and watched as she wept on the floor, thinking her pathetic, naive. Weak.

 He huffed and began to unlace his breeches, the only thing now on his mind was a bath, to wash away his sins of the days past.

 “I expect you to return to your duties tomorrow” he said flatly.

 She gasped, choking on her breath as she cried, staring ahead at the purse full of coins.

 “Now leave”

 Not wanting to look at him any longer, she shakily took the purse and held it to her chest. Somehow regaining the use of her weakened legs as she stood to lunge herself towards the doors. Away from him.

 Only when she had regained her breath and strength from the force of her crying, did she look into the bag Aemond had given her.

 Four gold dragons and several silver coins.

 It was more money than she had ever seen in her life. And would likely ever see all at once. She lost her breath at the sight of it, something foreign curling in her gut.

 What she could do with this much money.

 She could leave. Leave this job and go somewhere far. Perhaps even across the Narrow Sea. Away from him, from this life of being his whore. Something for him to release his violent temper upon in the hour of the wolf.

 She held the purse tight to her chest and decided. Made a decision, for the first time in her young life.

 Promised herself that she would have the procedure and flee, far away.

 No more of this, she thought to herself, stroking her sore neck and walking with purpose back to her quarters. For the first time, she’d felt anger at herself, for putting up with the torture for so long. Felt overwhelmed by what the past few days had given her as her fate.

 It cannot be.

Sleep didn’t find her that night.

 A red painted house with the curtains drawn, ask for a woman named ‘Sarria’, is what Alanna had instructed.

 She had kept her hair down and wore a dress she would normally wear to prayer, not her maidservant uniform, not wanting to be recognised as staff for the Red Keep.

 She clutched the purse close to her chest, the coins jingling softly inside with every step she took. It was like he had given her life. A chance. How unfortunate that it had to come from him.

 The air was crisp and it was an overcast day, still so early in the morning that the sun was barely peeking through the narrow alleyways. She had decided to come early, before the market stalls had gone up in Flea Bottom, before the rush of customers would flood the streets. Less chance of being seen entering the home. Perhaps less chance of the Gods knowing what sin she was about to commit.

 But the Gods were everywhere. Could not be caged in as men could.

 After a moment of deliberation, she knocked on the narrow door, barely wide enough for a man to fit through. The red painted house had their curtains drawn even though it was morning, as Alanna had said, perhaps to hide the sins inside. Like a brothel.

 A woman with greying hair had answered, standing in the doorway but not quite showing her entire body, possibly in a manner of guarding. She had bright blue eyes, framed by wrinkles of her years, and she looked impossibly tired from what she had seen over the course of her life. The older woman had looked upon her with curiosity, seeing such a small delicate thing at her doorstep.

 “What can I do for you, child?” the woman asks in a soft, gravelly voice.

 “I wish to see Sarria” she answered quietly.

 The woman’s face fell into a soft frown, a sad one. And her eyes looked her from head to toe, swallowing thickly.

 “Come in, child, quickly”

 Wracked with anxiety, she stepped across the threshold, greeted by a familiar earthy and minty smell that emanated through the home. It was dark and dank, from years of not seeing the sun. The woman shut the door quickly behind her, placing a bolt across it to lock.

 Rather surprisingly, she took her cloak and folded it over an armchair in a friendly gesture, now finally being able to see her young face.

 She guided her to the opposite side of the house, where the smell of mint was stronger. The kitchen was somewhat dusty, but well used. She saw two stoves, lit, with a pot of something brewing hot on top, with the stench of something akin to mud.

 Moon Tea.

 “You have coin, I assume” the woman says, capturing the maidservant's gaze from the pots. The maidservant inhaled sharply, clutching the purse still, fingers gripping it tightly as if it were the last thing in his world. Reluctantly, she nodded and handed the purse to her with shaky hands.

 The woman eyed the contents, perturbed.

 “Are you a whore?” she asked.

 “Excuse me?...” she asked, not quite sure what she meant. The words of the other maidservants clear as water in her mind.

 “At the brothels” the woman said, to which the maidservant shook her head quickly.

 “No…”

 The woman furrowed her brows, “Only whores receive gold dragons, child. Where did you steal this from?”

 She swallowed thickly at the accusation, “It was gifted to me, I swear…” she answered meekly.

 The woman seemed to consider her answer for a moment, holding the purse in her hand as if weighing it. Humming, she took one gold dragon from it and put it in a pocket inside her apron, reluctantly giving the purse back to the maidservant.

“Tell nobody of this, and if you do, I shall deny ever having seen you. Understood?”

 She nodded in return, too scared stiff at the moment to speak.

 The older woman led her to a back room, separate from the rest of the home. A room with no windows and a wooden dining table in the middle. She watched as the older woman spoke to another, much younger woman, one who had long dark hair, also wearing an apron.

 The younger woman approached her with a solemn look, but a reassuring smile, and took her hand to lead her to sit on the dining table. The table was clearly cut from one large piece of wood and weathered over the years, with a big burn mark in the middle of it.

 “This is my daughter, Cassia” the older woman says, “she will assist you, make sure you are comfortable”

 Both of them were soft spoken, careful. It was like being inside a Sept, it was so quiet. They tiptoed around her, like she was a terrified animal, fleeing at the littlest sound.

 They covered the table lengthways with a blanket and propped some hefty cushions at the top and middle.

 “Lay down” they instructed.

 She felt the first signs of fluttering fear in her gut when she laid her head against the pillow, her hands fisting her dress in nervousness as she laid flat against the table. The older woman adjusted the other pillow beneath her bottom, raising her hips. The maidservant swallowed and flinched when the woman named Cassia began to stroke her hair, whispering ‘relax’.

 But it did nothing to quell the nerves.

 “Bend your knees” the older woman said in a soft tone.

 Reluctantly, she raised her knees, but unconsciously clenched them together in sheer terror.

 “Will there be pain?” the maidservant asked through hurried breaths.

 “There will be some pain and blood. But after that, all will be right again”

 Cassia held one of her hands and she squeezed back tightly, grounding herself to where she lay, memorising the pattern of the beamed roof. Counting from one to ten over and over in her head as a means to calm herself.

 This was freedom. After this, she would never go back.

 She would leave.

 Cassia and her intertwined hands, her pupils shaking as they stared up at the ceiling.

 “Will…you tell me what you’re doing?” she asks, without moving her eyes as the woman gently parts her legs and carefully lifts her skirts.

 The woman was quiet for a moment, “It is best not to know” is all she answered.

 Cassia held a cup of a warm, milky looking liquid to her lips, gesturing for her to finish the cup before the procedure, her other hand stroking her hair.

 “What is it…?”

 “It will dull some of the pain” Cassia’s kind eyes looked down at her. There was that reassuring smile again.

 As she drank the musty liquid, feeling her muscles eventually relax, Cassia gave her a wooden pestle, covered with a rag.

 “In case you need to scream”

 She took it graciously, holding it near her chest tightly.

 The patterned ceiling began to blur, and all she felt was the cold touch of the tool against her insides, travelling impossibly further up inside her. Eyelids heavy and breathing hurried but calm, there was only the uncomfortable feelings of a stranger on her most intimate and forbidden of areas. The milky substance left a film on her tongue, seemingly numb now, as were her limbs from the effect of it.

 All the while, she felt the soft caress of Cassia’s hand in her hair, soothing her.

 Cassia guided the wooden pestle to her mouth.

 Her body tensed when the sharp object was cutting, tearing, something inside her. And she’d bit down harshly, her screaming and crying muffled somewhat by the rags that were tied around it. She could feel the little dragon within her fight back, their flames licking at her insides in desperation. A deep desire to exist.

 It is here she realised what Cassia was actually here for. She was not here for comfort, or to make her feel reassured.

 She was here to hold her down.

 And she did, a solemn look on her face as she refused to look down at the little maidservant in pain.

 She nearly made herself sick with the screaming and crying, praying for the pain to stop. And it didn’t stop, not even when the old woman visibly placed the small, slender knife into a steaming bowl of water, the thick waves of steam lingering to the floor and blood slipping off the blade in ribbons. It was a dull, deep ache, in a new place, somewhere chasmic within. It felt like a hole had been torn open, blood pouring from within.

 It was all she thought about as she felt a familiar sticky red liquid begin to coat her inner thighs.

 A knife, the weapon.

 Cassia took the pestle from her mouth and began to prepare the bandages. The little maidservant stared up at the ceiling, praying in a quiet whisper. For forgiveness. From the Mother, for not allowing her babe to be born. To her own mother, for she’d be disappointed in her eldest daughter, for what she’d done to protect herself and allowing herself into this situation. To her sister, for not being there to protect her, knowing all she does now.

 Knowing truly what men want.

 Carefully, and with a deep, warm thrumming pain in her core, both women sat her up. The maidservant shook excessively, deeply troubled by the experience, and her glassy eyes went everywhere else but their eyes, not wishing to see the judgement in them.

 They pressed a red rag against her, as women do with their moon blood, and kept it there while more bandages were wrapped around her legs and hips to keep it there, to stem the ever heavy bleeding.

 There will be some pain and blood. But after that, all will be right again.

 All will be right again.

 She didn’t forewarn her about the pain in her heart though.

 The two women pulled her skirts down, pressed her cloak to her back and gave her the purse again, and she clutched it tightly. Now that it was done, she would go back, sleep, pack her things and be gone by the next morning.

 “Rest now, child. Heat a brick for the pain” the older woman said.

 And without looking into her eyes, the maidservant nodded, and pulled the hood over her head, “thank you…”

 Should she thank them for such a sin?

 Her vision never quite returned to normal the entire journey back to the Keep, and several times she had caught herself from tripping over herself. It felt as if every single pair of eyes that walked through Flea Bottom were trained on her, as if knowing all the dark, sinful things she had done, walking around her in silent judgement that was reserved for women only.

 The pain in her core seemed to dull as she walked through the Keep, quickly making for her quarters. Alanna was at the front door before she could open it, having just finished her night shift, with wide eyes, looking about her form, but settling on her pale expression.

 “Prince Aemond has requested y-” she starts.

 No more.

 “Tell him I am not well” she replied flatly, softly pushing past Alanna into her quarters and shedding the layers of her clothes, the call of her bed and the sheets too great to refuse, “I have been ordered to rest”

 Alanna swallowed, “I shall take your shift, for today only”. It was clear Alanna has no desire to do it, for he frightened the other maidservants significantly.

 If only she knew.

 They lock eyes for a moment and Alanna can see the utter exhaustion behind her eyes. She squeezes both her hands, giving her some semblance of comfort and the little maidservant wonders at all if she should tell Alanna about her plans.

To leave this wretched place once and for all.

 “Thank you, you are a good and kind friend…” she replied with a shaky voice, giving a sad, reassuring smile to her fellow maidservant. Alanna gave one back and immediately put her apron back on, leaving the little maidservant to herself in the quarters to recuperate.

 She placed the heated brick beneath her mattress and shed her clothes down to her chemise, the front slightly tainted with a patch of blood where she had begun to leak through. So she placed some dark blankets against the sheets and placed herself finally in her bed, pulling the linen up to her chest and allowing herself to sink into it.

 Hot tears began to pool in her eyes at the thought of what she had done, feeling the evidence of it sliding in warm blood out of her. She thought of her family and how she longed to see them again, hoped that her little brother was alright and recovering.

 This was freedom, this choice she had made.

 And she thought of where she might go. Somewhere where the sun shines all the time, where the clouds are light and fluffy, where she can feel the sea breeze against her skin.

 Somewhere away from him. Where he could not find her. Torture her.

 Sighing happily at the thought, she sank further into the mattress, closing her eyes to rest off the uncomfortable ache and drained emotions of the day she had so far.

 Sleep, the calling.

 She felt her heartbeat softly in her chest, calmed. And her breath, slow and relaxed. Felt the warmth of the brick beneath the mattress soothe her and the soft hand of sleep curling around her body to take her. It felt like floating into nothingness, airy and free.

 Her name.

 Someone was calling her name, somewhere.

 Her eyelashes fluttered at the sound.

 “Mother…”

 Grief breeds grief.

General Aemond Taglist: @risefallrise @valeskafics

Consequences Taglist: @iiamthehybrid @manitskatrina @dahlias-and-marigolds @okfashionista @the-common-cowgirl @toodlesxcuddles  @darkenchantress @magnificentdelusionr   @tinykryptonitewerewolf @tssf-imagines @mandiiblanche @xdeath-soulx  @daemonlover @iiamthehybrid @thedamewithabook @hiatuswhore @apollonshootafar @ladymarg0t @hopeless-addiction-love @leeleebabe101 @babyblue711 @croatianprincess @what-is-your-wish @55gyi53vtnquwziq5 @garnetbutterflysblog @queenmizuki @tempt-ress @ithoughtulikedme @babyblue11 @qyburnsghost​ @heavenly1927​ @madislayyy​ 

*Bold means I couldn’t tag, if I can't tag you you can always turn on notifications for when I post. DM me if you wanna be removed besties

#aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond smut #aemond x you #aemond fic #aemond targaryen smut #aemond x fem!reader #aemond fanfiction #aemomd x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x oc #aemomd targaryen smut #prince aemond #aemond one eye #aemond angst #aemond stannies #aemond x maid!reader #dark!aemond targaryen #dark!aemond x reader #dark!aemond targaryen x reader #dark!aemond #dark hotd #dark!aemond smut #dark!aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x y/n #prince aemond targaryen #aemomd targaryen #aemond targaryen angst #prince aemond targaryen smut

[mhsdatgo]

"The title of the book is The Princess and The Queen so the book is about Rhaenicent!!!!11!1!11!1!1!111!!1!"

Respectfully, no. The book being titled after the two women who wanted to be the most powerful ladies of Westeros does not take importance away from the civil war, fought between TARGARYENS, AT ALL.

Aegon II is important. He leads the faction of the Greens (ALONG with his mother and sister wife), he's the Targtower that gave the inbred self proclaimed gods a taste of their own medicine, ALL for the safety of his family. He stepped up when his mother impressed it on him that Helaena, who above all, was his younger sister, would've been sold off to the enemy or literally anyone else that could've locked her away, mistreated her, or used her to make babe after babe.

He literally grew up watching his mother get used and discarded like a whore by her father, y'all think he'd willingly cause Helaena the same pain? Not that it isn't bad or absolutely fucked up, but the only things that are 100% true about him being promiscuous are the times where he's said to grope every serving maid out of reach and two alleged, ALLEGED bastards with them, if you don't count Gaemon as his or the story Mushroom out of all people invented.

He resents his father every day more than the last one. He tries so hard not to be like him, he drowns himself in cups because he can't help but see that a part of that walking corpse is in him. Every time he looks in the mirror is a constant reminder that his very own existence was forced upon both him and his mother, every day he seeks the approval of the woman who was strong enough to put away her trauma, all for him. HER approval, not his father. It's HER he admires the most.

And that character is taken away and stepped on entirely. By making him rape a young maid. By making him say that he will never be enough for Alicent "OR VISERYS". As if Aegon would actually care. Trust me, I wish I could chop his cock off inch by inch like a cucumber, but he's way more than that.

He has his own family, and sure as hell Viserys isn't and will never be a part of it. He is an older brother, his mother's son, a husband, a father. It's THEM he protects. It's THEM he grows a backbone and walks up to the crown that will doom him for. Because somewhere, inside this mess of a man, lies unconditional love for the family he sometimes alienates himself for. Because he hopes, THEY hope, Alicent and Aegon, that one day, their blood will live on because of this near suicide.

But it doesn't. It all crumbles down on them, like sand on their hands on a windy day. They bury the very only reasons they started this whole coup for, the ones that were supposed to bury them. And that's their tragedy. There's no karma, no victory for anyone.

By the time he's finally killed Rhaenyra, he has nothing. He has lost his sons, his brothers, his wife, his realm, his dragon. He's a cripple hanging by a thread. He ignores the advice of killing Aegon the Younger like he did with his mother. He gives up on executing Baela. What did these kids do? What's their fault? Being his cousin and half-nephew? Being his enemies' children? He isn't going to make the nightmare that was life, someone else's. He's tired. He doesn't want anymore war.

THIS is Aegon II Targaryen, not the degenerate piece of shit the show tried shoving down our throats.

#pro team green #team green #pro alicent hightower #alicent hightower #pro alicent stans #aegon ii targaryen #helaena targaryen #aemond targaryen #daeron the daring #daeron targaryen #jaehaera targaryen #anti rhaenicent #the mere mention of the greens makes me fucking cry #they're gonna send me to the hospital

[antvnger]

Blood Brothers AU - Airport Fight pt. 1

This time, Scott knows full well about the Accords. 

He’s there at the meeting when the Accords are first introduced to the Avengers, and it sends a bad chill down his spine. 

This is bad news all around. While the intentions behind them are good (he hopes), his gut tells him this will be like a cancer to the group.

He’s right. 

Big brother Tony says this. Childhood hero Cap says that. Scott sees both sides to this issue and doesn’t know what to think. 

Scott doesn’t want his superhero alter ego known for at the very least Cassie’s sake. He wants to keep her safe, and being a Stark is crazy enough sometimes as it is.  Keeping his identity secret has been the best thing for that. The Accords could take that away. That’s Scott’s biggest concern. 

His second is knowing Tony will probably expect him to stand with him in this issue. And he’s not sure he can. 

Scott does agree the Avengers shouldn’t be this untouchable group that can do whatever the hell they want, but he sure as hell doesn’t think the government should be the ones to tell them what they can and can’t do.  No damn way.

Scott wants to talk to Tony about it, but Scott secretly witnesses the slightly heated discussion between Tony and Steve showing how much on opposite sides they’re on, and Scott doesn’t have that conversation like he hoped.

When Bucky is accused of the bombing at the UN conference, Tony tells Scott to stay back and not be involved in the chase for Barnes because he doesn’t want his little brother to get into any legal trouble he can’t get out of and that Tony can’t help him get out of.

He stays behind like Tony strongly requested, but when Steve approaches him about the other brainwashed Winter Soldiers and Zemo, Scott agrees to go because it’s the right thing to do.

Obviously Tony doesn’t know about that until Scott reveals himself after taking Cap’s shield back.

Tony is….floored.  To say the least.  Hurt.  Confused.  Betrayed?  This must be a mistake.  Why would Scott stand against him like that?  

More importantly, does Scott understand what he’s doing taking a stand on Roger’s side in all of this?  What in the world did Rogers say to him to get him to join his side?

Tony sees Scott doing this as getting into trouble he can’t help him get out of, and that really troubles Tony.  And pisses him off.  Hasn’t his kid brother been through enough?

Haven’t they all been through enough?

Now Tony’s hands are tied.  He was willing to try to bring Cap in because at least Tony could try things nicer than anybody else Ross sends instead, but now Cap’s got Scott involved.  Tony would have to arrest his kid brother.  That’s not what he wants.

Scott feels like his hands are tied.  Scott hears Nat ask Cap if he really wants to punch his way through this one.  Scott really doesn’t want to when Tony and Rhodey are on the other side, but those rogue Winter Soldiers have to be stopped too.  If Tony would listen, maybe things would be different.

Scott tries to plead with Tony, but the fight breaks loose, and Scott doesn’t get very far in his plea.

Tony blames Rogers for putting Scott against him, and Scott blames Ross and the government for sticking their noses in places they don’t belong.

Tony and Scott overall try to avoid each other during the fight.  They don’t want to go up against each other like that.

Scott has a mini panic attack when that truck doesn’t turn out to be a water truck.  He never ever would have done that if he had realized.  He would never do that to Rhodey!  Rhodey’s been too good to him growing up, another big brother throughout his life.  He would never…

But the damage is done, and now Rhodey’s pissed, and Scott decides to find someone else to fight instead, shame pooling in his gut.

Hawkeye’s idea for Scott to ride on his arrow and disable Tony’s suit is a really really bad idea.

Scott is shaking his head no when Clint says, “This won’t hurt him; you know that.  It’ll just put him on the sidelines.  Keep him out of harm’s way, and we’ll be one step closer to doing what we’re supposed to be doing.”

Scott very reluctantly agrees to do it, cracking jokes the whole time to try to calm his nerves and convince himself this wouldn’t be as bad as he thinks...

Stay tuned for part 2 tomorrow

#ant-mun's thoughts #blood brothers #blood brothers au #what if scott and tony are blood brothers #what if scott and tony were blood brothers #scott lang #ant-man #tony stark #iron man #civil war #captain america civil war

[lunasglow]

My (possibly) controversial dance era opinion is that even if Rhaenyra and her children had left Westeros entirely, there still would have been an ursurpation and civil war.

Aemond blatantly hated those brothers of his. Even for a historical text, Fire and Blood really drives the nail in regarding his selfishness and his aversion to “sharing [his] glory.” And, if I remember correctly, this point isn’t even debatable according to the scholars writing about this point in history. F&B just straight up states “yeah, this guy really wanted it all for himself” without leaving room for speculation, debate, or even attaching a disclaimer to it like other wild stories have.

#hotd #house of the dragon #the dance of the dragons #fire and blood #house targaryen #aemond targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #daeron targaryen #team black #pro team black #anti team green

[strawberry-milkbunny]

Naruto is my Roman Empire and I’ve been reading MadaTobi fanfics so these r my Founders Thoughts that nobody asked for:

- Tobirama had a crush on Madara and it PISSED HIM OFF like they def had hate sex at one point LMAO

- they literally worked together ur rlly gonna tell me they didn’t have SOME moments of civility btwn them?? (lowkey that’s wild tho having to see ur brother’s murderer everyday at work-I like Tobi but I’m just sayin)

I WANT A WORKPLACE SITCOM WITH THE FOUNDERS SJSKKSKS:

- Tobi doing experiments and scaring the villagers

- Tobi teaming up with Madara to make Hashi do work

- Hashi making flowers w/government documents

- Mito sipping tea while encouraging Tobi to revive the dead

- everyone in the Tower side eying the sexual tension btwn Madara and Tobi and them never denying they’ve fucked before

- Toka cackling in the background

- Hikaku spraying water at Madara like a cat every time he throws a temper tantrum

- Kagami popping in to make sure his clan head doesn’t kill his teacher PERFECT SITCOM MATERIAL

- totally personal preference: Naruto should’ve had more BLOOD AND GORE. I wanna see the grittiness and horror the shinobi world actually is and how revolutionary Naruto as a character is by choosing peace over violence. The only time we get that is Obito vs Kiri nin, Uchiha Massacre, Wave Arc, Orochimaru…before it turns into DBZ fights

I’ve said this before: Sasuke was in a seinen Naruto was in a shounen

- the warring states is literally the perfect place for exhibiting the horrors of war and humanity. Bloodline thieves, child hunting squads, GIVE. IT. TO. ME. Madara and Hashirama experiencing all of this and wanting PEACE FOR THEIR YOUNGER BROTHERS UGHHH ROBBERY‼️‼️

SORRY TW IMPLIED SA !!:

I HC that bloodline thieves is prob why Madara wears gloves….being a YOUNG (he’s been on the battlefield since he was 8??) powerful, prodigy and future clan head of a famous kekkai genkai it makes sense why he doesn’t like skin-contact/sexual repression and repulsion. And why we don’t see female Uchiha shinobi (excluding misogyny) simply bc there’s such a high risk of SA in this era

Moving on:

- Tobi and Izuna were jealous of how their brothers were being taken away. It goes past the senju/uchiha rivalry like they were just kids and were plain jealous.

- Madara and hashirama def share 1 brain cell LOLLL. Like they’re besties for a reason, Madara acts likes he smarter but nah he’s as much of an idiot as Hashi is. They’re both dreamers let these boys live and skip rocks together!!! 😭😭

- let’s be honest: Tobi built the village. Mans was doing ALL the logistics and infrastructure

- tobirama is soooo second son/eldest daughter coded it’s not even funny. The SPARE, serious and emotionless bc he needed to always clean up after his siblings, DUTIFUL, prob has a praise kink etc.

- Madara is an eldest daughter who also prob has a praise kink and touch starved

- NONE of the founders r well adjusted like they went from spending everyday of their lives at war to tryin bring peace and start essentially a ninja-revolution (PLS GO TO THERAPY)

- madara was just the most open about it: being isolated and feared by his own clan BC he was powerful, trying advocate for the village and peace, all while grieving for his last brother…yeah it makes sense y he went crazy or at least wanted to leave (fuck Kishimoto for that Kaguya bs and fuck Zetsu)

- I don’t actually believe he was trying destroy the village idkkk. I think he was trying to do an SNS aka using fighting as a way to communicate with Hashirama and well…yIkEs

- tobirama is 1000% unadjusted: mans literally created a Justu to revive the dead. You cannot tell me that doesn’t REEK of desperation and loneliness. He’s lit rally the OG mad scientist

- hashirama rlly thought sealing the Bijuu and giving them to each village was a good idea….sir WHO TF GIVES NUCLEAR WEAPONS TO SHINOBI???!! 😳😳

- I think hashirama and naruto lowkey can be summed up as: a powerful idealist. Which is a very dangerous combination. Take that how you will especially considering how shinobi thrive off of violence….it kinda makes sense how we ended up with canon Naruto

- Madara has a god complex and knows it. Hashirama has a god-complex and doesn’t know it. (God of Shinobi title def got to him and understandable)

- the founders failed and they know it. But I also kinda love it?? They’re so flawed and human as leaders and you can see how their mistakes drag into Canon Naruto. It also makes me so sad knowing that Konoha was built to prevent child soldiers and give protection only for it to actually be WORSE (Kakashi ITACHI SANNIN ik for a fact it must’ve hurt Hashi to know ur own granddaughter left the village)

Uchiha are: love is the death of duty while the Senju are: duty is the death of love and neither of them will forgive each other for picking one over the other‼️‼️‼️

- proving this ^^ w/Hashirama’s weird af characterization: aka him being a loveable idiot but at the same time CONGRATULATING Itachi for killing his own clan for Konoha…. I feel like that rlly showed me how much of a war veteran/shinobi Hashirama actually is and how he will always pick duty

- we were ROBBED of baby Kagami/hokage Kagami 😤😤😤 I’m sorry Kagami should’ve been made Hokage it just makes sense personality wise and politically wise. The only way I could see him not take it is bc he needed to be a clan leader/placate the Uchiha/help Hikaku.

- I wanna see him process the loss of his clan leader, teacher, and eventually friends to a point where Danzo takes his eyes

- everyone on Team Tobirama had a crush on Kagami at one point

- one of my fav HC: Tobi and Madara co-parenting Kagami. There’s no way Madara didn’t check up on Kagami being taught by THE senju which makes his defection hit harder for Kagami 😭😭

- BABY SANNIN ‼️‼️‼️ Tsunade was old enough to meet and remember Hashirama it makes sense that Oro and Jiraiya meet the founders

- omg could u imagine being Edo Tensei Hashirama?? Ur granddaughter’s weird friend revives u using the Jutsu ur brother invented that you specifically FORBID 😭😭

- Hashi and Tobi staring at Orochimaru like “you look familiar???” IT HAS SO MUCH COMEDIC POTENTIAL

- Mito revolutionized female shinobi like she’s def the reason ppl realized that girls can fight (Senju Toka was an exception) STAN MITO 🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️

- Mito pulled a Tsunade and mentally yeeted out of Konoha after Hashi and Tobi died. Bc the way we NEVER hear about her and Hiruzen interacting except for Kushina, even tho she’s literally RELATED to the other 2 hokages….ROBBED 😵‍💫

- I HC: she was dealing w/grief (the fall of Uzushio made it worse) and she was lowkey pushed out of the council by Danzo FUCK DANZO

- I love the idea of Mito wooing for Hashirama’s hand/politically smart Mito!! It was a political marriage that grew into love. There’s no way she DIDNT suspect an attack on Uzushio lik it’s literally an island w/Kiri as it’s neighbours….Konoha gets recognition and stability while Uzushio importantly gets mainland allies

- Mito tops btw she’s def pegged Hashi before 🫢

- if Madara or Hashi had sisters/born women they would’ve def had a marriage to solidify their alliance. This makes Japanese homophobia not make sense esp in the shinobi world bc their clans trusted each other w/o backup like marriage?? Idk I’m just kinda confused y it was never even brought up for an alliance…

*cue MadaTobi arranged marriage au 100k, enemies to lovers, slowburn*

- also to dude bros homophobia has no place in the Naruto world (and IRL BTW) outside of making heirs. They’re literally MERCENARIES You telling me Kakashi has never fucked another man for information before??? Pls be serious I’m begging y’all 🙃🙃🙃

- there’s def family drama amongst the senju!! Idk I feel like Hashirama and Tobirama have the relationship of: “they love each other but don’t like each other” which makes Madara’s inclusion even worse for the brothers’ relationship. Like they def always had each other’s backs but never actually felt like they understood each other.

- I wish more fanfics/canon covered the shinobi-civilian politics more (I love politics lol give me world-building kishimoto 😤)

- Civilians hold power. THEY have all the MONEY to pay shinobi

- I’ve rlly only seen 1 fanfic that involves the Fire Daimyo during the Warring States Era (Into the Wide Blue Yonder it’s a KakaSasu Time travel fic that actually ✨works✨ 12/10 recommend) but it’s true.

Wtf is the Fire Daimyo doing during this era??? Why is he being so placate about Senju/Uchiha war unless he just sees it as entertainment?? How have shinobi NOT fought against rich civilian politicians before?? (Introducing Maoism to the naruto world lol 🤔🤔)

- Kishimoto curse ur goldfish brain….

- the uchiha and senju were def broke in this era, LMAO especially the Uchiha and I mean resource wise. War is EXPENSIVE the Uchiha don’t have Hashirama and Mokutan, they couldn’t just grow food whenever they wanted. It makes total sense that they would agree to a ceasefire just to prevent STARVATION

- once again…. robbed in terms of seeing the aftermath and devastation of war and learning how to live in a morally grey, politically unstable, resource limited world which could’ve brought in the ultimate themes of peace and the cycle of violence, and the question of if violence and war is ever justified, but…..no ❤️

#naruto #MadaTobi #hashirama senju #mito uzumaki #senju tobirama #madara uchiha #kagami uchiha #brainrot.txt #roman empire #silly little thoughts #warring states era #I think I’m a Madara stan now??? #I blame ao3 for my MadaTobi brainrot phase #pls give me a founders sitcom #tw sa implied

[tightjeansjavi]

Sing me a Lullaby Darlin’

Joel Miller x f!reader

A/N: I have no words for what I have created. I am a monster and I blame The Civil Wars for this one. It’s all their fault.

Summary: You soothe Joel’s constant nightmares of his daughter dying, and his fears of losing his younger brother Tommy, by singing him a lullaby.

~word count : 1.5k~

Warnings: so much fucking angst. Literally I have tears streaming down my face from how much angst is in this. Triggering themes of child loss, trauma, depictions of graphic violence taking place in the mind. Dark thoughts, depression, mentions of using alcohol, drugs, sex to cope. Nightmares, emotions, comforting themes, some fluff at the end. (+18) minors dni !!

Song used:

“You Are My Sunshine” cover by The Civil Wars

Joel Miller never knew how to evade his endless nightmares till he met you, his sunshine. For the years after Sarah’s death, Joel suffered day in and day out. He found himself lying awake at night, imagining himself crafting a sledge hammer with his worn, damaged hands. He pictured himself cutting his chest open, right down the middle, and wrenching his broken, bleeding heart from his chest. He would smash his heart over, and over again. Broken sobs eliciting past his lips as he would beg a higher power to make the pain stop. Make his daughters gasps, and screams of anguish cease from his mind. He begged that for every time he would close his eyes, he would no longer see her body tumbling in the dry grass. He would no longer see the blood pooling through her shirt, or her lifeless, cold eyes staring up at him.

He begged, and begged, and begged. No one would listen. There was no higher power to hear his cries, his pleas to make his suffering end. The grief, aguish, and turmoil would continuously crash into him, like waves on a rocky shoreline. He often found himself struggling to breathe, clutching at his chest as tears blurred his vision. He’d let out a wail, punching his fist into the wall, feeling his knuckles split, the skin raw, and bleeding. He’d punch the wall over, and over again. Sometimes, on the worst nights, he’d bite down on his fist to block out his heart wrenching sobs. When his tears were spent, and his voice raw, and broken, He’d wrap his arms around his chest, hugging himself tightly as he would rock back and forth, his mouth open, with no sound coming out, just a wheeze of a struggled breath.

He’d find himself turning to copious amounts of drugs, and alcohol. Whatever he could fucking get his hands on. He’d risk his life smuggling this shit into the QZ because it was the only temporary solution to numb his heart, and his mind. When the drugs and alcohol would wear out, he’d turn to sex. Burying himself into a body felt good in the moment. That high would soon pass and leave him in his filth. Joel Miller believed that there was nothing in this fucking god forsaken, shit-hole world that could ever keep his nightmares at bay. Then he met you, and everything changed.

Now, when he closed his eyes at night, he was met with peace. There were no screams, no bullets, no images of his daughter’s tumbling body. There was no blood, no lifeless cold eyes looking up at him. Now all he could see was you. You’d hold each other every night, legs and hearts entwined. Breaths in sync and heart beats slow, steady, calm. You had pacified his nightmares, drove them deep down into the cold dark earth. You soothed this broken man with soft touches and words of love.

Joel nearly lost you one Spring. You nearly bled out in his arms but he would be damned if he’d lose you too. He couldn’t possibly fathom it. He had the chance to save you and he fucking took that opportunity swiftly. He vowed to never leave your side, and you kept his words like an oath. Deep in the caverns of your chest, where your heart laid, beating for him.

Joel’s younger brother Tommy not responding to his radio calls is what finally broke him. The nightmares had clawed their way out from the depths that you had sent them. They tore up the dirt, the flowers that you had implanted into his soul were shredded to nothing. They turned to fucking dust as the darkness encased around his heart once more. You spent years sewing your man back together. Since that day, the moment you met him, you were subconsciously healing him. Needle and thread in hand, you had taken the bits and pieces of his heart that were left and sewed them back together. The pieces, and fragments that were missing, were regrown. Stems sprouting and flowers blossoming. You had turned this man’s soul into a garden where he was safe to flourish. All your effort, all your hard work was turning to dust before your very eyes.

You refused to give up on him when he needed you most. Yes, he had grown cruel. Yes, he had fallen back into his old patterns, his old ways. Yes, he didn’t hold you on most nights, but you knew that your Joel was still there, hidden behind a vast expanse of thick, putrid thorns.

You’d poison yourself over and over if it meant that you’d get him back. Joel was too deeply entwined into your soul for you to not care. When he was suffering, you suffered with him.

So when your sunshine awoke one night in a cold sweat, calling for his daughter, as he looked around in a frantic state. His eyes were wide, his body trembling, hands shaking.

He kept sobbing Sarah’s name as you were knocked out of your dreamless state. You heard his sobs as you sat up, slowly bringing your arms around his shaking form, your touch was gentle, tender.

“Joel. Hey, Joel. Baby, you’re okay. You’re safe, I'm right here. I have you.” You spoke softly, your tone soothing and low, afraid to startle him anymore than he already was.

He was clawing for you immediately, his hands grasping your arms tightly as you held him. His sobs continued to rake over his body, leaving him a blubbering mess.

“Darlin,’ she–she—Sarah–my baby girl!” He gasped, struggling to breathe as you slowly slid your hands under his shirt, rubbing soothing circles into his sweat soaked skin.

“You’re safe Joel. You’re safe. I’ve got you baby and I'm not letting go.”

“They took her from me–they fuckin’ ripped her from my fuckin’ arms!” He wailed.

“Joel, shhh. Baby, I know. I’m so sorry.” You had gently grabbed his face in your hands. He had tears streaming down his face. They were hot and heavy tears, flowing like a river. His vision was blurred as he looked at you.

“Why’d they fuckin’ take her from me. Why? My baby girl..and Tommy. Where’s Tommy?”

You had kissed away his free falling tears. Your lips were soft on his skin as his eyelashes fluttered shut, his grip on your arms loosened as you soothed him.

You couldn’t stomach giving him the answer as to why the government shot his baby girl. You couldn’t give him the answer because he already knew why; you both did.

“Joel, what can I do to help you? Please, tell me. I’ll do anything for you baby. I can’t stand to see you suffer like this every night. It fucking tears me up inside. What can I do to make it go away? There must be something–”

He let out a broken chuckle because you, his sweet girl shouldn’t have to deal with him. Not when he was a shell of the man you once knew.

“Sing me a lullaby, darlin. Sing to me, sweet girl please.” He rasped while you gently cradled him against your chest.

He was clutching your shirt between his fists, his breathing jagged as his tears continued to flow.

It was a simple request for you to sing to him. You’d do anything for this man that you had learned to love so deeply, so unselfishly, so openly.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.” You began to softly sing to him, your own tears beginning to stream down your cheeks, while you threaded your fingers through his sweaty hair, gently scratching his scalp.

Joel’s eyes slowly fluttered shut as he listened to your soothing voice. He could hear your heartbeat against his ear, where his tear stained cheek rested against your chest.

“The other night dear, as I lay sleeping. I dreamed I held you in my arms. When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken so I hung my head and cried.”

You could feel his breathing grow steady, his body went slack in your arms as you continued to cradle him.

“You have such a pretty voice, darlin’” You heard him whisper. “So pretty, so sweet.”

You glanced down at his face, casted by the soft moonlight. For a brief moment, you saw his features soften. The permanent furrow between his brows ceased to exist. You couldn’t help but admire him in these tender moments. Seeing him in a peaceful state for once. The thorns that were wrapped tightly around his heart, building a thick poisonous wall, were rotting away and being replaced with new green stems that would soon bloom again. The thorns would be replaced with flowers, beautiful, pure, flowers.

You brushed your fingers against his forehead, sweeping away a stray, sweaty curl as you leaned down and whispered, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. I won’t let them take my sunshine away..”

“I promise.” You whispered.

You held Joel in your warm embrace for the rest of the night. He did not have another nightmare, with you by his side. You protected him from the darkness that once consumed him entirely. You were his sunshine, and he was yours.

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel the last of us #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #joel miller blurb #joel miller imagine #joel miller the last of us #tlou #joel miller fic #tlou fic #the last of us imagine #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader

[bretwalda-lamnguin]

I like Maedhros as a character, but I admit the usual fandom portrayal of him does nothing for me. I don't see him as a particularly 'nice' person. He can be manipulative, ruthless and harsh. I think he tries to play the clever pragmatist, but he gets it deeply wrong, and I think the oath is largely to blame.

Maedhros has two clear goals, although to him, at first at least, they are one and the same. Defeat Morgoth, and regain the silmarils, fulfilling the oath. Everything he does is in service of one of these goals, but once Doriath gains a silmaril the two goals seem to become contradictory.

A lot of Maedhros’ early actions in Beleriand make sense through this lens. When he suggests sending the ships back, he names Fingon as the first that should be taken. Not only a close friend (or romantic partner) but by now a fellow kinslayer-his loyalty is more assured because they have spilled blood together. He stands aside because the burning of the ships is a spiteful act with no aim, whereas the far morally worse first kinslaying had a logical goal at least.  

Civil war contradicts Maedhros’ goal-his aim is to defeat Morgoth and get the silmarils, not be high king, so he willingly steps aside for Fingolfin. Likewise, Thingol is not his enemy yet, so he laughs off his scorn. He has what he wants, the lands and resources to make war on Morgoth. Doriath is of little concern to him, and if Finrod can bring them into the alliance, all the better.

The quest for the silmaril breaks this unity of purpose. Celegorm and Curufin, driven by the Oath, overthrow Finrod and kidnap Lúthien. Maedhros cannot complain overmuch, he does not want the silmaril in other hands. Finrod and Lúthien had become rival claimants for the jewel and were thus enemies. He cannot punish his brothers. His failure to do so however permanently alienates Nargothrond and Doriath, with Maedhros’ letter to the latter being the final nail. It is at best deeply foolish and at worst blackmail. Lúthien’s quest may have given Maedhros hope Morgoth can be defeated, but he does not rebuke Celegorm calling for Doriath’s destruction.

I think this may also be behind his and his brother’s failure to see through Ulfang and his son’s treachery. By this point, the Fëanorians see desire for the silmarils as the main source of treachery. Ulfang and his sons have no desire for the silmarils, so they must be loyal. They fail to see that they might desire other things and be loyal to Morgoth for completely different reasons.

Maedhros is so devoted to one singular goal, and ruthless in his pursuit of it that he fails to see it has become two contradictory goals, to his ruin. By the end his attempts to regain the silmaril are actively helping Morgoth. I also think that he does treat others, including Fingon and Maglor, as pawns in his game. I do think of him as somewhat manipulative, even though I also think he very deeply loves Fingon and Maglor. Fingon’s love saves him from Thangorodrim and by the end he is completely dependent on Maglor. He drags them down into ruin all the same.  

#maedhros #the oath is central to his tragedy #that muddles his motivations #which leads to his fate #he's clever and capable #and a very good war leader #but his fundamental goals are so flawed none of it matters #his strategy will always fail #and that feeds back to the oath #silmarillion #my posts