#council of green affairs

[ncfcatalyst]

Four NCF Traditions to Anticipate and Learn From

Every year, returning students are the cornerstone of preserving and passing on campus traditions. Whether that be through yearly school-ordained events or carefully planned campus-wide games,  students have the opportunity to create their own traditions and experiences during their time at New College. Being a very student-forward institution means there is a need for initiative, so the Catalyst…

View On WordPress

#cga #council of green affairs #earth day #earth day festival #newstock #sauce #traditions #zombies

[a-kind-of-merry-war]

A Jester's Token

HEY SO. I wrote a thing. Based on @oblivionsdream's Knight/Jester OCs, who are SUPER AMAZING, which you can find here.

Thank you for your wonderful art!! And also accidentally inspiring a jester obsession in me 🤡

No warnings, contains a little suggestiveness, 3.4k words 💖

*

The grounds were alive with activity. The King doted upon his sons, and now with his second eldest’s twentieth birthday only a scant few days away, the celebrations were in full swing.

The prince, as was his wont, had demanded a tournament to celebrate the day of his birth. The King, as always, had been unable to refuse. And the Knight was looking forward to a week of respite; of celebration and jousting and fun instead of training and war council meetings.

Typically, he tried to remain impassive and stoic with his fellow knights. It was what was expected of him as the King’s champion, after all, and besides: it added an edge to his demeanour that meant orders were obeyed. The other knights weren’t to know that beneath his shining, shuttered helm he was wondering if the stable cat had birthed her kittens yet.

Still he kept his head high as he strode across the grounds, heading towards the armoury where he had left his sword that morning to be honed and polished. Several other knights turned to glance at him as he passed: one, he noticed, standing immediately to attention as he did.

The deference was useful, he supposed, but he hoped it did not extend to the tournament itself. It would be a dull affair if everybody he encountered was afraid of the King’s champion knight.

As he approached the armoury, a familiar noise perked up his ears. He found his steps faltering, his sure stride suddenly broken.

Not everybody was afraid of him.

He turned just in time to see the grinning face of the Jester as he sauntered over, his motley - brand new for the tournament in festive greens and reds - lit up in the dazzling summer sunshine. His hair haloed from his head, sticking in yellow waves from beneath his cap’n’bells. His eyes - startlingly bright, one dark, one nearly gold - shone with excitement. 

“Good morning, Sir!” he said cheerily, “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Lovelier for you, the Knight didn’t say.

“It is indeed,” he said. “Perfect for a tournament.”

“Perfect for a party,” the Jester countered. “I called into the ale tent on the way here, have you seen how stocked it is? Forget the tournament, I fear our Lord means to drown us. Can you swim in that?” he pinged a fingernail against the Knight’s plate.

The Knight rolled his eyes, forgoing a response.

“Although,” the Jester continued merrily, “I must admit, these events always make me laugh.”

“Oh?”

“Come,” the Jester said, “Oh ho - here I am, the picture of virile manhood! Beware my powerful—” he gave a short, sharp thrust. “Lance.”

The Knight bit his tongue to stop himself from laughing. “You have a filthy mind.”

“You should hear me talk about maypoles.”

“I would really rather not.”

“I can do some wonderful things with ribbons, you know.”

“Anything useful in a tournament?” 

“Depends what you need,” the Jester said, catching him with a sidelong glance. “I’m very good with knots.”

The Knight swallowed, saying nothing.

“Well!” The Jester said, clearly unphased. “I am afraid I am wanted by— well, by everyone. Which makes it such a shame that I’d rather spend my morning following you around. Nevermind.” His smile twitched a little, before settling back into a grin. “Good luck, my Knight!”

And with that, he was off. The Knight watched him leave, swaying through the crowds with his typically fluid movement. While the Knight would be entering competitions, the Jester would be entertaining in a much different way: joking and turning somersaults and charming the King and his guests. He even had a role in the joust alongside the announcer, riling up the crowds and mocking the competitors.

With luck, the Knight would be able to watch him perform. He enjoyed watching the Jester show off, and he loved his jokes, not that he would ever allow the Jester himself to realise that. The first time they had met he’d been forced to remove himself lest he make an utter fool of himself, and since then the Jester had taken him as a challenge, when he wasn’t making a game of flirting with him.

With a sigh, and a final glance at the Jester’s departing figure, he walked on towards the armoury. He noticed Sir Rowan lingering just outside, standing beside Lady Felicity - one of the Queen’s Ladies in Waiting. Without thinking, he called out a greeting to his fellow knight.

As he approached, he realised far too late that what he thought was simply a polite conversation between knight and lady was something far more intimate. Sir Rowan’s head was tilted just so, Lady Felicity leaning in a little too close. Their hands, he realised, were linked.

Shit. But it was too late now; he had already hailed Sir Rowan and he couldn’t very well turn heel and run. Lady Felicity quickly snatched her hands away, her face mottling in a sweet, pink blush before giving him a slightly lopsided curtsey, bidding them both farewell and quickly rushing off. 

As The Knight drew closer, he noticed a scrap of fabric clasped in Rowan’s hand. He pretended not to have seen it as Rowan quickly tucked it into his breastplate.

A favour, then. He hadn’t realised that Sir Rowan and Lady Felicity were courting; although most of their time spent together would have been at banquets and feasts, where the Knight’s attention was more often than not focused on their entertainment and very little else. It was terribly improper to ask Sir Rowan for more information. Even as his friend, he would not push for information too intimate to share; certainly not while Rowan and Lady Felicity were still in the first, tentative steps of the most delicate of dances. 

He engaged Rowan in brief conversation, deeply aware of the moment he had managed to ruin. He wished him good luck - making him blush - then headed inside the armoury where he collected his sword.

He couldn't help but peer back as he left. Rowan, now alone, had taken the favour from his breastplate and was tugging it through his fingers. It appeared to be cream-coloured silk: a handkerchief or scarf, perhaps. Rowan's face had gone red.

Something tugged in the Knight's chest. It was a sweet, deeply romantic gesture. It would leave Rowan with no doubt at all about Lady Felicity’s intentions towards him. And, of course, it was furiously lucky: any man blessed with such a token would be sure to do well, especially from one they loved.

The tugging grew more urgent, joined by a leaden feeling in the Knights stomach. He would have no such token. Oh, he was sure that many members of the court would accept him should he attempt to woo them - courtly favours included - but it wasn't any of them he really wanted.

“I would rather spend my day following you around.”

The Knight’s face heated beneath the metal. His heart swelled. Whatever the Jester’s intentions towards him, his feelings were not the sort that spurred a man to give a love token. His were the feelings that spurred a quick fumble behind the stables - perhaps several quick fumbles, judging by the lewdness of the Jester’s tongue. It was no more than that.

Or, more likely, it was even less than that. The Knight was aware of the reputation he had carefully curated at court, and he knew that the Jester had taken him as a challenge. He was just another joke. The Jester had never even seen his face, hadn't seen the scars, didn't know the stories behind them.

He was just teasing.

The Knight tried to shake the thought from his head, fluttering the great plume that burst from the crown of his helm. Chasing such thoughts - be they of fumbles or fools - would get him unseated in the joust and begging for mercy in the duel.

He turned towards the stables, trudging down the muddy path. The earth had been turned by the sheer volume of guests and carts and horses, and was now a sucking, muddy mess. 

There was an oddly metallic clink beneath his boot. He paused. He lifted his foot. In the centre of a perfect footprint was a mud-splattered, but unmistakably golden, bell.

There was only one person who wore bells like that.

The Knight picked it up without thinking, desperately wishing he had something to clean it with. He rubbed off as much muck as he could with a fingertip, watching as it glinted in the light. As he turned it in his hand - terribly small against his huge palm - it jingled merrily.

He swallowed and closed his fingers around it, squeezing it tight.

The stables would wait. As a high-ranking man, he had been given a private tent on the edge of the grounds - somewhere he could clean and rest without traipsing through the castle to his chambers. He headed there, pulling the flaps tight shut behind him before unfurling his hand.

The bell had left a neat little indent in his palm. A curving, teasing smile embedded into his skin.

He placed it reverently on the wooden table at the far side of the tent before shooting a final, nervous glance towards the entry. And then he removed his helm.

The air felt cool and good against his burning cheeks. He shook out his hair, tied into a low queue to keep it out of his face, and stared down at the bell. It felt as if it were the only object in the room; perhaps the world.

Mindlessly, he took the cloth he used to tend his sword from the chest beside the table and gently began to clean the little golden thing. Mud had even managed to get inside the bell, and he carefully cleaned away as much as he could until it was shining and jingling once more.

He rolled it in his palm. It felt hot, like a tiny lump of coal, like a nugget of forge-warmed iron.

The Knight thought of Sir Rowan and Lady Felicity.

He would need luck, after all. Skill he had in abundance, but luck? Luck was harder to judge; a tip of the scales that, at present, could fall either way.

Of course, traditionally, a token needed to be a gift. But many Knights - both in tournaments and in battle - found luck where they could snatch it. A sword that had never slipped from their grasp, a tunic worn during a lucky win, a shield taken to war that deflected a killing blow. Perhaps a bell - so small and yet so weighty - could be like those. It was luck, after all, that helped him find it when so many people had stepped over it.

He turned back to the chest and searched through it until he found what he was looking for; the spare ties he kept on hand in case his snapped during the tournament. He typically used them to fasten his gauntlets, and while it was thin the leather was tough and sturdy: perfect for what he needed. Carefully, he threaded the bell onto the strap, ensured it wouldn’t slip off and then twisted the strap around the hilt of his sword, securing it tight.

The Knight gave the sword an experimental shake. The bell jingled against the hilt. He didn’t bother to suppress his smile: it wasn’t as if anyone could see him. The noise set a thrill through him. He would be the first to admit that he was not a musical man, but the ringing of the little bell felt like an angelic chorus just for him.

Besides, he thought, as he sheathed the sword once more: if it didn’t bring him luck, the noise may distract an opponent long enough for him to land a good hit.

He took a few moments to gather himself, taking a long drink of water from the jug atop the table, wiping down his face, and re-tying his hair before donning his helm once more. He pulled on his gloves, too, and now with his hand now gripped tight around the hilt of his sword, he exited the tent.

Outside, the noise was growing more urgent as more people gathered to watch the show. Now buoyed by the token hanging from his sword, he strode with pride towards the centre of the grounds where he intended to take part in the first single-combat duel of the day. It was likely still a little early, but no doubt he wouldn’t be the only one keen to begin and could at least find someone to spar against to pass the time.

He was dodging around a lad from the kennels and a pack of exuberant dogs when he heard a shout from behind.

“Knight! My Knight!”

He hastily shoved his sword behind his back as he turned, watching the Jester bounce across the field towards him. 

“I need your skills,” he said, as he slid smoothly to a halt beside him.

“Oh?” The Knight was glad for his helmet, now: the jester couldn’t see him blush.

“Have you seen a bell?” The Jester tugged at the frontmost horn of his cap, which was indeed bell-less. “I’m missing one.”

The Knight gripped his sword harder. He could feel the distinct shape of the bell through his gloves, praying it would not ring and give him away.

“No,” he said, his face so hot he was amazed his helm did not begin to steam, “I cannot say I have.”

“Oh.” The Jester gave him a crestfallen look that was so heartbreakingly sincere that for a moment, the Knight nearly relented. “I suppose it will turn up… or the King will fund me for another, I am sure.”

His eyes darted down, as if taking the Knight in for the first time. His expression turned dark. The Knight found himself standing a little straighter.

“And where are you off to, my chivalrous wonder? That’s—” he peered around the Knight’s back, “—an extremely long sword you have there.”

The Knight rolled his eyes, not that the Jester could see the gesture.

“You have realised,” he said, keeping his tone even, “where we are, yes?”

The Jester gave a dramatic twirl as if assessing his surroundings. “We are standing in the mud,” he grinned.

“Typically,” the Knight said, ignoring him, “A Knight takes part in a tournament. I intend to test my luck in the duel.”

“Luck?” The Jester said, “Not skill? Although—” he gave him another of those long looks, “—I suspect you have plenty of skill in swordplay.”

He gave the Knight a tight, cattish smile, his tongue wetting his lips as he waited for the Knight to respond. The Knight, once he had finally regained control of his lips, could only manage a single word.

“Quite.”

“Well,” the Jester grinned cockily. “I would surely love to see you in action. Lead on, good Sir Knight.”

The Jester looped his hand around his arm, gripping him tight. The Knight was utterly unable to resist, lost in a sudden moment of deep regret that he was so armoured, unable to feel that touch against his skin. 

Arm in arm they headed across the grounds towards the ring. The Jester joked and chatted and flirted as they walked, commenting again on that marvellously large blade, but the Knight could barely hear him over the rush of his own spinning thoughts.

He kept his free hand gripped on the sword, over the bell. The Jester couldn’t know.

The Jester finally released him as they reached the ring. Even though the touch had been to the plate steel of his armour and not the skin beneath, the Knight still missed having him hanging from his arm.

“You better win,” he said, stepping back. “There are a dozen other things I could be doing right now, and I refuse to tie my lot to a man who cannot even win a duel for me.”

The Knight’s heart stuttered in his chest. For me. The Jester was watching him, expectantly. And then his eyes widened, as if remembering something.

“Of course!” He said, face splitting into a grin. “You need a token. As you said, to give you luck enough to win. Ah— here…” he reached up, and before the Knight could stop him pulled another bell from his hat. “What’s another bell?” he said with a shrug. “I was lopsided anyway. Here…”

He produced a silk ribbon as if from nowhere, quickly looped it through the bell, and tied it with swift, dexterous fingers to the Knight’s belt.

“There,” he said. “I told you I was good with knots. Now you’ll win.”

The Jester stretched up on the tip of his bell-topped toes, placed a hand to the Kight’s shoulder for balance, and flicked his helmet’s plume with a single, long finger.

“Good luck.”

And with no warning at all, he placed a kiss to the warm metal of the Knight’s helm. Beneath, the Knight felt as if he could no longer breathe, his heart launching a battle of its own.

“I…” he said, gathering himself. “Thank you.”

The Jester gave him another grin, trailing a finger across the spot where his lips had been moments before.

“You’re welcome.”

***

The Jester leaned casually against a stack of crates, watching the Knight perform with genuine interest. The interest, of course, had very little to do with the fight itself - he wanted him to win, sure, but the minutiae of the fight were nothing compared to the strength of his arms, the broadness of his shoulders, or the exceptional noises he made when he struck a particularly good hit.

He fiddled mindlessly with one of the horns of his cap as he watched the Knight take another decisive swing. A hint of gold glinted through the air as he did, catching the light like a comet.

The Jester grinned to himself. No wonder his Knight was being so stiff as they walked towards the ring. What a sneaky little secret; not the sort he had come to expect from him. It was amusing, and quite sweet, too. Anyone would be lucky to have the Knight be their champion, to have him take their token. But the one he had chosen - the one he had taken for himself - was little more than a minstrel’s bell.

He was glad he had stumbled upon the thought to give him a token himself. Now the Knight would know that he would have given him one, had he asked, and even better: now he had twice the luck.

The Knight swung around again, the bell jingling, harmonising with the one the Jester himself had tied to his hip.

Thrice the luck, the Jester thought, if you counted the kiss.

The Knight ducked, dodged and lunged. The Jester watched, lips quirked into a smile.

When the Knight won - a feat which did not surprise the Jester at all - he straightened up, set his shoulders, and looked towards him.

And then his helm snapped down, taking in the hilt of his sword and the bell hanging from it. The Jester was almost surprised that he couldn’t see the Knight blush through his helmet.

The Jester too glanced downwards to the hilt of the sword. He let his gaze linger there. Then he dragged his eyes up, up the Knight’s body, over his chest, to the place where he desperately wished he could properly see his eyes.

He heaved himself away from the crates and waved. The Knight sagged, only a little. A small moment of recognition and relief. A spark of understanding, shared between them.

But the Jester could not stand there all day, no matter how much he wanted to. He shot the Knight another grin - his best grin, saved just for him - blew him a kiss, and swayed away towards the ale tent.

#fanfic #writing #my writing #oblivionsdream #knight/jester #this is what happens when you write a book about a tournament #it gets stuck in your head #and then you cant write about anything else

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Oh my GOSSSSSH, with every chapter I post, we get closer and closer to the end and I'm literally wriggling in my chair in excitement, like holy shit! hahaha, anyway, I so hope you enjoy this new chapter and the remaining ones to come! ENJOYYYYY <3

Chapter 101: The Merciless Queen 

“If we are to give Flea Bottom gold to build new dwellings, whose to say that the other small folk across the realm won’t decide to take arms and demand the same?” Lord Tyland Lannister, elder brother of Jason Lannister and Master of Coin argued, seated amongst the other Small Council members who seemed to be in a disarray since the slaying of their previous King, Aegon.

It had been a few days since his death, and whilst Aemond and yourself could not keep your hands off of each other, there was no denying the tension that still circled around the two of you. 

You had been coronated as Queen Consort, a short lived affair in the throne room with only the Small Council present, letters written to be sent out shortly thereafter to their supporters. There was no celebrations to be had, no drinking or dancing. It was short, brief, and most importantly, political move.

And now, all sat in wait for the more pressing question at hand.

What was to happen to the treaty?

And yet despite this question, and the sheer multitude of meetings with the council, Aemond let the unknown hover over your head like smoke, filling your lungs thickly and choking you.

When once Maester Orwyle had asked the same question, which was asked more than once a day, Aemond had barely given the man a second glance, and redirected the question elsewhere. 

In no time however, much to the urging of Otto Hightower and Lord Jasper Wylde, word would soon reach Dragonstone, and the Green Council would need to be ready for such events.

There was a very real possibility that at the knowledge of Aegon being indisposed of, and the Greens thus only having one dragon rider, may invoke the wrath and fury of all the Black’s power. 

And in this moment, they had it. 

And the council, knew it. 

There was an all encompassing feeling of dread that filled each member. The anticipation being a most poisonous thing, and at any loud noise or uncertain sound, Alicent Hightower would jump in her seat, eyes skating to the doors of the chamber they were in, or looking out the window to the skies. 

“Then see to it that they do not.” Breezed Aemond, the Conquerors Crown seated atop his head, ruby glinting in the light of the chambers.

“I do not see why we need to do so in the first place, Your Grace.” Maester Orwyle spoke, “The small folk are not in need or want, nor do they know more than what they have.”

Aemond blinked slowly, finger impatiently tapping on the table as he looked at his men and mother, the gold ring upon is finger clunking on the wooden surface.

“We have the gold, not much, but enough. As it is, their disdain for us was exaggerated by my brother and his selfish disregard for their needs." Aemond began, "I couldn’t care for what they do below in their shit and piss, but my Lady wife has spoken of the benefits of having the love of the small people, and we are in dire need of support.”

You shifted in your seat, suddenly feeling the eyes of all the Lords at the table, and the ever present scowl of Alicent Hightower directed at you. Swallowing, you licked your lips, fingers finding your council sphere and spinning it in its dish.

“My mother is loved by the small folk, as was I,” Before they dubbed me the Merciless, “‘The Realms Delight', they named her, most beloved and fair, much the same for my sweet aunt Helaena."

You paused, letting your gaze stop on Alicent, "Where as when they think of the King, they have little good things to say. Two Kinslayers on the throne would no doubt further press their disdain." You turned back to Aemond, "The support of the common folk is important when ruling, it makes things easier, and if the time comes, they will take up arms to support your cause.”

Larys Strong’s voice carried across the table, his high lilt directed at you. His hands were crossed over the top of his cane delicately between his knees at the table, “My spiders have told me that there are ample supporters of your rule, Your Grace.”

You scoffed, “Supporters of the Faith perhaps, or the whispers of the old militant sect even, but that support lies with Alicent, and they would surely have issue with mine and Aemond's union, as is our tradition as Targaryens, and also the very issue of us both being Kinslayers," You looked to Alicent, "Which we are very much reminded of. But the small folk, the true small folk who live in poverty, where sickness and disease is ripe, have no positive feelings of loyalty towards a King who does not see them and gorges upon riches unimaginable. My father took to the streets and killed every rapist and murderer in Flea Bottom, punished thieves and crooks, and the small people felt safer.”

“They were scared out of their wits.” Otto sighed, “The small people need nothing but the clothes on their backs. Simple minds think not of extravagant pleasures.”

Anger rolled through you, “Having proper housing and not living in the streets is not an extravagant pleasure. I would say it is a right for them to live freely and happily, to pursue their desires and passions.”

Jasper Wylde placed his long fingers upon the sphere, several gold and silver rings adorning the digits, “The Queen makes a point, Your Grace. King Jaehaerys was loved by the small folk for his benevolence, and the actions of Maegor the Cruel brought him nothing but trouble. Perhaps the spending of a few Gold Dragons on Flea Bottom’s worse affected slums could bring you support, especially now that the treaty is in question.”

Lord Jasper Wylde, Master of Laws, opened the conversation for the treaty to be discussed. 

Again.

All eyes were now on Aemond, who sat stiffly in his chair, one elbow upon the armrest, the other still tapping against the table.

“Has word reached Dragonstone?” Aemond questioned Larys, noncommittally. 

The brunette leant forward, bowing his head slightly as he spoke, “As it were, a spider intercepted an attempt to alert them. Though I have no doubt they will receive word by the morrow.”

The King hummed.

“Will the treaty be renewed, Your Grace?" Maester Orwyle began, eyes flicking to you, then back to the King, "I believe it to be prudent that we do so. As it were, we are outnumbered in dragons. You are but the lone rider here at the Keep.” You narrowed your eyes at Maester Orwyle, “Perhaps if we sent word and new terms, Rhaenyra will be-“

“-No.” Aemond’s word cut through the air like a knife. Crisp. Icy.

Final.

“No?” Otto questioned, “The realm will fall to war again if-“

Your heart beat against your chest like a drum, iciness spreading across your skin and at the base of your skull.

No.

“What do you mean, no?” You breathed.

Aemond did not turn to face you.

You snapped, “If you do not sign a treaty, they will come for you, Aemond. My mother and father will come to claim what is theirs.”

The King’s nostrils flared, “Let them. I ride the largest dragon in the world. If my half-sister wishes to declare war at the risk of your safety, then it shall be your blood upon her hands, not mine.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“My blood?”

Aemond did not even turn to face you.

Your hands slammed against the table, and you shot out of your chair, leaning towards your husband as you sneered, "Have you learnt nothing? You are blinded by your hatred. You will be our ruin, not Aegon.”

Aemond breathed sharply, eye solely on you as he spoke to the table, “Send coin to Flea Bottom. Hire masons and workers, or let the small folk build it themselves.” He looked to his men before finishing, “Clear the chambers.” He commanded the room, and all Lords and Lady Alicent, stood and quickly shuffled out of the room, leaving Aemond with an enraged wife.

“Are you to doom us all with your stubbornness? Have you gone mad?” You growled, “Your thirst for the throne will kill us, Aemond. My mother and father are not to be trifled with. My brother and sisters are not to be trifled with. Do you think that we will survive this?”

Aemond simply stared at you, hand still on the table tapping, whilst the other gripped the arm of the chair fiercely, knuckles white.

“Is it your true desire to have another war? Or is this a foolish little boys dream?” You said in disbelief, looking down at him from your standing position, hands still flat against the table to ground you, “I barely survived the last one, and yet you wish to play games with my mother and father? With my life? Do you know what they will do to you? What they could do to you? You would be dead before you even reached the skies.” You sneered.

The King’s lips pulled into a thin line, brows furrowed as he looked at you, barely contained anger burning behind the violet of his eye.

“They would not do it if it meant jeopardising your life.”

You flinched backwards, as though he had hit you, curling your hands into fists at your sides as you tried to steady your breathing, but panic coursed through your veins, and your throat grew tighter with each passing second.

"Is that a threat?”

Aemond frowned at you, the lines in forehead pulling the crown down in the slightest of movements. It was as though he was offended by your question, and though you had questioned every natural fibre of his being. 

“You think I would harm you? After all that has happened? After all I have done for you?” His voice became raised, anger leaking into each syllable. 

You scoffed, “You just said that them acting would put me at risk. What will you do? Have Ser Cole at my side, sword ready to cast against my neck or plunge into my heart?” 

Aemond leant forward and sneered, “Do you truly think so lowly of me? I did this for you! I love you!”

“Then do this for me, too! Renew the treaty, Aemond.”

“I can’t do that.” He breathed.

The backs of your calves hit the edge of the chair as you leant back, looking at your uncle from down your nose, “You can. But you won’t.”

Aemond did not respond.

“Sign the treaty.” You said more sternly, anger causing the words to come out harsh, and biting.

The King's broad chest rose and fell in his robes shallowly, his one eye watching you as his hands flexed upon the table.

“Why do you wish to sign a treaty with them? After all they have done?” Aemond growled.

After all they had done?

“They cast you aside! Abandoned you here to be tormented by Aegon.” Aemond continued, voice rising.

“They did not abandon me!” You snapped, hurt and betrayal causing tears to prick in your eyes.

“Oh? But they knew what would happen to you once you were wed to me. They let you be raped. You were sold to me like a brood mare.”

“And who did those things to me?!” You screamed, a tear falling down your cheek, “Who, Aemond? Who raped me? Who defiled me? Who scarred me? Because it wasn’t them.”

Aemond’s anger seemed to bleed out of him as he looked at you.

You pushed the chair backwards hard with a kick of your foot, sending the high-backed wooden seat to crash against the stones loudly, “You raped me. You hurt me. You did that. Not them. You! You act as though you’re innocent in all of this!”

“I don’t-“

“-I will not survive another war.”

The anger was back.

Aemond’s lips curled in disgust, “You expect me to bend the knee to your mother? The very woman who wished to punish me after her son took my eye?”

Your face fell, “No.” You declared, “I expect you to give the treaty a chance. Countless lives will be lost if you start another war, Aemond. Needless blood will be shed. Could you live with yourself knowing this?”

“Yes.”

The answer came so quickly, that it seemed that Aemond had not even needed to give it a second thought. As though he had already weighed all possibilities against each other, as though he had measured the odds.

And still, he had said yes.

You swallowed thickly, wishing the damn lump to leave your throat. And so quietly, you asked a question which clawed at you from the back of you mind. A question of doubt. Of fear. Of another ‘what if’ that you had to bat away with a swift blink of your eye.

“Even if it is mine?”

It was an uncomfortable sort of silence, and this time, Aemond did not answer straight away. Not like how he had a moment before. As though he had not weighed up this question in his mind yet, or perhaps he had, and had come to no conclusion. You watched his face as he stared at you, his seeing eye flickering across your face as a finger twirled the ring upon his hand.

“I will not lose you." He began, making a move towards you, "But I will not bend a knee to Rhaenyra, and kiss her old cunny for the sake of peace.”

His tone was final, he had hissed your mothers name like a curse, and there was no changing his mind. No shifting of the tide that had been steadily building for months now, a tide which had moved away from the shore, sucking the water and life away from the beach, revealing the jagged rocks that were hidden beneath.

You blinked again, another tear falling down your cheek.

Your uncle continued, “And if it need come to war, then so it shall be.”

It was so point of fact. 

So emotionless.

Toneless. 

Void of anything other than finality. 

War was to come.

And there would be no changing that.

“But,” Aemond’s voice startled you from your thoughts, your eyes racing over his face, “You are Queen now. My Queen. Something that is and was always your birthright.”

“Like my mothers.” You sneered.

Aemond ignored your comment and continued, “And you, as Rhaenyra’s heir shall sit the Iron Throne in her place. And then, when the time comes, our heir shall follow."

It was clear to you then, that Aemond had thought on this.

"If Rhaenyra’s concern for succession is blood, then she can be satiated in knowing that the daughter she denied shall sit where she is owed by her birthright.”

You stepped towards him, hands clenching and unclenching, “Aemond, please. Think about this. You are asking me to depose my mother.”

“I ask nothing of you. I am telling you, zaldritsos. I will not have you be pushed aside again for your bastard brother. I will not bend the knee to my half-sister. This throne is ours. It is ours by birthright. And I will be damned if I let anyone take you away from me again."

The air in the chambers shifted, and you inched towards your husband as he continued to speak.

"Do you think that if I bent the knee to them, that your father would let you stay wed to me? Think on it a moment, Y/n. Do you think that your mother would let you stay wed to a monster? The man who killed her son? They will take you from me."

You stepped away from him, turning your back as your mind raced a as you looked around the chambers, eyes casting out the veranda at the clouded skies. Dread settled in your gut.

You didn't want to be parted from him.

You loved him.

The air was charged as you spoke, voice shaking, “So what now? Are you to send word to them?”

Aemond stood behind you, the chair scraping against the stone floors.

“I will be sending Otto and Ser Cole to Dragonstone as envoys to give word to Rhaenyra and Daemon. They will be told that their blood sits upon the Iron Throne as Queen. They will be allowed to live where they do. My half-sister can have Dragonstone, I have no need for it when I have Kings Landing and you. And they will bend the knee.”

You shook your head, still not turning to face him, “You should know that they will not.”

“Not if you don’t encourage them.”

Your eyes widened as you spun on your heel to look at him.

He was deathly serious.

“You wish for me to ask them to bend the knee to you?” You laughed.

Aemond frowned, “A letter from the Queen is a hard one to refuse. Especially if the Queen is their own daughter. Tell them of the fears that you have. That war will break if they do not swear me as their King and you as their Queen. They can remain on Dragonstone, and you shall remain here, with me. Where you belong.” 

He seemed so sure that it would work. So sure that a simple letter from you would bring the water back to shore. But the tide was gone from your reach, and you were anchored on the coast atop a beached ship with no way to get off. 

Aemond stepped forward, cupping the side of your face gently as he looked at you, "They will listen to you.”

You grasped his wrist tightly, “I am not so sure.” Your voice was quiet, so fragile, like the finest of glass from Essos. One octave higher, one shift against your throat could cause them to crack or break.

If you did this, you would be betraying them.

You would be deposing your mother.

Aemond pulled you into a reassuring kiss, one he poured love and adoration into as he cupped your face in his hands. When he pulled back, his eye roamed your face softly, “I do not wish to see bloodshed, nor do I wish to see you harmed. This is the only way, surely you can see that."

And you did.

You did see that.

You saw it all clearly.

Your husband pressed another kiss against the top of your hairline, your eyes sliding shut as you breathed through your nose, preparing yourself for what you had to do.

"I trust that my Queen will know what to do.”

And you did.

You knew what you had to do.

And so with a short nod, you agreed to his terms.

“I will have Otto deliver your letter by hand.”

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

@izzicle @ej-shitchats @may-machin @alegria1580 @witchy-jadda @videovampire @inkdelicious @queteimporta39 @virtualsweetsqueen @fo-cus @auratiqs @feyres-fireheart @queenofshinigamis @asoiafwh8re @teasandcrumpets @shesjustanothergeek @grungegrrrl@queenofsarcazm @marihoneywk @curlszx88 @virgogaia @loser-keiji @asoiafwh8re @whore-of-many-hot-men @vipervixxen @theonewiththeimaginaryboyfriends @watercolorskyy @lavendervisions @mazmack666 @chokefrog @orangejump-suit @nik2blog @serrhaewinin @ohemgeewhat @winxschester @cryptidsrcool @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @celestedonut @bloodyvelvet777 @iamapersonthatsalive @av-sos @yentroucnagol @sanzu-s @opheliaas-stuff @bellameshipper @maviee @persephonerinyes @neytiri-09 @ensnaredinwonderland @xbluegracex @sotragedynut @nattieot7 @shesawaywiththefairies-blog @coffedraven @prettycutebunny @celestedonut @the-jess-life @ssulfurr @out-of-life @madislayyy @crazylokonugget @cicaspair418 @katwmk @relminnie @milovart @teagrex @visenyaverse @bellameshipper @toodlesxcuddles @tempt-ress @dontmindmereading7 @qyburnsghost @55gyi53vtnquwziq5 @notnormalthings-blog @maidmerrymint @qyburnsghost @madislayyy @chelseaouat

Bold is who I cannot tag!

#aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond smut #hotd smut #dark!aemond targaryen x reader #dark!aemond x reader #dark!aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #dark!aemond #dark!fic #fic #series #aemond one eye #aemond the kinslayer #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond #smoke fire and ash

[acesw]

The School System of SPDM

The School Primary Defense of Mankind is a private institution where every few years, they take in orphaned arcanists around the world to train them for the purpose of becoming members of the Foundation. Many of the graduates go into the military/investigative sector of the Foundation and a handful are assigned to offices, given positions in headquarters and in rare cases accepted by the political councils. There is also a chance to work at Laplace, but thus far, Mesmer Jr. is the only one who had been placed there because of her lineage.

Not much is known about how the school works, but I will be mapping out as much information as I can find about the school, and make sure its organized as possible.

Disclaimer: This is solely based on Chapter 3, Green Lake, and the characters we have thus far who were students at SPDM. The only graduates we have are Horropedia (oldest graduate), Sonetto, Mesmer Jr., Vertin, and Matilda (youngest graduate of the group). I'll be referring to them as the "Foundation Kids", since the name sounds fitting enough. There are going to be spoilers for Chapter 3 and the characters' stories, so tread carefully.

Additionally, I'm going to be rarely using images because I really do not want to go into the effort of making screenshots after screenshots right now.

So buckle up and get ready for a big wall of paragraphs and sentences.

Known Staff Roles of the School

Principal - The head that manages the affairs of the school and responsible for all the matters that happen within. The current principal as of chapter 3 is Richard. Instructors - Their main purpose is to teach students varying subjects, a few that can be named are biology, music, potions, and arcane history School Physician - The person that takes care of the overall health of the students. It can be assumed that there are two per semester, since Tooth Fairy in particular would only stay in the school as its physician for half a year. Janitors - Of course, people that clean up areas in the school, and they have the freedom to interact with the children. Some are referred to as uncles and aunts I'd assume. Monitor Assistants - Students or Student Graduates that choose to help monitor the students of the school as a means to train them for instructor roles. Matilda is the only known monitor assistant so far. Monitor Students - Students that are given the role to monitor their peers. There seems to be a head role given to the school's high-achieving students like Sonetto. They are changed routinely every day and can increase/decrease depending on the necessity.

Level System and Enrollment

Of course, a school would not exist without its level system. The SPDM has a curriculum in place that sections off the varying different age groups of the orphaned arcanists after taking them in. The average range of the arcanists they take in are between a few months to 4 years old at its possible max.

The youngest student that had arrived in the school is Vertin at 1 month old, while Matilda is the oldest known student that had willingly enrolled at around 6 to 7 years old. This means that enrolling at the school is possible if the arcanist family is known to the Foundation. (For our Foundation kids, Sonetto and Vertin are the only ones to have been adopted into the school, whereas the other three have family or at least a guardian prior to enrollment)

The age of which arcanists graduate from the school seem to vary, in which Vertin, Sonetto, Matilda, and Mesmer Jr. had graduated at 13-15 years old. Whereas Horropedia, claimed to have been "several grades above" the group when the breakaway incident had happened. He's estimated to have been 17 at the time of the incident, while the rest of the group were around 10-12. This makes the information conflicting at first glance.

But of course, figuring out this level system would be rather helpful. This would be considered as a K-10 or K-13 curriculum, and it seems that the students can be categorized by as "Academic Year # Semester #".

Nursery & Kindergarten (1-5 years) - Where new baby and orphaned arcanists who were taken in by the school are raised in the first few years at the school.

Early Stage (5-10 years) - Young arcanists start their academic journey in the school, where they learn about the world around them while being isolated from the outside. They also begin their physical/arcanum training as a means to strengthen them whilst their afflatus and arcane skills slowly develop and awaken over time.

Late Stage (10-12 years) - The age of which arcanists begin to awaken their arcane skill. They are given the materials and training to develop their arcane skills and are slowly introduced to the world around them, being shown the opportunities they could take based on their skillset and possibly being invited to explore the work environment. (Its also in this stage that the students have a change in uniform.)

Work Immersion & Graduation (12-15 years) - The arcanists will begin to do work immersion in the fields they choose to specialize in, to familiarize themselves in the environment and even make their placements in these fields early on. Eventually, they graduate and go into official work for their sectors within the Foundation.

Higher Education (15-18 years) - Student graduates who might choose to seek higher education as a means to train for more skilled positions in their line of work. This can give them more opportunities and guidance on their first few years of work.

Rules and Education

"May the peace be with us. May the peace be with mankind." The school's main pursuit for its students are some philosophers' exhortation: "Heritage, Honor, Rationality, Responsibility"

The education in SPDM is rigorous, and goes in depth about many of the topics at hand and also putting their students through difficult trainings to ensure that they are at their best physique and readied skills. They tend to be strict, and would have a consistent flow of tests to ensure every student studies well.

Their rules are also just as meticulous, wanting to make sure that their students' conscience and goals stay close to the ideologies of the school and the Foundation. Going from disallowing them from artistic/literary media that is "not advocated or approved by" the Foundation, treating outside attachments as "meaningless", and teaching students that they are meant to sacrifice themselves for the safety of mankind.

The school has a Student Handbook that goes through these rules and guidelines. The main idea and rule that the school imposes is to pay no heed to the world outside, as creating an attachment would only bring harm and regret. They are to focus on training themselves to serve their mission towards pursuing peace and order in the guidance of the Foundation until death, since all of the students are taught that they would die martyrs for the cause.

"To live is to lose things around us until the day we lose life itself to death. That's why we should only focus on the supreme missions." - Sonetto, Frogs and Toffee (3-2)

Some of these rules include the standard things (no skipping classes, no in-fighting) while also having rules such as no mass gatherings, conspiration against the school, acquiring and keeping contraband, leaving school grounds, etc. However, there are some liberties that are taken, such as having freedom with hairstyles, free use of arcane skills, etc.

Interestingly, one of the rules is that discussion about the "Storm" is forbidden. Its also forbidden to go out when its raining, and discouraged to discuss any incident that had occurred within the school.

There are routinely inspections that are carried out to make sure no rules are being broken, such as dorm checks and head counting. Monitor staff are also in place to ensure there is order among the students, and as mentioned previously, the school would have a head student monitor that would cooperate with the respective school monitor and monitor assistant. If strict supervision is required for any reason, the Foundation will step in and arrange to deploy their own units or Zeno recruits from the academy. (Like in the case of the Manus Vindictae's olitiaus having to be scouted out by Zeno recruits like Lilya)

Punishments

Punishments are of course, carried out based on the rule that is broken. Normally, these punishments wouldn't be so harsh (it just so happened our little troublemaker just actively likes to break major rules). The most normal of the punishments that have been given out so far is a timeout and confiscation of contraband. Of course, there is the more…extreme side.

With the little shit I mean Vertin having this tendency to break rules, one of the punishments we see her go through is isolation. There is a guardhouse in the school's campus where students who break major rules stay in it for a specific amount of time based on what rule is broken. The most merciful would be only a mention of the "Storm" (1 day with no food/water), the worst of it is mass gathering and what can be classified as rebellion (2 weeks with no food/water).

Campus

We currently have a complete map of the school thanks to chapter 3 and the manus. The school is walled off and has watchtowers to ensure that there are no outsiders (and of course, escapees). There seems to be air raid tunnels beneath the schools as well, why they were built in besides its main purpose is not known, but as we know it has been rarely used. In these air raid tunnels we find that there are also blast doors that border between the tunnels and the watchtowers.

There are no labels on where the guardhouses are, but they are of course meant to discipline the students. There are critters and tools at the kids' disposal, to mostly alleviate immediate problems. The guardhouse is checked regularly, and is cleaned up weekly. Though, some messages left behind by previous dwellers are left as is for the next to help guide them through.

George the Oak is a tree possibly situatied near the lake on the map, and is known to be a famous tree for the kids because of its age and its size. There, they can go in the tree hollow or even just sit under the giant leaves. Either way, it looks to be like a nice spot to go to for the students when they have free time. Sad it got cautioned off after the parade incident.

Employees from the Foundation headquarters have the freedom to enter the school campus and visit the facilities as they'd like, as we see with Constantine and Druvis meeting in the library, and Madam Z and Katz meeting in the sports field in chapter 4.

Lastly, the school is most likely situated next to the official headquarters building, and there is a town that is near the school since there was a time where Vertin and Sonetto went to watch an outsider parade from a distance.

Events

There are 3 important events for SPDM: The Annual Evaluation, Parade Ceremony, and the Graduation of Year 10 & Higher Education students.

The Annual Evaluation is where they evaluate the overall performance of their students, and rank them based on the evaluation. -Sonetto and Matilda had made it to the rankings prior to or during the 4th Year of the Storm. Sonetto made her way to rank 1, while Matilda had achieved rank 3.

The Annual Parade is to showcase the school's best image and boost morale, and with it, the school selects their best students to participate in a three-month intense training. Through this they would become the school's honor guard and represent the students in the best way possible. Before this, a pre-parade ceremony is held out to help practice and for the principal to send his regards/support to the students. -As again, one of the most outstanding students, Sonetto's "Parade Anthem" garment seems to be the honor guard uniform that she had been given, signaling that she was one of the chosen students for the training course.

And lastly, Graduation. Of course, the main focus here would be the year 10 students of SPDM; who officially become workers for the Foundation. We're not really sure how this ceremony happens, but it can be thought that the students will be given the choice to choose their paths immediately after the ceremony, or, it would be assigned to them.

Vertin and Mesmer Jr. are excluded from the choice/allocation, as they were both put into roles early on for special circumstances. For Vertin it was because she became the Timekeeper after the breakaway incident, and for Mesmer she had been put into the role of working in Laplace because of her lineage and heritage.

While Sonetto seemed to have chosen to be a field investigator, Matilda was assigned to her role as a Monitor Assistant.

Horropedia on the other hand seems to have sought out higher education since he stayed in the Foundation a bit longer than others, and thus graduated with such an honor. This made him able to start working in the external inspection unit as it seems.

Other notes on the Foundation kids before ending this megapost:

Sonetto has proven to be the most outstanding graduate of SPDM, and has been rewarded medals (i.e. Merit Medal of Session Eight) and even a ceremony stick because of her role as an honor guard.

Its very likely that Vertin was isolated from the rest of the students to train her for her role as the Timekeeper. Besides that, she is one of the most unique students of the school.

Mesmer Jr. had been assigned to work in Laplace's Rehabilitation Center at 12 years old, making her the youngest person to have started work among the five.

Besides Sonetto, Matilda has technically not seen her former classmates since graduation, and possibly has not seen Vertin for an even longer time.

Horropedia is the only person who had stayed in SPDM past the assumed graduating age, which makes me believe that he had received higher education or was held back by troublemaking…I can see both possibilities.

Overall, these are the observations that I was able to rule out. There are still some things that I might not have considered or taken to account yet, but that's just because I can't really tell if it can be added here + I wrote this at 5 am. SPDM's school system is a bit screwed because of the punishments and everything, but this entire guide feels like it can be comprehended better.

Thanks for reading to the bottom of this post. I'm open to answer questions as well as add into/fix the information here!

#reverse 1999 #vertin #sonetto #matilda bouanich #mesmer jr. #horropedia #spdm #lore analysis #vertin and mesmer need therapy for going through all that #the ring would've been a good field investigator just saying #isabella would have gone to work in one of the offices #man the storm and plot really said “no” #wdym horropedia had his horror-themed magazines confiscated??? #give them back to him !

[caffeinewitchcraft]

Berthe the Green Witch

Summary: Traditional witches and green witches don't always see eye to eye. With a life on the line, Berthe is very persuasive.

The egg timer in the window over the sink ticks busily. Berthe watches it from the table, her hands wrapped around a mug of fresh basil tea. She made the mug a few months ago with clay she refined from the creek running through the backside of her property and the basil is from her garden. 

She sighs into her tea, eyes closing. The wind rattles her kitchen window, the oncoming storm announcing itself  by throwing the first dropped leaves of fall against her house. The air is sweet and spiced - apples in her creaking oven covered in sugar and cinnamon. 

She’s meant to answer letters today. They’re sitting on the other side of her crème table, the pile teetering. Notes asking for advice, missives from Councils she doesn’t remember joining, well wishes from former coven sisters who’ve gone on to build their own covens far away.

Her eyes open a moment before her besom - made from the twigs of her oldest apple tree - chatters against the wall and flings itself across the foyer.

“Oh,” she sighs, setting her mug aside, “there’s no reason to be so dramatic about it.”

The besom rolls over until it can tuck itself under her shoe bench.

Her doorbell chimes and, with a sigh, Berthe rises. She dislikes company on storm days, though she shouldn’t have expected any different. If Clayman visits her, he visits her on storm days. No exceptions.

Ring ring ring

Berthe falters, looking between the shadow behind her stained-glass door and the egg timer. Clayman hates being kept waiting, but her apples can be very delicate…

“One moment!” Berthe calls over her shoulder. She turns off the timer and bustles over to the oven. “I just need to pull something out of the oven!”

“Seriously?” Clayman’s voice is muffled by the door, but no less incredulous. “Berthe!” He knocks again.

Carefully, Berthe pulls the sheet pan from the oven. Red apples cut thin, laid in a spiral, with spices and sugar dusted over the top. A thin layer of puff pastry shows golden at the edges and she hums in pleasure. She loves when she gets the timing right.

Knock knock. “Berthe!”

She transfers the tart to her cooling rack and, after some consideration, moves her breadbox in front of it. Clayman’s gaze can be rather cold. She wouldn’t want all the warmth and care she’s put into her treat to go to waste.

Clayman is knocking constantly now, and muttering. Her wards don’t react so she knows it’s not a spell, but she frowns anyway. There he goes again. On someone else’s threshold no less!

She wipes her hands on her apron, dusting off  flour and cinnamon, and opens the door.

Clayman is a scarecrow. She doesn’t think so because he’s tall and thin, though he’s both. It’s not because of his straw-colored hair, neatly combed away from his face and held in place with rosemary oil. It’s not even because of his coat, a long duster-like affair done in softened leather. 

It’s because, as soon as she opens the door, the man is smiling. He is always smiling, his eyes mellow and shoulders loose, no matter his tone of voice. It’s as if the expression is painted on his face, forever fixed. She thinks that he’d cry smiling.

Unsettling.

“Berthe,” Clayman says. He takes off his wide-brimmed hat and holds it to his chest. “May I come in?”

“Be welcome in my home,” Berthe says, stepping aside to let him in. He has to duck a little to avoid the dried rosemary she has hanging over her doorway. A full head shoulder, Berthe doesn’t need to show such consideration. “I have coffee brewing.”

Clayman hangs his hat on the hooks above her shoe bench. He knows she doesn’t drink coffee. Smiling, he asks, “And you still couldn’t come to the door any faster?”

The cuckoo clock upstairs crows in protest. Berthe shrugs. “I suppose not.”

“Hm,” Clayman says and follows her into the kitchen.

He’s able to keep any further needling to himself as Berthe clears him a spot at the table. She sets her daisy coaster down - to lighten his mood - before she places a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. His mug isn’t handmade. SHe got it on sale at the grocery store. It says Bright and Early on one side. On the other it reads Unfortunately.

Clayman drinks so the Unfortunately is pointed at Berthe. “Thank you for the hospitality.”

“My pleasure,” Berthe says. And it is. Under normal circumstances. Despite his prickliness, Clayman is a friend to her even when he denies it. But these are not normal circumstances. “There hasn’t been any improvement?”

“No.” Clayman accepts the sugar Berthe slides to him. He always insists on taking one sip without any sweetness. Then he dumps nearly half of the sugar in the tin into it. “Ms. Rayne is dying.”

Berthe presses a hand over her heart as if to soothe the sting. The Rayne family may not favor her magic, but they have always been kind to her. “I am so sad to hear that, Clayman.”

Clayman smiles, like always. But his aura is distinctly sluggish and tinged a faint blue. Rachel Rayne is his student. “As am I.” He breathes in deeply. “I got permission to have you see her.”

“Oh,” Berthe says. Then, when it sinks in, “Oh.”

The Raynes are a traditional witch family, despite having not produced one in two hundred years. They proudly trace their roots back to 16th century Italy. All of their beliefs and teachings come from grimoires older than their name and alchemical texts that have to be translated by scholars to be read.

Clayman, a traditional witch, is the man they go to for spells. They tolerate Berthe’s practice so long as she keeps her actual workings to her house and her orchard.

“I’ll get my bag,” Berthe says, standing. She feels like her eyes are spinning. She never thought she’d be invited. There are poultices and salves to make, herbs and petals to collect, wands and crystals to choose. She dives for the drawer closest to her and pulls out her favorite wooden spoon. “Do they have pine incense? Should I bring some pine incense?”

“You’re going?” Clayman asks. When she turns, he’s not smiling. His mouth is dropped open in shock. “After what they’ve said about your practice, I expected to have to convince you.”

This is why she doesn’t like traditional witchcraft. So many grudges! So many perceived debts! She’s never called Clayman her friend to his face. She thinks he’d combust.

“Of course I am,” she says waspishly. She dumps her spoon and several jars onto the table in front of him. “Check these to see if they’ll clash with the Rayne estate’s wards, will you? I need to run upstairs.”

Clayman is smiling. “Are you asking me to cast magic in your house? I always knew you were crazy, I didn’t think you were stupid.”

Berthe dashes upstairs without answering him. He may think her stupid for her trust in him, but she knows he’lol follow her orders anyway.

“Ouch!” 

Berthe grins. Of course Clayman’s mug didn’t take kindly to his snide words. It has a tendency to heat up something awful whenever Berthe is insulted.

————.

The Rayne Family Estate is massive. Situated on top of the only hill in town, the driveway winds through wild oaks and pines for a good half of a mile before reaching the house. The house looms over the town like a castle, white walls and slate roof and black curtains over the windows.

The woman waiting on the front steps is like the house. Severe and colorless with gray hair pinned securely under a white handkerchief, black blouse tucked into a long, black skirt. Her weathered hands are folded neatly in front of her and her dark eyes track Clayman’s car as he pulls up and parks.

“Hello!” Berthe hops out of the car, waving with one hand. The other is full of the apple tart she’d grabbed at the last minute. “I brought a tart!”

“Berthe,” Clayman says out of the side of his mouth. “Shut up.”

“It’s apple,” Berthe says.

“Berthe Steighart,” Mrs. Rayne says through thin lips. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“Yes,” Berthe says. Mrs. Rayne makes no move to accept the apple tart. Berthe shoves it on Clayman and bustles around to get her bag out of the trunk. “I suppose you’d like to get straight to the point then? Clayman’s already checked my things. Is Ms. Rayne upstairs?”

“There are rules in this house,” Mrs. Rayne says as if Berthe hadn’t spoken. “We believe in the pure magics, those that come from study and self-reflection. There will be no calling on - on beings while within these four walls.”

Berthe throws her bag over her shoulder. It’s an old carpetbag she forgot she had and she sneezes when a plume of dust puffs off of it. It’d been the only bag big enough for her things. “Beings? You mean gods? Or other? I don’t have a patron god currently, so that won’t be a problem!”

“Currently?” Clayman asks.

“Never close off future possibilities,” Berthe says. She weaves past him and squints up at the house. “Is that Ms. Rayne peering out the window up there? Hello, Ms. Rayne!” The young girl with hair as black as a raven’s wing ducks back behind the curtain. Berthe frowns. “She looks very pale.”

She is dying, Clayman said. It looks like he wasn’t exaggerating.

“What I am about to tell you is a Rayne family secret,” Mrs. Rayne says. She turns on her heel and, lifting her skirt slightly, climbs the stairs to the house. “It must never leave the walls of this home without our permission.”

Berthe follows the older woman into the house. It’s as austere as its owner. The foyer is minimalist, a dully patterned carpet running the length of the hall to the grand staircase. There are paintings of ancient witches and confusing landscapes of places that can’t possibly exist on earth.

“I will not intentionally reveal your secrets,” Berthe says. Mrs. Rayne is moving quickly without looking behind her. Berthe huffs and focuses on keeping her heavy bag from dragging along the carpet. She eyes the main staircase with some trepidation, but says nothing. She already gave Clayman the tart. She can’t give him her bag too. “I swear.”

With a sigh, Clayman plucks her bag from her hands. “I vouch for her, Madame.”

Madame? Berthe has to work very hard not to laugh at that. It’s 2022 and he’s calling his employer madame.

“Rachel has magic,” Mrs. Rayne says. She stops in the middle of the stairs to glance at Berthe pointedly. “Significant magic.”

“Oh,” Berthe says. That’s it? She knew that much since Clayman is Rachel’s teacher. Clayman told her so himself - oh. He wasn’t supposed to tell her. Something warms in Berthe’s chest. Maybe Clayman does see her as a friend after all if he’s sharing secrets with her. “Congratulations, Madame.” She shoots Clayman a warm look.

Clayman hisses. When Mrs. Rayne isn’t looking, he darts up the stairs so he can whisper in her ear. “It’s not what you think.”

Berthe grins and winks.

Clayman’s eye twitches. “It’s not—“

“We are very proud of Rachel,” Mrs. Rayne continues.  She takes them down the right hall and past several busts of important looking ancestors. “Perhaps we were too zealous with her power. She’s been training since she was young in the ways of witchcraft.”

Berthe sobers. “How young?”

“I first became Rachel’s teacher when she was ten,” Clayman says. His voice is even more mild than usual when he says, “I am her third teacher.”

Ouch. Alchemists probably. Witches like Clayman at least know enough about magical cores to wait until they develop before testing them. Alchemists are always so barbaric about it.

Berthe can’t show her disapproval here. She hums. “She must be very accomplished then.”

“She is,” Mrs. Rayne says. There’s no pride in her voice. It’s a statement of fact. She stops in front of the door at the end of the hall, the one that overlooks the driveway. She looks down her nose at Berthe. “Or was. Two weeks ago, Rachel’s magic began to fail. Her core drained and never recovered. I am told that, when it empties completely, my daughter will die.”

Berthe looks at Clayman.

“I made the diagnosis,” Clayman says, smiling. His aura beats with guilt. “I have tried every healing spell I know, every restoration charm, every ward to catch her magic before it fades. Nothing has worked.”

“Several attempts slowed the progression,” Mrs. Rayne says. To Berthe’s surprise, she sounds like she’s consoling Clayman. She reaches around Berthe to pat him on the arm. “And we are thankful, Clayman. She’s been so happy since you became her teacher.”

Clayman nods stiffly. “I appreciate your words, Madame. And I am grateful you’re allowing me to bring in…unorthodox assistance.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Rayne says, eyeing Berthe’s apron and the flour that still stains it. “Well. Hardly any harm now, I think.”

She opens the door.

The smell of fading hits Berthe full force. Her eyes widen and she steps back into Clayman without meaning to, nearly knocking the apple tart from his hands. The room, like the rest of the house, is bare. A white carpet, black bookshelves, sheer white curtains around the bed and heavy black ones over the window.

The girl sitting in bed - Rachel Rayne - is too weak to sit up on her own. She leans back against a mountain of pillows. She has to be fourteen. Fifteen, maybe. Her gaunt cheeks make her look much, much older.

Rachel stares. 

Berthe regains her footing. Blindly, she reaches out to grab Clayman’s forearm, eyes never leaving Rachel’s. “The apple tart.”

“Yes, and I have your bag,” Clayman says. 

“Leave the bag,” Berthe says.

“What?”

But Berthe is already slipping past Mrs. Rayne and towards Rachel. “Oh, my dear. How tangled you are!” She keeps her voice as soft as the breeze through the orchard. “You must be having dreadful dreams.”

Rachel’s black eyes widen. She doesn’t protest when Berthe takes one of her thin hands in both of hers. “I am. How did you…?”

“You must tell me all about them,” Berthe says. “Clayman, cut the tart, would you? We can talk and eat.”

“With what?” Clayman asks from behind her. There’s a thud as he sets her bag down.

“There’s a knife in my bag.”

Clayman chokes. “You want me to cut a tart with your athame ?!”

“Traditional witches,” Berthe tells Rachel, rolling her eyes. “Always so formal.”

“You know what’s wrong with my daughter?” Mrs. Rayne demands. She comes up beside Berthe, looming with her hands a knot in front of her. “You can fix her?”

“I can untangle her,” Berthe corrects. She smiles at Rachel and pets the back of her hand. She doesn’t think she imagined Rachel’s flinch when her mother used the word fix. “Now, your dreams. I’m sure you can tell me one while Clayman struggles with a very basic task.”

“It’s a ritual dagger, how am I—“

But his words are interrupted by Rachel. 

Rachel’s eyes are glued to Berthe. Her voice is small and shaking and she speaks as if caught in a trance. “I dream I am underground. I am trapped there. I can hear Mom walking on the earth above me. She is calling for me. I try to call back, but there’s dirt in my mouth. I think I’m suffocating but it doesn’t hurt. But the more I try to call out, the colder I get. It’s a cold dream.”

Berthe feels the other two adults go still behind her. They’ve never heard about Rachel’s dreams. Why would they? Traditional witches like Clayman don’t divine in dreams. They have mirrors and flames and pools of water for that. She hums. “That must have been frightening.”

“Sometimes,” Rachel says, “I am in the sky. I think I must be a bird, but I don’t have any wings. I fly above the house and I can see it like a heart. When it beats, the streets in town glow an awful red.”

“Awful?” Berthe asks. She accepts the slice of tart from Clayman. The underside is crispy and still a little warm. She holds the tart to Rachel’s lips. “Try it! It has cinnamon.”

Rachel’s eyes are foggy. She’s still seeing her dreams and, like a doll, she follows Berthe’s command. When the taste of sugar and spice touches her tongue, she blinks. “That’s apple.”

“From my orchard,” Berthe says, chest swelling with pride. “It’s nice, yes? Seven apples from my seventh tree.”

Rachel’s gaze drifts from Berthe to the tart Clayman’s still cutting on her bedside table. She frowns. “There aren’t seven apples in that.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Berthe says. It’s technically made with three apples, both of which she picked seventh at some point or another. She’s not bothered by technicalities, though she can see why Rachel is. Imagine having Clayman as a teacher! Or, worse, an alchemist. “Now, tell me. Why is the red awful?”

“I don’t know,” Rachel says. She furrows her brow and chews another bite of tart. Warmth is coming back to her face already. “I guess because it’s alive.”

Berthe hums. “Why is being alive awful?”

“Because it’s a town. It’s not supposed to be alive.”

“Why?”

“It—it just shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Our town is laid out into a magical grid. Workings can’t be made with living things. So it can’t be alive.”

“Why not?”

“Because— because it just can’t!” Rachel cries. “That’s not how magic works. There is no spell that can twist something living and if the town is alive then how is it a magical grid? So it’s awful because it’s not true.”

“But it is true,” Berthe says. She can feel Mrs. Rayne ready to protest so she speaks quickly. “What is life? We do not say that a dead bird is alive, do we? It’s dead.”

Rachel stutters. “Necromancy is taboo—“

“I’m not talking about necromancy,” Berthe says. She squeezes Rachel’s hand. “Every living thing has a body. When it is no long living, it is a body. So what is the living part of it?”

“The soul, but that’s—“

“There is an inert part of all of us,” Berthe says. “We do not know it because we are alive. We claim our bodies and our souls so completely that they become one. The town, however, is not alive in the same way. It has a soul but does not claim its body the way we do. It can’t. It exists simultaneously as a soul and also inert. So why can’t there be magic on its body? It is alive and it has working on it at the same time. Why can’t both be true?”

The silence in the room is loud. Berthe takes the opportunity to eat some of her slice of tart. She got the amount of clove just right.

“What does this have to do with my daughter being sick?” Mrs. Rayne is the first to break the silence. “Dreams and life and bodies— what does this nonsense mean to Rachel?”

“It’s not nonsense,” Berthe says. She sighs and sits back on her heels, not relinquishing her hold on Rachel’s hand. The girl’s skin is only just starting to feel warmer. “It’s magic. A different sort of magic to Clayman. Or, rather, the same but through another perspective.”

“Please,” Clayman says when Mrs. Rayne goes to protest again. “Madame, I understand your opinions on Berthe’s practice. I even share some of them. But she is a witch that I respect regardless and I would like to give her the chance to explain.”

He respects me?, Berthe thinks. But it makes sense in a way. He wouldn’t have come to her if he didn’t.

Mrs. Rayne thinks for a long moment, staring at her daughter. Her lips thin and her dark eyes flash as color comes back to Rachel’s cheeks. Finally she says, “Then explain.”

“Rachel,” Berthe says, “is a green witch.”

“No,” Clayman says immediately, before Mrs. Rayne can do more than scowl. He stands abruptly, his hands fisting at her sides. “No, her core is structured traditionally. I checked when I first came on as her teacher—“

“She was trained by alchemists,” Berthe says simply. Mildly. She smiles at Rachel. “They’re a little rigid, aren’t they?”

Rigid is an understatement. Berthe can imagine the torment Rachel went through, trying to force her young magic to conform to archaic arrays and clumsy runes. Her growing power has been stifled and gnarled by the crucible her studies forced it into.

Berthe herself has never been fond of traditional spellwork. She finds the ritual chants and offerings uncomfortable with the way they bend her magic. And Rachel’s been going through that before her core even fully developed.

No longer, Berthe thinks. 

Rachel’s lip trembles. She darts a glance at her mom and then back to where Berthe’s hands are wrapped around hers. “Yes,” she whispers. “I—“

“There’s no such thing as green witchcraft,” Mrs. Rayne snaps. She looks like she wants to tear Berthe away from her daughter but, after a moment of hovering, paces away instead. She stalks from one side of the room to the other. “See, Clayman? This is why I didn’t want to call in this— this charlatan. Our family follows the sacred texts for a reason and I don’t want—“

“Charlatan,” Berthe repeats. She lets Rachel’s hand slide from hers so she can stand and face Mrs. Rayne. Berthe is patient. Berthe is not that patient. “Who are you to call me charlatan? It must be easy considering you have no power of your own to sense me with.”

Mrs. Rayne turns red with rage. “You insolent, horrible charlatan—“

Clayman slides between her and Mrs. Rayne, one hand up and warding. “Berthe, you can’t hold her to her words. Traditional witchcraft is rigid in nature. She means no harm—“

Berthe barks a humorless laugh. “No harm? Her daughter is dying from the strength of her beliefs! Why, no one would blame me if I were to spirit her away here and now.”

“Dying?” Rachel asks.

Berthe sucks in a breath, backing away so she can see everyone in the room. Rachel is already fading without Berthe’s magic, sinking back into her pillows. Mrs. Rayne’s lips are pressed into a thin line and Clayman’s smile looks robotic. “You didn’t tell her?” Berthe asks. She looks at the other witch in the room, the one who knows what a crime it is to withhold such information. “Clayman.”

“I didn’t think it was her core,” Clayman defends. He rubs a hand over his straw-colored hair. “I would have if I’d known. I thought it was a curse. Maybe a sickness I didn’t know of.”

He means he thought it was something irrecoverable. He thought it kinder to leave Rachel in the dark as her magic drained, her soul emptied, her body withered.

Traditional witches, Berthe thinks with carefully disguised disgust. Always seem to need an essay to know what’s in front of their face.

“You’re not going to die,” Berthe tells Rachel. She dusts her hands against her apron reflexively, the way she does when she’s finished kneading bread. She lifts her chin, daring Mrs. Rayne to contradict her. “You’re coming into your magic. All we need to do is untangle you before the new moon and you’ll be right as rain by the next full.”

“The new moon is tonight,” Rachel says.

Berthe blinks and then grins. “Oh! And there’s a storm tonight, how perfectly lovely. We can go to my orchard, it’s far enough from the city that the light pollution--”

“No!” Mrs. Rayne thrusts herself between Berthe and Rachel, holding out her hands as if about to throw a spell at Berthe. Her black eyes burn. “No, there will be no going anywhere! My daughter is sick. She needs rest not to go gallivanting about your orchard chanting made up spells and- and eating grass!”

“With all due respect,” Berthe says, “that’s exactly what’s going to happen.” She pauses. “Except for the eating grass part. Where on earth do you traditional witches get things like that?”

“Berthe,” Clayman says. He’s hovering beside Mrs. Rayne now, eyes nervously flicking from Berthe to Rachel and back. As always, he’s smiling. It is particularly ill fitting now. “You were invited here to help. Maybe if you explained a little more, we could come to an agreement on Rachel’s treatment.”

“No,” Mrs. Rayne says. “Clayman, that’s enough--”

“Madame,” Clayman says. His eyes don’t leave Berthe but he addresses Mrs. Rayne. “I beg you for a bit more of your understanding.”

Mrs. Rayne must trust Clayman an awful lot. She settles back on her heels with a huff, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Very well.”

Berthe studies Clayman. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his upper lip. He’s saying the right things for Mrs. Rayne. He doesn’t want her to panic and do something silly like attack Berthe. But he knows that there aren’t any other options. Rachel is a green witch.

They both know who has jurisdiction here.

Berthe sighs and props her chin in her hand. She cocks her head to one side and clicks her tongue. “What part of my explanation did you not understand, Mrs. Rayne? Perhaps it would be better to start there.”

Clayman covers his eyes with his hands. “Berthe…”

“The part where my daughter is anything but a Rayne,” Mrs. Rayne says. She gestures to Rachel. “She is a pureblooded Rayne! Her powers manifested in the traditional manner.”

“Which is?”

“Telekinesis,” Mrs. Rayne says proudly. “She was two and lifted one of her toys into her crib.”

Of course the woman thinks the most common way to manifest is traditional. “That may be so,” Berthe says, “but the power of a child is pure. It doesn’t have a preference or a shape. That comes later or, in Rachel’s case, now. She is a Rayne, but her magic is green.”

“Green witchcraft isn’t--”

“Your daughter dreams,” Berthe interrupts, losing patience. Truthfully, she isn’t as kind as Clayman. She doesn’t understand why she needs to explain herself to a human. “She dreams she is in the soil, like a seed. Well, it’s time to sprout. She must sprout before the winter chill freezes the ground and she suffocates.”

Clayman’s smile is pinned in place. “Berthe--”

“Mrs. Rayne,” Berthe says, propping her fists on her hips. She glares at the older woman. “The matter is very simple. Your daughter is dying because of the teachings you enforced on her. That’s fine. You’re magicless and you thought you were making the right choice.”

“I may be magicless but my family’s power runs through--”

“BUT.” Berthe stomps her foot and Mrs. Rayne’s mouth slams shut. The older woman doesn’t have time to panic at the silencing spell before Berthe is continuing. “But, it’s not too late to undo what has been done. I will help your daughter untangle herself. It must be today. It must be tonight. Once we do, she will recover her strength and her magic will bloom fuller and deeper than it was before.”

Mrs. Rayne rubs at her throat frantically.

Clayman mutters under his breath, pulling and swishing his oak wand in one motion. With the sound of a bell, he breaks Berthe’s spell. He is not smiling now. “Berthe. I must ask you not to lay workings on my employer.”

Mrs. Rayne is shaking with rage. “You--you dare? I am Elizabeth Rayne, matriarch of the Rayne Family and Coven--”

“And I am Berthe Steighart,” Berthe snaps. “Arbitrator of the Light Council, mediator of the Dark and North American Representative of the Green Witches.” She glares at Clayman from her peripherals. “I do not need permission to silence a human, Clayman.”

Mrs. Rayne squawks. “Human--”

“Berthe,” Clayman says, “I invited you here. She is under my protection.”

Berthe breathes out through her nose. Clayman is brandishing his wand like he’ll actually fight her. What he’s saying makes sense though. Along with being rigid, traditional witches tend to be awfully noble. “She may be under your protection, Clayman, but her daughter is now under mine. I won’t allow a green witch to wilt in front of me.”

“I know,” Clayman says. He lowers his wand and rubs a hand over his face. “I know. No one is trying to stop you, Berthe. I am asking you to have sympathy. The Raynes are an established and well-respected family. Their magic has been dormant for so long that no one would’ve been able to anticipate it would resurface, much less as a green witch. Can you understand Mrs. Rayne’s denial? Admitting Rachel is a green witch is like admitting the Rayne Family’s traditional magic is dead.”

“Nobody,” Berthe says, throwing her hands into the air, “nobody is saying that Rachel can’t practice traditional magic anymore!”

“What?” Clayman asks.

Mrs. Rayne gapes. “Yes, you are! You’re saying my daughter is like you--”

“Her core is, yes,” Berthe says. She pinches the bridge of her nose. Her head is beginning to throb. “The death of a family’s magic, Clayman? Really?”

“Well,” Clayman says. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “...isn’t it?”

Berthe wants to scream. Sometimes she forgets that Clayman, for all his power, is so young. Berthe was born onto her path. Clayman’s only been practicing for a decade. “Very, very few grimoires are specific to a certain magical core. The Rayne family’s grimoire is advanced, yes, but it’s broad. It’s not that the Rayne family has never had a green witch before. It’s that they’ve never had a witch with a strong enough affinity for it to matter.”

“Ah,” Clayman says. He clears his throat. “I may have misunderstood something.”

Berthe forces herself to calm down. “You’re a very powerful witch, Clayman. Your core is traditional, but that’s unusual. Traditional is usually a practice, not a state of being. Most witches tend towards green, light, dark, or deity magicks. I understand how you made a mistake when evaluating Rachel’s core - she had an unusual upbringing - but now you have the correct information. It’s time to help Rachel now.”

Clayman rubs the back of his neck. His smile creeps across his face. “You think I’m powerful?”

Berthe swats at him.

“Ms. Steighart?”

Berthe turns to Rachel. Oh dear, she nearly forgot the young lady was there. “Yes?”

Rachel grimaces as she adjusts herself against her pillows. “This untangling…will it cure me?”

“Yes.”

“And I’ll be able to use my family’s grimoire after?”

Berthe pouts. “If you want to. But you have such a lovely green soul. I think you should--”

Rachel is already shaking her head. “I am a Rayne. I want to use my ancestor’s spells.”

Mrs. Rayne presses a hand to her chest. “Rachel.”

“Mom,” Rachel says. She reaches out a hand and sighs when her mother grabs hold. “I know it’s against what you believe. What I believe. But if it can help me, I want to do it.” She tries for a smile and ends up with another grimace. “If I’m going to rebuild our family’s coven, I need to be alive to do it.”

Berthe sucks her teeth. “Oh, that’s a good argument. I should have led with that.”

“Plant for brains,” Clayman mutters out of the side of his mouth.

Berthe slaps his shoulder.

--------------------.

Thunder rolls through the sky. There isn’t any rain - yet. Berthe stands between two of her oldest trees and tips back her head. She smells power in the air, lightning and rain and magic. She grins up into the night.

New moon.

“Ms. Steighart?”

Berthe turns. Rachel wrings her hands together, eyes darting nervously from the shivering treetops to the stormclouds to Berthe. Behind her, Berthe’s house is well lit. There are two figures in the kitchen window peering anxiously out to them.

Rachel is dressed in a simple, linen gown. Her long, black hair is loose down her back and, in the dark, the stress of the past few weeks fades away. She looks young (as she should) and alive (as she should). Magic sparks in her aura as the thunder rumbles around them.

“The ground,” Rachel says. She looks down at her bare feet and wiggles her toes in the soil. There’s awe in her eyes when she looks back at Berthe. “The ground is breathing.”

Berthe grins. There is nothing better than a new witch learning to see. She holds out her hand. “Come on, Rachel. It’s starting.”

Lightning cracks the sky and Rachel takes Berthe’s hand.

-----

Thanks for reading! It’s Halloween season which means there will be witches and horror on this blog for the foreseeable future!

Next week’s short story: Marigold Fletcher is a good witch. However, when her dark past comes knocking, her reputation is on the line.

You can read the story now on my Patreon (X) where I post all of my stories a week early! 

Also thank you everyone who bought my anthology, Being Heroes, Being Villains (X) and to those who reviewed it! I’ll be making a post this weekend about the reviews which have been so kind :) Thank you!

#my writing #short story #third person #witches #my witchcraft #writeblr #long post

[misguidedasgardian]

The white dragon

An alternative universe for The House of the Dragon

Summary: How the existence of Rhaenyra's younger sister can change the course of history, the youngest daughter of King Viserys Targaryen and the Queen Aemma Arryn.

To cover the heir to the throne's transgressions, you are obligated to marry his lover, Ser Harwin Strong

Main pairing: Harwin Strong x Targaryen!Femreader

AU Warnings: violence, blood, murder, cheating, adultery, mentioned incest, (more tags added by chapter)

Main Story

Prologue

A Dragon or Goat

Collateral damage

The wreckage

What is left

Forced Landing

Name day

Seeds of mistrust

Two headed dragon

While you were gone

Taking roots

Kicks of a drowning man

Harrenhal

Driftmark

Dragonstone

The Seed is Strong

Sow what you planted

Claimed, not given

Second sons

Were loyalties lie

Were loyalties lie part 2

The Hour of the Owl

The Hour of the Bat

The Blacks

Storm's End

The North Remembers

In the dragon's den

The Greens

The march

The crossroads

The Red Keep

All roads

I bring the storm

Shield bay

Kings of Nothing

Jorraegalon

Under seige

The man of Gold

The Kraken and The Dragon

The Rock

King's Landing

Maegor

Monsters of Land and Sea

The Trident

The Dragonpit

The Great Council

Kept Promises, Epilogue

Archive of Characters

The archive of characters of The White Dragon

Headcanons & Oneshots

The White Shadow: Ser Steffon Mangold, sworn protector and sword of the princess and how he came to be

Vhaelar: how the bond between dragon and rider happened

The hunt: what was the princess doing during the hunt?

A hellish match: Jace dances with Aemma, and Baela with Aemond, but they wish it was the other way around

What If Series

what if... Harwin never stopped his affair with Rhaenyra?

what if... Reader married Cregan Stark?

#misguidedmasterlist #misguidedhotd #harwin strong x targaryen reader #harwin strong #harwin x reader #ser harwin strong #harwin breakbones #daemon targaryen #princess rhaenyra #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra #house of the dragon

[certifiedskywalker]

Start of Something More - Daemon Targaryen

Anonymous asked: Hi ilove ur writings so much ur so talented im so happy that ur back again, if ur taking requests could u please write one daemon targaryen with hightower reader or reader having feelings for him but he marries laena and afterwards rhaenyra also with something like betrayal during the dance i know im just rumbling but i trust you would make a masterpiece ur so good with ideas and words thank you.

He hates your father. Your father hates him. Naturally, it was the Gods-ordained start of a torrid, love affair.

Your father tapped the stem of his chalice and you took to your cue. Swift and in silence, as if to be invisible, you darted over to the Hand of the King. With a slight tilt of the wine pitcher, Arbor Red trickled into the half-empty cup with only the slightest noise. Then, you did a round about the table, checking the chalices of King Viserys, the Master of Coin, and so forth, pouring where more libations were needed. All while being imperceptible.

Though, from his seat as the newly appointed Master of Laws, Daemon Targaryen always seemed to see you. His eyes would trace your path during conversations of grave importance, like tithes and taxes, matters that needed legislation. Matters that needed an attentive Master of Laws, which Daemon was not. At least, not when you did your rounds.

And you could feel it, his watching. His eyes would linger on you as you found your place beside the cups and bottles once more. He would smile too, a wry expression that reached his eyes in a far too charming way and had you gritting your teeth with annoyance.

“He’s no good, Daemon.”

“The next Maegor, unless Viserys denounces him.”

“Our House will be at risk if Daemon ever sits the Throne.”

“Stay yourself away from him.”

“Daemon has a distaste for Hightower green.”

At first, you discounted your father’s words. The feud between Otto Hightower and Prince Daemon was no secret, particularly to the Hightower children. You and Alicent had endured countless recountings of court and reports of debauchery in Flea Bottom, all of which Daemon featured heavily. So countless that your father’s warnings echoed in your head whenever you met the Rogue Prince’s gaze. His eyes gleamed like signal fires; his voice rang like the siege bells.

In Small Council meetings, he was loud, pushing for laws that tightened the Crown’s grip on King’s Landing, and bright, weaving between Otto’s advice to Viserys with the cold logic of a battle-hardened knight. Daemon was everything your father warned you about, everything and more; and how alluring that more was when it shone through.

“Curating a select force of warriors to maintain the King’s peace within the city walls is vital to strengthening your entire governance, brother.”

“In the Small Council chamber, you will address his majesty King Viserys as such,” your father intervened, waving a dismissive hand at Daemon. “How do you aim to keep his peace when you fail to address your King as befitting your station.”

Daemon rolled his eyes right into you, despite your cupbearer station being tucked in the shadows of two pillars. He smiled at you, a softer thing than usual and in it, you saw that more. You felt in tickle in your chest, how it reached out from there like blooming flower petals, spreading itself until its newness was all you could detect. 

So clouded by Daemon you were that you missed how your father saw everything, and everything Daemon was in his politicking mind. He coughed, and the sound broke you out of your reverie with a start. You nearly started off with the wine pitcher towards your father, but Otto placed a palm over his glass while the other squeezed at the ceramic ball that denoted his presence at the meeting. 

“If we can move forth to more pressing matters, there is the cost and planning of the Princess Rhaenyra’s upcoming nameday tourney. That is if you wish to repeat the celebration from the year previous, my King?”

“Yes, of course. Though, leave the day of her birth itself unimpeded by plans. She wants the family to picnic in the Dragonpit.”

“That will ease the expense,” Lord Beesbury noted, a smile stretching through the wrinkles in his aged face.

“Not that the coffers are waning, yes?” Your father was quick to ask. Lord Beesbury began bumbling out an answer when Daemon cut through the chatter. 

“Cupbearer,” you flicked your head and saw the Prince raise his chalice above the heads at the table. “I find myself in need of more wine.”

Heat eeked into your face at his calling out, but you quickly made your way over to him with the pitcher in hand. The metal of the vessel cooled you slightly, but you were warmed back to life almost as soon as you stood by Daemon. Heat seemed to emanate from him as if a fire burned beneath his skin. It didn’t help that, as you stood and poured the Arbor Red into his chalice, Daemon’s hand brushed against you.

Through the fabric that covered your thigh, you felt his knuckles. His touch shocked you into a shudder, a gesture unbecoming of a Small Council cupbearer, and you fought to regain your composure as the back of his knuckles continued to stroke. Your steady pour slowed as Daemon fell into a sort of pattern with his movement, a looping touch against you that had you floundering like a Velaryon-caught swordfish. 

When you finally freed yourself from his net, you let your eyes flick down. Daemon’s gaze was already fixed on you when you looked at him, watching you, as he always did. More laced his smile, shone in his eyes. As you stepped back to return to your station, his touch lingered with his fingertips reaching after you. For a moment, you feared his grip would close about your garments and pull you back until you tripped over yourself. In your head, Daemon made you a mess with spilled wine and his lips.

Eventually, the chatter of the Small Council filtered back into your ears and tarnished any thought of Daemon’s lips. Thank the Gods. 

“On account of marvelous weather,” King Viserys said suddenly, “I call this meeting to a close and order you all to soak in the sunshine.”

He stood, and the rest of the Small Council followed suit. As Viserys passed through the doors, Daemon snuck swiftly after his brother’s heels, pushing himself out of his seat with such speed that you were nearly knocked to your feet. The Prince did not spare a glance in your direction as he moved, even shouldering past you with a roughness that stood in stark contrast to his touch from mere moments before.

When Daemon charged out of the chambers, you recovered yourself with a steadying, though still trembling, breath and moved towards the wine stash. You set the pitcher to the side before fumbling for the corked bottle. Before you could clean the station entirely, you heard the familiar gravel of your father’s voice.

“Pay no heed to Daemon.”

You turned and bowed your head respectfully. When you lifted your head, you waited until the other lords and leaders of the land filed out to speak. “You have grown a sort of patience with our Prince. I fear I have yet to grow my own as he does not…regard me in the same manner as he does you.”

Otto, not quite picking up your dropped implications, nodded at you before filing out with the rest of them. You watched your father disappear behind the Small Council Chamber doors. You watched until a pang in your chest reminded you to breath. A gasp fell from your lips and your whole body shuddered, as if Daemon’s touch had never left.

A distracting warmth played with you, tickled you to the point where your cleaning of the wine station was slowed. So slowed that palace attendants filed into the room to collect the chalices for the kitchen and wipe the table to a shine. So slowed that those same palace attendants left you to yourself again.

At least, they left you for a little while for, as you finally finished, the doors crashed open, lacking any of the decorum typical of a servant in the Red Keep. You jumped at the sound, spinning on your heels, armed only with your furrowed brows and angrily muddled mind, to face whomever entered. 

With his chest heaving and face flushed, Daemon was leaned over the table, his arms taut supports as he stared down at the shining stone. At the sight, you took a step back, with your rear bumping into the wine station. The wood teetering against the floor, a dull, hollow noise that brought Daemon’s eyes up to you.

“My Prince,” you bowed, trying to play off your surprise. “Apologies.”

Daemon scoffed and straightened his posture as his sharp, gliting gaze lingered on you. “For what?”

“Apologies,” you echoed, hoping to find your answer between the syllables. “Apologies for earlier, my Prince. I should have been-” your eyes fell to his hand for a moment before flicking back up before you got lost in the mere memory of his touch, “-more attentive with the pouring of the wine.”

“My, my,” Daemon drawled, stalking towards you with each step whispering of the intent of something more. “Your father has wound you up tight with the ropes of etiquette, hasn’t he? That is a true shame.”

He continued towards you, a smile pulling at his lips as you shook your head. “My father taught me a means of surviving King’s Landing.”

“He taught you how to elevate him at court,” Daemon countered, “by being a docile little lamb.”

Daemon was so close that you could smell the dragon on him, the cinders and wine. The part of you caught on what your father failed to see wondered if you would be able to taste the wine if the Rogue Prince kissed you. You had never partook despite your work. Would the fruits of your labor taste sweet or bitter?

“Though, perhaps not so docile,” he mused, his hand rising slightly, just enough to brush against the side of your thigh again. You fought the shudder that trailed his touch. “Your father would not approve of this, now would he?”

“He hates you,” you said, hoping the words would sting; but they fell from your lips deafened by the softness of the shock of getting what you wanted. 

“Oh, dear, I know it,” Daemon said, leaning in. His nose brushed against yours and his breath danced about your face, your neck. More, you wanted more, and all patience grown was squandered. “This,” his wandering hand squeezed your hip and you gasped softly, “would kill him.”

You caught your breath after a moment and met Daemon’s gaze with all the strength you could muster. The Hightower of you leapt out off your tongue. “Unless he kills you first.”

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Daemon asked with a grin.

Suddenly thirsty, you leaned up and kissed him, hard. Deep. Daemon’s hands clutched at you and his body pressed you against the wine station until you were caught between its cold stone and his warmth. It was delicious, and the fruits of your labor sweet.

#game of thrones #got #house of the dragon #hotd #gotedit #fanfiction #hotd fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfiction #daemon #daemon x reader #daemon fanfic #daemon fanfiction #daemon targaryen fanfiction #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen imagines #targaryen #targaryen x reader #matt smith #house of the dragon imagine

[sapphire-writes]

kiss it better ~ Aegon Targaryen

Aegon x Reader

summary: you are Helaena's companion, whom Aegon takes a liking to. He seeks you out after the royal family's last supper.

warnings: mentions of blood, reader is anxious & picks cuticles

word count: 0.8k

A/N: I see all of you Aegon lovers so I had to write this little drabble. Hope you enjoy it, requests are open so feel free to send an ask my way! 💚

The previous night had left tensions high between the greens and the blacks. Dinner had been an incredibly tense affair, and you had wished your attendance would have been excused. But Helaena insisted on having you there, and as her companion, you did not like to refuse her. 

You had resided in the Red Keep for most of your life, as your father was on King Viserys’ small council. You became quick friends with Helaena and found yourself always wanting to be around the Targaryen princess. 

There were not many young ladies at court and it could be rather lonely when Helaena was indisposed. Which was why you had looked forward to the arrival of the Velaryons. Having Baela and Rhaena to converse with was sure to be very pleasant. 

It was a pleasant evening at first. Until toasts were made and men were slammed into tables. The evening came to a sour end after that. The violence had rattled you, and you felt an anxiety deep within you that would not leave for the remainder of the night. 

You found yourself the next day in the gardens, still tense from the previous evening. As you moved to brush some dirt from your gown, you felt your finger snag against the fabric. You pulled your hand back, inspecting it.

The flesh around your cuticle was raw. You had a terrible habit of picking the skin around your nails when you felt anxious. Most of your fingers had suffered due to the previous night. Your middle finger had snagged on your dress, and a fresh bead of blood began to surface. 

“My lady,” a voice called and you turned, squeezing your fingers into your palm, ignoring the stinging sensation. 

“My prince,” you greeted Aegon Targaryen as he entered the gardens, giving him a curtsy. 

He smiled at you, giving you a once-over. Though you are close with Helaena, you and Aegon have always had a rather flirtatious relationship. Aegon can sense there is something going on with you. 

“Lovely day,” you tell him, breaking the silence. 

“Indeed,” he agreed, walking closer to you. “I was hoping to find you.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“Me?” you question, teasingly.

“Yes, you,” he said, chuckling. Aegon wet his lips.

“I hope we did not frighten you last night, my lady,” he told her, concern in his voice. 

You smile at his thoughtfulness. Aegon’s kindness was a rarity to others, but not to you.

“It was a rather uncomfortable evening, I am afraid,” you tell him, a small smile on your lips.

Aegon adored your smile, though he had yet to confess it to you. He was married to your friend after all. 

“Yes, my nephews can be a bit rambunctious.”

“And you?”

Aegon’s smile seems to widen.

“Do you think I was rambunctious?” he asks and you chuckle. 

“You and Prince Aemond were rather uncouth.”

Aegon gasps dramatically, placing a hand on his chest.

“ME? Never, my lady,” he says, blowing a raspberry, “you are quite mistaken.”

You can’t help but laugh, your hand flying up unconsciously to cover your mouth. 

Aegon’s smile falters. 

“What have you done?” Aegon questioned, grabbing your hand in his. 

“Nothing!” you spat, jerking your hand away from him. 

He pursed his lips, reaching for you again. Aegon held tighter this time, making sure you were unable to pull away. It felt as though you were children again, as you made a noise in protest. 

“Hush,” he snapped, observing your injured finger, watching as a teardrop of blood pooled around your nail bed. You had picked the cuticle raw. 

Aegon had seen this before, on the hands he wished held him with love. His mother’s nervous habit caused her to maim herself as well. 

You watched as his brow furrowed before he suddenly wrapped his lips around your finger. 

Aegon closed his eyes as the salty tang of your blood washed over his tongue. He hollowed his cheeks sucking on the tip of your finger. 

Your eyes widened, as words failed you, a small squeak leaving your mouth as he opened his eyes. His eyes were half-hooded and the look he gave you made your cheeks redden and your stomach turn with nerves.

He released your finger with a pop, and you brought your hand to your skirts rubbing the prince’s saliva from your skin. 

Aegon wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, wiping a smudge of blood that stained his lip. His eyes met yours as he licked his thumb clean. You felt your mouth go dry, a strange feeling deep inside of you.

“Do not do that again,” he scolded, causing you to blink several times. 

“I can’t help it,” you tell him, finding your voice. 

He cocks an eyebrow, grabbing your hand once more. 

“Then I shall do this again,” he tells you and goes as though to bite your fingers. 

You shriek, a smile overtaking your features again as you attempt to tug away from him.

“You’re a sorcerer, you’re doing some Targaryen blood magic to ruin me!” you tease and Aegon laughs, pulling you closer.

“I wouldn’t need magic to ruin you, my lady.”

#aegon ii #aegon x reader #aegon x you #aegon x y/n #aegon imagine #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon the usurper #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon targaryen imagine #aegon the elder #hotd aegon #king aegon #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii fic #hotd fic #house of the dragon fic #house of the dragon #aegon ii smut

[mugentakeda]

the tapping of his fathers pacing on the tile is almost enough to drive him mad.

“don’t let your brother’s incessant whining cause you to falter. this is merely a short visit to discuss the matter at hand, and then you’re on your way right back to ba sing se. he will try and whisper doubt in your ear.” the firelord stops to shake a finger at him. “do not listen to him for anything! i will help you in the best of my ability to have this taken care of.”

“i’m not,” iroh snaps impatiently, digging his palms into his eyes. “i’m not listening to him, father. he doesn’t care for lu ten and he doesn’t have to. he has his house and i have mine. empty words have little meaning to me at the moment.”

his father purses his lips. the sting of his stare digs down to the core.

“you say that,” azulon snaps, “but i believe this to be a family affair. its possible lu ten was taken advantage of because he was too busy protecting ozai’s wife and ozai’s children to protect himself. if that’s true, then ozai owes him. i don’t give a damn if he cares about him as his nephew or not. lu ten honored his house, so he shall honor lu ten in return by shutting his trap for once.”

iroh doesn’t have the strength to respond. he’d left ba sing se in a rush after receiving the news, and ordered the shipmen to get him back home on the double. he’s sick, he’s tired, he’s terrified and angry, and he misses his son something awful. the last thing iroh cares about right now is what ozai does or has to say.

there’s a heavy, sad sigh from above him. azulon slowly makes himself comfortable on the sitting cushion next to him, grunting as his bones creak. he sets the knocked over teacup straight again and refills it. the familiar heat and fragrance does nothing to soothe iroh, however.

“there is nothing i can say to make you feel better as of right now,” his old man mutters, sitting the teapot back down with uncharacteristic gentleness, “nor can i say anything sure about ursa or the children. but lu ten, he…. he is a remarkable young man. thick skinned and ornery. lightning generation at only 21, can you believe that? he beat you by a whole year. you must have faith in him.”

“it’s not about having faith in my son, father, of course i have faith in my son. but i have no faith in whoever has- has stolen him from me!” iroh suddenly exclaims, gesturing wildly. azulon flinches as his hands come dangerously close to knocking over the tea again.

your boy flagrantly disrespected you and stayed home to laze around, ozai had hissed, his narrow eyes locked straight up at the throne. both were kneeling before their father’s throne, side by side. i don’t know why you even bother. if he thinks he’s so grown up then he can save his own skin.

iroh didn’t bother to respond. he has nothing to say to his brother even on the best of days. all his life, he’s been nothing but a background character to iroh. always insisting on holing up in his room or office, never joining family dinners or celebration banquets. never one to offer his congratulations, but expects his older brother to offer his. yet, he always liked to think his word was of any significance to iroh. that he was always to be heeded. respect to his elders only means something to his little brother if there’s something to be gained.

flagrant disrespect. lu ten did not disrespect him if iroh never directly asked or ordered anything of him in the first place. he implied it, and lu ten pushed back. it hurt, but it would’ve also been the boys first true venture outside the fire nation. so iroh understood the hesitancy.

iroh would’ve just had lu ten by his side in his war council anyway. he would’ve never seen the battlefield or the city until iroh leveled it. not a spot of green would be spared by his men.

he had envisioned himself shooting a hole right through the flimsy palace wall with his lightning, and his son by his side. winning.

nothing has gone the way you made it out to be, great spirit. i don’t feel very lucky, as of late. the evening sun peaking through the tall windows of the corridor offer his thoughts no response. the general sighs heavily, and continues on his way.

the royal procession had gone through the beach house, along with the rest of the island. not a trace left behind. no sign of a struggle, either.

the procession claims it’s like they vanished out of thin air, sir, jee had whispered.

delicate situations such as this one call for holding the ones you trust most closer than ever. thus, iroh took only his personal guards from ba sing se back with him. jee is a rugged and introverted man, one that iroh knows can keep a secret, so he has been acting as his messenger man and valet for the time being.

another member of his most trusted circle is one of his longest working servants, one that belongs to iroh’s house personally. her name is su, and she is a stout woman around his father’s age. stern and silent, but trustworthy. she was the one that kept a close eye on lu ten from a distance during the periods of time iroh wasn’t around in his youth. she had been the midwife at his birth, she had been the one to pick the wet nurse.

and she had slipped iroh a journal outside of lu ten’s room. leather bound and stained in a deep red, with delicate embroidery of lotus flowers decorating its cover. it looked like something the lady ursa would gift him.

i came across this left behind in lady ursa’s garden, your highness, she had murmured fiercely. i snatched it right up and held it for you upon your return, lest it fall into the wrong hands.

the dark, warm silence of iroh’s own chambers is a small comfort, but the cold leather of the journal in his hands chains him to the cruel reality.

one of the vows iroh made for himself when lu ten came into puberty was that he would never violate his son’s privacy. he’d like to think that his son’s life possibly being in danger is a good enough reason to break it, but it still feels… wrong. especially now that he’s an adult himself.

it’ll be like eating a dollop of wasabi, he tells himself. spicy and painful one moment, then fading tingling the next.

with a sigh, he cracks it open to the back page. a few lines of familiar scrawl.

and the reason i torture myself trying to ignore all these things about him that bother me is because….

he looks away, shame crawling up his back. the candle sitting at the corner of his desk flicker along with his irregular, fear ridden heart.

a dollop of wasabi, he reminds himself. he opens his eyes again with a long breath and looks back down at the journal once more.

…well, that’s the crux of it. i just don’t know how to finish that sentence anymore.

that tells him a whole lot of nothing.

iroh flips the page back again, and is immediately overwhelmed by completely filled pages. then startled, by the sheer amount of times his own name pops up to his searching eyes among walls of scrawled text.

unease curls in his gut, like a dragon slowly rising from a slumber.

the ink doesn’t look too old. and su had said she found it in the lady ursa’s garden. and then jee said the royal procession claimed the fours’ trip to ember island was only to last three days, tops.

and as far as iroh knew, lu ten had been keeping quietly busy after iroh’s departure to ba sing se. lu ten willingly buried himself in paper work, always hunting for things he had the power to make into his business. training with lightning generation was grueling, and took hours, on top of the meditation necessary. and it takes a clear mind to even work with lightning, so…

had he done something recently to upset lu ten, and didn’t realize it? what things about iroh did lu ten torture himself trying to ignore? dramatic wording like that is difficult to overlook.

the general thinks back to how well his son can hide his emotions. lu ten’s court face beats even ozai’s, so it made him a gnarly pai sho opponent, but… he never did the backhanded comments. he can lie, but he’s a man of action before a plotting one. so you’ll never see the storm coming until it hits you directly in the face.

the letters he got back from him in ba sing se were… neutral. unbothered. he hadn’t seemed very troubled at the palace gates during his departure, either. tired and a bit wary, maybe.

but now that he thinks about it, the way lu ten looked at him had been… strange. his eyes had an emotion swirling in them that the general couldn’t read.

he rapidly rolls over the most recent letters in his head, the days right before leaving, trying to think of what he might have done to set lu ten off-

…the tiff they had on the evening before iroh’s departure.

he had forgotten about it completely.

spirits, he’d forgotten about it by the time he stepped foot on the shore. the elation of finally arriving at ba sing se, the first big step toward fulfilling the biggest thing he’s wanted to accomplish his entire life, the ultimate win, decades of planning and dreaming, inspired by agni herself…

he’d been caught up in the heat of the moment.

it didn’t even turn into an actual argument, that’s how small the tiff had been- a few things thrown back and forth during their private dinner, and the rest of it had been spent in awkward silence. iroh had let his hurt get the better of him, and he got testy.

the only thing that spoiled his ongoing luck, his relief of finally being able to go and crush his country’s most stubborn opponent, to make the second biggest win since sozin- was his own son not joining in, or showing any interest.

and that wasn’t even it. the closer iroh and his advisors got to bringing their planning to a conclusion, the more withdrawn lu ten became. whenever iroh brought it up, his son would close like a firelily in the night.

i assumed you were above teenage rebellion, iroh had muttered. i understand you want accomplishments of your own, but-

teenage rebellion? you’re joking, right? why do you always insist on- on patronizing me whenever we don’t agree on something? if you think you’re gonna guilt trip me into changing my mind, you’ve got it all wrong.

the disbelieving, ever so slightly shriller tone lu ten’s voice took on reminded iroh of his mother. she always had the habit of raising her voice a few pitches when she got upset. it reminded iroh of a coyote-eagle, once upon a time. the older lu ten got, the taller and leaner his face and physique became, the more time they spent apart, it’s like a vivid repeat of his mother. he even became a hand talker when iroh hadn’t been looking, just like fuhua.

(are habits hereditary, or had fuhua died after running away, and came back to haunt him?)

it’s probably best to start a bit further back in the journal. it might provide the context this father needs. he flips the pages for a few moments, and stops at random.

i spoke with a gentleman from the earth kingdom today during my observational trip through the colonies closest to the homeland. if you didn’t look close enough, you would’ve thought him to be any old fire nation fisherman, but i know green eyes when i see them.

his wife was a sailor that hails from caldera city. they met across the seas, in a neutral port town. they have two young twins, just barely older than zuko and azula. isn’t that something?

now, that is something iroh never bothered doing when he was a young man- it’s only now that his joints won’t let him run around chasing skirts anymore that he’s become a people person. but he’s proud of his boy for taking that initiative and having such a sense of responsibility, to go and mingle with the common man. an empathetic ruler that’s popular with his people will have the surest and furthest reaching authority, after all. iroh couldn’t name a single councilman off the top of his head that would be willing to even breathe the same air as a commoner, much less a colonial mutt.

however… this isn’t a colonial. he’s too keen on the idea of his family members’ abductors being petty, revenge seeking crooks from the earth kingdom to be okay with the idea of his son even conversing with one. for all they claim to be true and steadfast, them sneaking in and attacking an unarmed woman and her young children in their beach house just to get back at iroh is all too realistic of an idea.

but lu ten wasn’t unarmed. lu ten is one of the strongest men in the fire nation, and iroh isn’t even being biased about that. it takes prodigy to conjure lightning, and mastery to control it. and lu ten was very protective of ursa and the children- almost too protective. back in the day, during celebration parties at the palace, lu ten would damn near prowl around a pregnant ursa to fend off the careless crowd, lest they bump into her and jostle her. and he’d only been just a young teenager himself, so it was like watching a polar bear puppy that thought itself a snarly guard dog.

then a few years ago, there had been an incident where lu ten claimed zuko’s instructors were smacking him around. he’d grabbed both of the men by the collar and dragged them both viciously through the palace and right out the door- only after the sharpest scolding iroh’s ever heard since his mother was still alive. he’d never seen his son so angry. he’d chuckled at the way those old instructors had babbled apologies and fell to lu ten’s feet, while patting ursa’s back gently as she floundered.

no, it’s doubtful that an old fisherman had anything to do with it. earth kingdom or not. this is just something he needs to talk to his son about once he’s found. it would take a group of very strong benders to take lu ten down, at the very least.

he was wisecracking and friendly. we talked about his business, the officials that take care of the town and the surrounding environment, how he met his wife. he even shared his lunch during our time together- grilled fish, fragrant with sumac and citrus, and a chilled earth kingdom style mint tea. it was refreshing and unique, and i want to do it again. you’d think the fire nation would pick up these little things as it expands, but it just drowns it all out. i’m not sure if that’s a good thing. what made the food good was its earth kingdom style and seasoning, after all. what made the man interesting was his earth kingdom raised manner.

…what made lu ten think it was a good idea to write such things in a journal, and then be so careless to just forget it in ursa’s garden? he’ll have to thank su for her keen eye. if someone lacking critical thinking happened to pick this up and turn it in to his father, he’d have to deal with his son having allegations of sedition on top of everything else.

iroh, personally, is more than happy to let all traces of chilled tea get drowned out. it’s a frequent and light hearted debate between a father and son, the do’s and don’ts of tea. iroh is a stickler for tradition and enjoying the natural flavors. the fire nation boasted only the most fragrant flowers to enhance only the most delicate flavors of only the finest tea blends, after all.

his son claimed it all tasted like dinky dirt water, and stubbornly stuck with his cold hibiscus teas with herbs, and his heavily spiced and creamed saffron teas. it had been a big joke back then, but now… not so much.

a whole lifetime of a father making his son tea, sharing one of his passions. conversations over tea, tea for soothing a sore throat after screaming matches with councilmen, tea to wash down sea water accidentally swallowed at the beach. traditional methods, ceremonies, porcelain pots precious enough to buy a whole town- but it’s dirt water. yet an old fisherman from their greatest enemy shares ice water with a few mint leaves in a tin cup, and its unique.

and he wants to do it again.

the personal betrayal somehow hurts more than the blatant treachery written out plainly on the paper.

to be honest, i think that it’s a great shame that a good man like that has to be careful on his own property-property he paid for with his own money and built with his own hands- due to being from the earth kingdom, even if he has a strong marriage to a fire nation citizen. i thought about it for a long time, and realized that even if he wasn’t loyal to the crown, i didn’t mind. i don’t get angry at the idea, and i don’t think i ever have. i didn’t even think about it until i left. he made good company, offered to share his food with me, and introduced me to his beautiful children as if i was his new neighbor. i think community like that is something the fire nation needs. especially the nobility, who you’d think all have iron sticks shoved up their asses.

interactions like that are the most important ones to me, because they challenge me the most. i hate to cheapen that by thinking i just enjoy being challenged to spite my traditions and elders, or to be contrarian. that’s what coming of age means to me- looking inward, and asking the big questions.

…this can’t be why lu ten has been so distant lately.

the general slowly shuts the journal in dull horror. how long has this sickness had time to fester his son’s soul?

he swallows hard, and gingerly slides the journal in the folds of his robes. under no circumstance can anyone get their hands on it.

and later, when his gut quits churning and the candles around him quit threatening to set his room on fire, he’ll read this whole journal, front to back. brand every sentence, every symbol into his eyes. then he’s gonna burn it, bring his son home, and ask him what the hell he’s thinking.

the next morning, after letting the foul scent of burnt leather fade from his chambers, iroh finds jee.

“what can i do you for, your highness?”

“i need you to bring me the finest bounty hunter money can buy,” iroh murmurs. there’s a madness in his eyes and in his grip now that he’s had time to ponder the contents of his son’s journal, and what they entail. “and no matter what, it stays between us. i do not care what measures you must take to keep it that way.”

jee swallows hard and salutes with purpose. the poor man must be able to his see stress all over his face, but he’s barely containing himself the way it is.

this was no kidnapping. the blasted earth kingdom has everything to do with it, naturally, but it was no kidnapping.

jee returns to him that evening, followed by a lovely young woman, head to toe in black leather. her gait oozes confidence, and her narrow eyes scream danger.

this is definitely not the kind of finest iroh meant by finest bounty hunter money can buy, but he’ll take it.

“…i’ve, uh. fulfilled your request, your highness,” jee says. he looks flustered, and is clearly refusing to even glance at the woman.

“with a few breaks in between, i’m guessing. your collar is uneven, soldier,” iroh deadpans. he’d call it a shame if he wasn’t curbing an episode at the moment.

jee makes a faint noise of distress and fumbles with his uniform, blushing a deep red. iroh realizes that was the wrong thing to say at how the fair lady scowls at the crude jab.

she shoves past jee with an aggressive shoulder clip and crosses her arms before the general.

“i was promised a shitload of coin in exchange for some missing royals,” she says, voice clipped. “i don’t like to work with your kind, but good money is good money. and i can promise better and quicker results than any phony bounty hunter in the world- my companion is a shirshu. she can sniff out a rat from a whole continent away.”

a shirshu, eh? it would seem my luck has made its return after long last.

“impressive,” iroh praises truthfully. he’s a weak man for crass and foul-mouthed women. “i’d like to take a look at this beast, and then we can discuss the details and prices. i also hope you’re alright with keeping this transaction under wraps, my dear.”

she sneers. “you can call me june. and i’d highly suggest keeping a few steps away from my nyla, for your own good.”

jee clears his throat. “i’d listen to that one, sir. her creature is something else.”

iroh hums pleasantly, and keeps a few paces behind june as they go. a strange calm has washed over him now that the universe finally makes sense to him again; he has a few more people he’d like to question, and he’ll be all set. then sooner, if he’s lucky, rather than later, his sister-in-law, his nephew, and his niece will all be found and returned home, safe and sound. his son will be in his arms, whole and unharmed. ba sing se will simply have to wait.

and if they’re lucky, the dragon of the west won’t have thought up a better solution to finally grinding their sorry ashes into their own dirt by the time he gets back. but regardless, he will win.

#somehow this did not leave off on a redemption-esque note. My bad #I PROMISE IM GONNA ABIDE BY THE POLL RESULTS OKAY #this part can honestly be called Irohs Cognitive Dissonance: The Thrilling Saga #also im sorry about the lack of focus on irohs relationship with zuko and azula. #i know it tracks in canon (azulas doll gift) but im still. Kinda unsure. #im honestly better at just writing irohs dialogue vs his thoughts #and this being him before he starts changing makes it even WORSE #so i hope. i did him some justice. Awks #also i hope you guys liked the implication of june and jee making out sloppy style. #even if iroh kinda ruined it. #idk where that even came from it just happened #i hope u guys are seeing all the azula-iroh parallels about Winning and Luck. thats all intentional #runaway fire fam au #alicias writing stuff

[sarahscribbles]

REQUESTS ARE: CLOSED

FAVOURITE FICS

MONTHLY FIC RECS

If you enjoy my fics then please REBLOG. Spam likers will be blocked.

LOKI MASTERLIST

[Last updated: March 8 2023]

[All my readers use she/her pronouns]

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

12 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS MASTERLIST

THE SAKAAR FILES MASTERLIST

FOLLOWER CELEBRATION MASTERLIST

☆ Signifies 1k notes and up

✧ Moments of Magic ☆ 

Summary: You bring Loki two gifts to mark his birthday. One a magical object and the other your heart

✧ 14 Hours to Cape Town (18+)☆ 

Summary: When the rest of the Avengers are sent on a mission to Cape Town, you're forced to stay behind to recover from a previous mission while Loki isn't trusted enough to go along. How will you cope with being made to stay in the compound with the man you're in love with when he seemingly wants nothing to do with you?

✧ Warming Him (18+) ☆ 

Summary: Loki makes you warm him

✧ Stay Here One More Time

Summary: On the anniversary of the Battle of New York, Loki discovers he has someone on his side

✧ Don't Go Tonight

Summary: While on a mission fighting against HYDRA you do the one thing you’re not supposed to do and get distracted. The price you pay is a high one.

✧ Do I Haunt Your Mind?

Summary: You finally work up the courage to confess your feelings to Loki, but it goes badly wrong

✧ Little Green Dress (18+)

Summary: You try, and spectacularly fail, to tease the god of mischief.

✧ I Want To Make You Feel Wanted (18+)

Summary: On a mission you get the opportunity to kill the HYDRA agent responsible for torturing you, but, misreading the situation, Loki kills him before you get the chance. And now you want to kill him

✧ "My Pet." (18+)

Summary: Tony’s Christmas party gets a little steamier than you had imagined

✧ Tiny Blessings

Summary: Growing up within the royal palace of Asgard, you learned magic alongside Loki and his mother Frigga. After Frigga's death, you find a way into the dungeons to comfort her broken son

✧ Paper Trail

Summary: Loki organises a romantic treasure hunt for you

✧ Back In Your Arms

Summary: Loki arrives back at the compound, and back in your arms, after the battle with Thanos

✧ Illicit Affairs (18+)

Summary: A marriage built on nothing but childhood infatuation was always bound to fall apart. The love you once thought you had for Thor has dwindled to nothing but indifference. He doesn't know the things you crave and makes no effort to find out, so you turn to the one person who will fulfill all your filthy desires: his brother.

✧ One More Week (18+)

Summary: When Loki makes a request of you in bed, how can you possibly deny him?

✧ Burned (18+)

Prompts: “Do I look like I’m messing around? Do I look like I won’t punish you?” ||"Fucking is a reward, but you haven’t been good.” || "Be a good girl

✧ In The Quiet Of The Morning (18+)

Prompt: Soft morning sex with Loki

✧ For All To See (18+)

Summary: You, Loki, and a floor-to-ceiling window. What of it?

✧ Between His Thighs (18+)

Summary: Loki makes you warm him. Again.

✧ Emerald Lace (18+)

Summary: Your first time wearing lingerie for Loki has you nervous, but your god is quick to show you how much he adores you.

✧ Victory Prize (18+)

Summary: Loki arrives home from a mission eager to celebrate its success

TWO PARTERS

✧ When You Play With Fire (18+)

Summary: When Loki doesn’t accompany you to Scott’s birthday celebration, you think you have the upper hand by leaving him to stew in his own desire. You should have known better than to play with fire.

PART ONE

PART TWO

✧ Dancing With The Devil (18+)

Summary: You’ve burned for him for centuries, but you know he sees you as nothing more than a prize to claim. Still, you play his game of teasing and innuendo, but never give in to how badly you crave him. That is until an innocent smell of a flower on Midsummer leaves you with no other choice.

PART ONE

PART TWO

✧ On The Throne (18+)

Summary: Yet again Loki has allowed a security council meeting to run late. You decide that, this time, you’ll go and help hurry it alone

PART ONE

PART TWO

DRABBLES

✧ Don't Move, Darling (18+)

Prompt: "Move an inch and you won't be coming tonight."

✧ Purple And Red (18+)

Prompt: "I won't apologise for marking you up, everyone should know you're taken."

✧ Against The Glass (18+)

Prompt: "I want everyone to see how good you take it."

✧ Make You Sing (18+)

✧ Eyes Open (18+)

Prompt: "Keep your eyes open."

✧ Consequences (18+)

Summary: Loki gave you one simple order when leaving the palace and now you have to face the consequences of failing to follow it

✧ Worship You (18+)

Summary: Yours is the only altar Loki will ever worship at

BLURBS

✧ Loki with an overstimulation kink

✧ How would Loki love us?

✧ Loki praising us

✧ President Loki

✧ Sub!Loki

#loki #loki smut #loki x reader #loki fluff #loki imagine

[ncfcatalyst]

Second annual Earth Day Festival brings students together for an eco-friendly celebration

On Apr. 22, the Council of Green Affairs (CGA) hosted the second annual Earth Day festival at the Caples waterfront. The event was organized by a number of students, including New College Student Alliance (NCSA) Chair of Green Affairs and third-year Meilah Wimbush, Co-Chair and second-year Noah Tyler and CGA Zero Waste Coordinator and thesis student Nicole Silvera.  It was a bright, sunny day…

View On WordPress

#caples waterfront #council of green affairs #earth day festival #environment #food forest #student band #student culture #student life #sungrazer #waterfront

[two-white-butterflies]

coaxed you into paradise - c. 9

Description: The life of Saera Targaryen told in four acts. She was her father's forgotten daughter, cast aside as she looked nothing like her mother. Her younger days were spent beside her uncle. Years following her marriage with Ser Harwin Strong, she catches him in an affair with her older sister. She returns to seek solace in the arms of her uncle, that she's loved all her life.

(Coaxed You Into Paradise and High Infidelity Rewrite.)

masterlist for this series

Chapter Nine: The Greens

Alicent was a beautiful lady - her hair was a light shade of brown, and her eyes were dark pools of honey that one could drown upon. She was always trailing behind Rhaenyra - as one of her closest friends.

“I announce my betrothal to Lady Alicent Hightower, who has brought me comfort in my coldest nights.” Viserys smiles, his eyes dripping with sweetness. He truly believed that he was doing the right thing, but in the eyes of his daughters - he was doing it for his own benefit. 

Saera’s grip on her sister’s forearm tightens, the council room erupts in a band of cheers. She was unaffected by Alicent’s betrayal - her heart heaved more at the betrayal of her own father. It was the second time Viserys did something without consulting his children. 

Rhaenyra’s lips settled into a thin line - she wasn’t going to make a scene in the middle of a celebration. “Congratulations,” Saera broke their shared silence, walking towards Alicent with false-niceties. “ - you will make a fine Queen.” she complimented but Rhaenyra was able to make out the undertone of her statement. 

‘You will never be as good as my mother.’ 

Alicent smiles shyly, and mutters a few words of appreciation. Her eyes darted towards Rhaenyra, her friend, who was now beginning her retreat out of the chambers. Alicent’s gaze falters, and her lungs threaten to collapse with the pain that she was feeling. Did she betray her only friend? 

“When will the wedding be held?” Saera turned to look at her father, putting on a mask of acceptance around the council-men. The house of the dragon needed to be united - or appear to be united. “Two months after your wedding with Ser Harwin. I do not wish to outshine you, my dear.” Viserys smiled, thinking that the wounds between him and his daughter were finally healed. 

“ - And I assume that Lady Alicent would need time to pick out the details of our wedding.” Viserys turned to his betrothed who nodded dutifully. Saera’s lips settle into a thin line - when Alicent arrived at court, she had to curtsy to the Princesses - but after her marriage to the King. Will they have to bow to her? 

“It has to be perfect, the scrolls speak of your wedding to my lady mother and it was nothing short of a Targaryen celebration.” Saera complimented but insulted in a way that only a woman would be able to understand. She stared at Alicent - attempting to pry further inside the lady’s personality. 

“I would offer my help - but I am currently occupied with planning my own wedding.” Saera added, silently excusing herself and leaving the corridors. 

—

Saera quickly found herself inside her chambers - flipping through the dozens of letters she created for her uncle, not one of them were able to make it into Daemon’s hands. “You were not able to go to Stepstones, my princess?” Mysaria asked, shocked at the appearance of her lady. 

“Ser Harwin found me - and I’m sure the dragon keepers were able to hear, they have barred Melarys.” she answered with disdain, hiding the bands of letters underneath her desk. She hasn’t seen Mysaria in a day - the woman took her leave to fulfill duties in Flea-Bottom. 

Mysaria walks forward, helping Saera hide the remaining letters. “There are other ways, my princess - Lady Leila has offered her help.” the woman informed but the Princess’ rolled her eyes. “I do not trust Leila right now, not when she and her husband have begun staying at the same chambers again.” she mumbled, pulling the chair and settling herself on the desk. 

Leila wouldn’t betray her willingly - but after a few cups of wine, even a child could get the truth out of her. 

“I fear I’m not doing enough to inform Daemon.” Saera sighed, burying her face in her palms. She felt like a failure incapable of protecting herself. “There is only so much that a princess can do.” Mysaria comforts by pouring Saera a goblet of wine. 

“I can do more, trust me. But I don’t know how.” she huffed, feeling frustrated with herself. Mysaria takes a deep breath, placing the cup beside the Princess. “I will send him the letter - but promise me not to ask any questions.” the woman caved, and Saera’s ears perked up. 

“You will do that for me? But I don’t want you using your ‘clients’ as a method.” Saera rose to her full posture. Mysaria shakes her head, “No questions, my princess.” the woman smiles. “Alright then, but please inform him.” she pleaded, holding unto Mysaria’s soft and delicate fingers. 

—

Daemon stood in the middle of the tent surrounded by the loyal men of Driftmark. In his week-long stay in the battlefield, he has earned the respect of Lord Corlys’ - a feat that he found surprising. He plays with the ring on his finger, the Valyrian ring that matched his niece’s necklace. He’s been thinking about her - she’s the only thing that he thinks of, apart from war. 

“We cannot utilize Caraxes - the Crabfeeder will spot him from miles away. The Free-Cities have weapons that can slay dragons - and we cannot lose mine.” he asserted, pointing at the map in front of him. “We cannot build trenches as we are covered in sea. What do you suggest, Lord Corlys?” Daemon stared at the older man, watching as he tried to analyze the map. 

“They must be threatened out of their holdfast. The island is dangerous, they will see our boats and dragons from miles away, our men cannot land and they do not want to escape.” Lord Corlys stated the obvious. 

“And how do we do that?” Daemon asked, staring intensely at the map. They were able to take a hold of the island a few days ago, and he earned burned marks and injuries that would take forever to fade away. The island was easily retaken due to the lack of men that Viserys sent. It was a losing game, but Daemon liked turning the tides when he was about to lose. 

A squire enters the tent - there was sweat dripping down his forehead. “What?” Daemon turned his head sharply, glaring at the man who entered the tent without permission. “T-there’s a letter for you, my prince.” the man bows his head, and with a shaking hand - he reaches for his pocket, taking out the stained papyrus. 

“Who is it from?” he asked, opening the papyrus cautiously. He was prepared for a flurry of insults coming from his brother. “Mysaria, my lord.” the man answers, his eyebrows raised in intrigue. Mysaria was a whore he used to visit before Saera was born - he wanted pleasure, and she needed gold. He willingly provided it. Mysaria was tasked to protect his baby niece, and he prayed that she did a good job.

His eyes browse against Saera’s beautiful writing. “If you will excuse me,” he turned to Corlys and the man granted him leave. He walks out of the tent, bringing the paper to his nose - smelling scents of Saera’s perfume. It smelled like flowers and vanilla. He missed her. 

Kepus,

I write to you because kepa has engaged me to Ser Harwin Strong. I do not wish to wed him and I promise to do my best and make sure that I never will. I long for you, and I pray for your return. Your niece. 

He reads through her neat handwriting, every word lodged on his throat. He was about to clench his fists, but he prevented himself in an effort to make sure that the paper remained straight. 

“Laenor,” he called out to the boy who was peeing on a bush. Laenor quickly zips himself up, running towards Daemon who was beginning to fold the paper neatly. “How is Seasmoke faring nowadays?” he inquired in a cold tone, with a plan already brewing inside his mind.

next chapter>>

taglist. @sweetybuzz25 @newtsniffles @loveandlewis-reads @lovecleastrange @julkaamazing @schniiipsel @mirandastuckinthe80s @areaderinlove @i-yam-awesome @ladystardvsts @gracielikegrapes @sweethoneyblossom1 @issybee0611

(tell me if you wanna get tagged)

#daemon x reader #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #prince daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen headcanon #daemon targaryen fic #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen fluff #house targaryen #house of the dragon #daemon headcanons #daemon prince #daemonism #hotd daemon

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. Mentions of assault, mocking, face fucking, somnophilia, dacryphilia, dubcon.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Hello angels, did you all see AO3 was down? I was distraught lmaooo wtf??? But it's back up now which means I can have my little night time stories again hehe. Reader has been working hard to get where she is and honestly? Slay. So here is the next chapter, I will say, things will be moving a lil quickly from here on out so buckle yourself up babes <3 Enjoy!

Chapter 81: A Council of Green

The dinner was uncomfortable for you all. Just as expected. 

You had gotten dressed for the evening with the help of Joanna and Amala, a black dress with red stitching and embroidery, hair half up, and half done in intricate braids with small rubies laid inside.

Aemond had been dressed in his usual black leathers again, the tunic buckling up high on his throat, but his hair was braided back and away from his face, half up, half down. 

Two halves of a whole.

You had walked together, anticipation strumming in your veins with every step you took towards the Great Hall with Aemond. Anxiety steadily building as you got closer, knowing that you would be in the presence of Aegon once again, and not only that, but his entire small council including the slimy Lord, Jason Lannister.

When you had arrived, you had been relatively on time. Most of the Lords arrived at the same time as you, with Alicent decked in her usual deep green. She had blinked at you oddly, as though she had not expected you to join, or that she had been told that you would not.

Though Aegon was nowhere to be seen.

Ser Otto Hightower however, did not even spare you a second glance, as though you were part of the furniture or one of their tacky Seven tapestries that defiled the castle walls.

Perhaps you were like a part of the furniture by now.

There, seen, and rarely heard.

When Aegon finally arrived, all having waited for him for a time, food already atop the table, he was flanked by Ser Cole, who announced his entrance to the Great Hall and the small council who joined as though they were not aware of who the pompous silver haired fool was already.

The wives of the Lords of the Small Council were also present, dressed conservatively in their House colours, bright blues and soft yellows and reds. When you had sat yourself down and looked amongst the long wooden table, you had attempted to gage the attention of the other women, hoping that perhaps you could make a friend. But none of the women turned to acknowledge you, avoiding your eye carefully.

The table was full tot he brim, and even the longer tables that flanked the sides of the Hall were full of men and women, servers and guards stationed about the sides of the room. There were even some lower Lords who were not a part of the council, but in charge of large plots of land or advantageous Houses and trades. 

It was, for the most part, a loud and joyous affair for them, or for all those except anyone who had witnessed the Prince and the King’s spat. Whenever Aegon’s eyes would graze over the two of you, landing on you in curiosity, the Maester or another Lord like Jasper Wylde, or even Otto Hightower would ask the King a question, speaking loudly to gain his attention. 

Like you would a child.

But whilst most eyes were not on you, you felt a pair beside the King’s short glances to be particularly burning. 

Jason Lannister sat at the end of the table, donned in his House colours of red and Gold, his blue eyes glued to you and Aemond. Beside him, an empty chair where his wife would have been.

"And where is your wife, Jason.” Aegon asked, noting the absence of the woman, and the presence of every other Lords.

“She sends her apologies that she could not join me in King’s Landing. She is recently with child, and well…” Jason intoned, a limacious smirk winding on his face, “You know how women get when they swell.” 

The Lords wives stayed quiet, some with small, shy smiles on their faces in mock agreement whilst the Lords half heartedly agreed, others more enthusiastically than others.

It made your skin feel alight. 

“And how do they get, Lannister?” Your voice carried across the table snidely before you could stop it. 

A knife scraped across a plate, and all eyes were on you. You could feel Aemond’s careful gaze on the side of your cheek as you stared at Jason. 

Prick. 

The sound of Aegon snickering caught your ears, and you fought to not turn and face him. 

The Lord pressed his tongue into his cheek as he looked at you, “Well, I am sure you will find out in due time.” He smiled, eyes flicking from you to Aemond. 

“Of course, but I’m asking you.” You smiled back falsely, reaching to take a sip from your wine primly. 

Jason laughed, and some of the other Lords laughed awkwardly with him, sensing the tension, “My wife,” He began, looking around the table, “Has a terrible craving for fried trout, and will burst to tears if she is without it. It goes without saying, her hysteria can be quite jarring.”

“Interesting.” You mused, placing the wine back down, “Perhaps she is not being adequately satisfied with other smaller meats.” You grinned. Aemond hummed in amusement beside you. 

Aegon bellowed, large hand slapping against the wood of the table jolting goblets and cutlery. The other Lord’s joined in with their King, seeing permission to laugh at your snide remark. Even Jason himself huffed out a laugh, though the smile did not reach his eyes, and his jaw was clenched tight. 

“My niece everyone.” Aegon boomed, “The sharpest of tongues and the tightest of cunts.”

The room burst into laughter again, some more nervous than others. Otto did not laugh nor smile, and Alicent glared at her son. Aemond inhaled sharply beside you, and from the corner of your eye, you saw Ser Cole shift. 

"Aegon." Alicent warned beneath her breath, eyes darting from Aemond, to Ser Cole, and then back to Aegon.

“My brother is a lucky man.” Aegon hollered, raising his goblet up in mock toast. 

Aemond did not move, eyeing his brother down, anger radiating from him. 

It was perfect. 

You lifted your goblet to Aegon, toasting to yourself, before taking a deep sip, turning your head to Aemond, smiling. With a soft hand, you grasped his on the table, squeezing it twice. 

Aemond did not squeeze it back.

“That he is.” You smirked, head still turned to Aemond who slowly turned his gaze onto you. 

He was furious. 

Good. 

“And how is your son, My Lord?” You asked across the table, looking at Jason Lannister who’s face beamed with pride, “The last I remember was you offering his hand to me, not too long ago.”

Aemond took his hand away from yours and moved it under the table, gripping your thigh. 

“Loreon grows bigger by each day,” He grinned, “ A fine young Lord. He has his mothers eyes, but thankfully my hair. Can’t have a lion without its mane.” The Lord joked, and all chuckled with him. “Perhaps one day if you are to have a daughter, the Targaryen and Lannister Houses can be united.” He grinned. 

When the world is on fire, and I am long gone. 

The rest of the Lords moved to their own small conversations as you continued yours with Jason, feeling Aemond’s fingers dig meanly into the flesh of your thigh.

“Only if you were to build a Dragon Pit in Casterly rock. Our daughter will need to house her dragon there some day, and I expect I would come to visit.”

“You are welcome at the Golden Tooth whenever you please, Princess. We have the finest silk sheets, and the softest of beds.”

“I suppose I will have to see for myself if the riches of the Lannister House are truly what they are said to be.”

“If it is anything like the beauty of the Targaryen House is said to be, then you will find that the riches are just as spoken of.” He boasted and flirted. 

You had to bite your inner cheek from gasping as you felt Aemond’s hand bruise your leg meanly, his nails biting into your skin.

“You’d best watch yourself, Jason.” Aegon smirked, “Aemond looks ready to summon Vhagar.”

Jason paled, “My apologies, Your Grace. There were no ill intentions.”

“My husband is a possessive man and protective.” You intoned, turning your head to face Aemond whose eye was locked on Jason again, "Issa iā orvorta, ñuha dōna. Ao gīmigon iksan aōhon.” He is a cunt, my sweet. You know I am yours, You cooed sickly sweet, hand coming to brush against Aemond’s cheek.

Aegon burst into childish giggles, throwing his crowned head backwards against the high seat of his chair. Aemond’s jaw clenched. Whilst Jason cocked his head, not sure of what you had said and turned to join conversation with the other Lords. 

“Yn emā issare ñuhon tolī.” But you have been mine too, Aegon grinned, looking at you with bright violet eyes. 

Your heart leapt in your throat, bile rising in your mouth. 

“Daor ondoso iderennon.” Not by choice,You plastered a fake smile upon your lips, Aemond’s hand digging harder into your thigh as he straightened in his seat. 

To anyone else at the table, it looked as though the three of you were having a lighthearted conversation in your mother tongue. 

To the three of you, it was a stand off. 

“Kostan tepagon ao iā iderennon.” I may give you a choice, Aegon smirked, sipping his ale, “Aemond kostagon urnēbagon lo ziry jeldan.” Aemond may even watch if he wishes.

“Aemond iksis ñuha iderennon.” Aemond is my choice, You purred, sipping your wine, mirroring the King. You felt Aemond’s hand on your thigh loosen. 

Aegon rested his elbow upon the table lazily, sitting his chin in his palm as he looked at you both, “Sesīr hae ēza iā līve?” Even as he has a whore?

Anger bubbled up inside of you. You ground your teeth together and pushed out a false laugh, far too high to be believable, Alicent’s eyes darting to you with her brows drawn.

“Sesīr pār.” Even then. 

“Lēkia, emā zirȳla orvorta qilōny.” Brother, you have her cock whipped, Aegon smirked. 

Aemond hummed lowly, “Issa iā sȳz ābrazȳrys.” She is a good wife.

You almost beamed at the praise. You picked up your goblet to stop yourself from smiling, bringing the cup to your lips to sip at the honeyed Essos wine.

“Ivestragon nyke, qilōni's orvorta iksis rōvykta?” Tell me, who's cock is bigger? Aegon asked, and you spluttered your wine, inhaling it and coughing into your palm. 

The urge to dive across the table and force a knife between his eyes grew larger. 

You stayed quiet, sipping the wine again to settle the tickling burn in the back of your throat, and the rising anger that continued to mount within. Words fought in your chest to fly from your lips, but you swallowed them.

“Aōha lykemagon vestras nyke.” Your silence says me.

“Ñuha āeksio valzȳrys’.” My Lord Husbands, You smiled, wishing to sink your teeth into his throat, biting through the tendons and flesh, and ripping your head backwards, tearing the flesh away and watching his blood spurt out. 

Aegon ignored his Small Council, Lords and Ladies who had travelled from all over the realm to dine with him, and enjoyed the small time given to direct snide remarks to Aemond without the chastising of his mother. 

“Ao gīmigon lēkia, eman ryptan mirri sȳz udir hen Harrenhal.” You know brother, I have heard some good news from Harrenhal.

Aemond stilled.

The King grinned, teeth and gums being revealed by his lips pulling back, “Ēza Aemond ivestretan ao?” Has Aemond told you?

“Nyke gīmigon iksā nūmāzma naejot.” I know you’re about to, You snipped.

“Ah, ēza daor. Sȳrī,” Ah, he hasn’t. Well, Aegon smirked, leaning forward, “Gaomagon ao remember bona witch isse Harrenhal?” Do you remember that witch in Harrenhal? He tapped his chin in mock thought. 

He knew who she was.

“Alys?” He continued.

Alicent’s head snapped to her son, eyes darting back and forth at the sound of her name. Your heart raced against your chest, heat rising to your cheeks. 

How could you forget? 

“Hen rhinka.” Of course, You said dully, swirling your wine in your hand as you tried to not give him any satisfaction as rage bubbled inside of you.

Not only at the King, but at your husband.

“Ñuha lēkia ēza issare working qopsa, pār emā daor given zirȳla iā dārilaros.” My brother has been working hard, since you have not given him an heir.

An heir. 

“Aegon.” Aemond warned, jaw set in a stiff line.

“Skoros? Kostagon nyke daor biarvī manaeragon ñuha lēkia becoming vala? Iā kepa?” What? Can I not celebrate my brother becoming a man? A father?

Your blood ran cold, and fire licked at your face.

“Kepa?” Father? You seethed, teeth showing, smile faltering on your lips.

“Oh yes, Alys iksis lēda riña.” Alys is with child, Aegon grinned.

With child.

With child.

You saw red.

“Alys iksis lēda riña.” You parroted, tying to collect yourself as you thought of driving your fist into Aemond’s sapphire eye.

With child. 

Alys was pregnant. 

“Y/n-“ Aemond began.

“Aemond,” You interrupted him, turning your face to look at your husband, face cool, “Rijes aōt issi isse jorrāelatan. Kostilus, jikagon ñuha udir naejot aōha līve.” Congratulations are in order. Please send my word to your whore.

Aegon guffawed, eyes bouncing between the two of you. Aemond stared at you with a sallow face, your own carefully schooled.

You were enraged.

Your hand around your goblet tightened, nails reaching around the cool metal to dip into your palm as you desperately tried to use it to ground yourself. 

“Bisa iksis daor skorkydoso-“ This is not ho-

“Valzȳrys,” Husband, You smiled joylessly, all teeth, “Ivestragī īlva daor ȳdragon hen aōha nādrēsy’s.” Let us not talk of your bastards.

“Kostilus īlon should maghagon-“ Perhaps we should bring-, Aegon began.

“Aōha Valyrīha jorrāelagon mirre.” Your Valyrian needs work, You snipped, mock toasting your wine to him again, small droplets falling from the rim to the table below at the force of your thrust, barely contained anger spilling over. 

You let your eye trail over the King, his crown atop his head, wavy silver hair peaking beneath it, a small blush on his cheeks from the ale. 

You were furious. 

You were enraged. 

You wished to hurt Aemond. 

"Sir bona nyke pendagon hen ziry, iksā qumblie.” Now that I think of it, you are thicker, You mused, eyes quickly dropping to Aegon’s waist before back up at his face.

You reached to grasp the decanter from in front of you to refill your wine which disappeared at a rapid rate, and Aemond’s hand shot out, grasping your wrist tightly. The rest of the tables eyes flitted to the sharp movement. You snatched your hand away from him, not even sparing the man a glance as you continued to refill your wine. 

"Konīr's bona ēngos,”There's that tongue, Aegon chuckled, smiling at you appreciatively, his eyes grazing down your body, "Nyke gīmigon iā sȳrkta gaomagon syt ziry.” I know a better use for it.

"Ȳdra daor.” Don’t, Aemond finally spoke, voice low and rough, hand returning to your thigh where he dug his fingers into it again, possessively and angrily.

Aegon giggled, excited that he had finally gotten Aemond to react, the unfinished fight between them simmering to almost a boiling point. “Nyke gōntan daor jiōragon naejot sylugon ziry.” I didn’t get to try it, Aegon pouted.

“Se kesā daor.” And you won’t, You purred, sipping your wine, “Yn ñuha valzȳrys gaomas.” But my husband does.

Aemond’s grip on your thigh tightened again, and you watched as he grabbed his goblet of wine and drank deeply from it.

"Kostilus kesan mirri tubis.” Perhaps I will some day, Aegon mused, pouting his lips at you as he fought off a grin. 

You steeled yourself for what you were about to do, swallowing thickly as you looked Aegon in the eyes.

“Kostilus.” Perhaps.

The conversation had ended there, and Aegon had smirked, eyes half hooded as he looked at you. Alicent did not take her gaze from the three of you before you excused yourself, stating that you were tired and wished to leave your husband to his duties and fellow Lords for the rest of the evening. 

You had pried Aemond’s hand from your thigh and bowed to Aegon and the other Lord’s, reminding Jason Lannister that he should begin preparing a Dragon Pit for Casterly Rock, to which he grinned in response. Aemond’s heated gaze followed you as you left the Great Hall, walking back to your chambers alone. 

You arrived in your chambers and laughed loudly, furious at the news of Alys.

She was pregnant.

She was pregnant and he had not told you.

She was a greater risk to you now than before. You picked up a goblet at the side table and filled it with wine, already tipsy from the night, tossing its contents back down your throat. 

But Aemond’s reaction at dinner was another thing all together. 

It worked. 

Your last lingering comment to Aegon, a small, ‘Perhaps', left the One-Eyed Prince reeling in his head, his hand not once undigging itself from your thighs. Even Jason Lannister unburdened flirting that evening had helped you along tremendously. 

You had filled your goblet with wine once more, sitting in Aemond’s armchair, drinking slowly as you thought of the evening. Of the way his anger rose off of him in heated waves, the way he had become possessive of you with Jason. The way he scowled at his brother. 

He was beginning to resent them all.

The door to the chambers slammed open, and the storming footfall of Aemond caused you to lazily turn your head to look at him. 

He was irate.

“You seek to humiliate me in front of the council? In front of the King, flirting like a whore?” He sneered, marching over to you as he yanked you up from his chair, the goblet of wine tumbling from your fingers to the stone floor below, the red alcohol spilling across the tiles like blood. 

“And what of you? What of your whoring? Your bastard is pregnant.” You retorted, lips pulling back to bare your teeth. 

“She gave me an heir long before you did.”

You hand slapped across his cheek, Aemond’s head turning to the side. 

“You disgust me.” You spat.

A shadow crossed Aemond’s face.

Your knees hit the harsh stone floors before your brain could catch up, Aemond’s large hands jarring you down by your shoulders. His eye crazed. 

“You want to act like a whore, I will treat you like a whore.”

You tipped your chin up to look at him and smiled meanly, “Like Alys?”

“I told you, I did not see her.” He growled at you, hand gripping the side of your hair as he tugged your head. 

“I don’t believe you.” You sneered.

Aemond’s hand moved to the front of his breeches and began to tug at the strings, impatiently ripping them open in front of your face. 

A warmth spread within you. 

He was so angry. 

So on edge. 

It had worked.

It was working.

Aemond finally undid the last of his ties and yanked his pants over his ass, pulling his cock out of the confines of his breeches. You looked up at him defiantly as he began to stroke himself in his hand, slowly getting hard. 

“Having trouble?” You mocked, watching as he frowned down at you.

“Cunt.” He swore, before grabbing the back of your head roughly and tugging you towards his length.

“Open.” He barked, and you obeyed, keeping your eyes on him as he slid his length cruelly down the back of your throat in one rough push.

You gagged around him, tears prickling your eyes.

“Much better when you can’t talk.” He grunted, holding you down on him, the light curls at his base tickling your nose.

Aemond roughly pulled you back off of him by your hair, a spluttering cough escaping your lips as you sucked in a lungful of air. 

“I should have his head for that. Who does he think he is?” Aemond growled, pulling you back on his length, saliva dripping from your lips onto the stone below. 

Your knees ached as he began to thrust into your face harshly, his tip hitting the back of your throat as you breathed through your nose, tears dripping down your cheeks.

“Fucking Lannister scum. A Dragon Pit?” He grunted, using both hands to pull your mouth up and down his length, “He thinks he could fuck you? He thinks he could please you? Silk sheets? Is that what you want? You want fucking silk sheets?”

You gagged loudly as he pushed himself all the way in, holding your head down on him as he shook you with your hair, causing his cock to beat against your gag reflex.

“Stupid cunt. None of them could give you what I do. None of them could fuck you the way I do.” He continued, and you squirmed on the spot, bringing your hands up to his thighs to hold on for balance.

Aemond’s hands slapped yours away, “No. I didn’t say you could touch me.”

You dropped your arms, digging your fingers into your thighs as he continued. 

“I am the only man for you. You are my wife.” Thrust.

“Mine.”

Thrust. 

Warm heat settled in your gut as you hummed around him, curling your tongue up against the underside of his cock. Aemond moaned, letting go of one side of your head to brush hair away from your cheeks.

“Sȳz riña.” Good girl, He praised, framing your jaw with one hand, “Such a good little whore.”

Your core clenched around nothing and you shut your eyes, rubbing your thighs together to ease the ache that steadily began to rise in you.

“Aegon is a cunt." The Prince growled, "A depraved, pathetic excuse for a man. Do you think he could please you?” He grunted.

You did not want to think of Aegon.

You squeezed your eyes tight.

“A useless King,” Aemond continued, thrusts becoming harsh again, “Can't even perform his own duties. Has me do them. Has me fly about the realm when he has Sunfyre and does not ride him.” Another growl, his length heavy on your tongue, you could feel every vein and ridge. 

“Mother should have put me in line for the throne. We had to search the Silk Lanes for him when father died.” The wet sound of your mouth filled the room with Aemond’s complaints. “I hate him.”

I hate him.

Hate.

You sucked at Aemond’s length harder, a whine falling from this lips.

Rewarding him.

It spurred him on. 

“He should beg for my mercy. Should have me rule.” 

Delight sparked within you. 

You curled your tongue up against the underside of his shaft, pressing the wet muscle against him as his thrusts became sloppier, thick strands of saliva hanging from your lips as he continued, the front of your dress and the stone floors below wet with it.

“Fucking pathetic.”

You hummed in agreement, opening your eyes to look up at him. Aemond looked down at you watching the way his cock disappeared into your lips. A groan falling from his mouth as you caught his gaze.

“He could never have you. He does not deserve you. He is not worthy.” His tip hit the back of your throat, “Not worthy of your perfect cunt.” 

You moaned around his length.

“Not worthy of the throne.”

Thrust.

“Not worthy of life.”

Thrust. 

You suck sharply on him as his thrusts grow sloppy, his mouth slackened as he breathed heavily, hands holding your head still as he chased his peak. You fought against your gags, tears moving down your face as you continued to squirm from your spot on the tiles. 

It turned you on. 

“Fuck.” Aemond moaned, pushing himself as deep as he could go.

His hot seed burst down your throat, causing you to cough and gag on his length as he moaned above you, holding you down on it with no escape. Each pump of his seed coating your mouth and tongue. 

“Sīr sȳz syt nyke.” So good for me, “Vok byka ābrazȳrys.” Perfect little wife.

Aemond pulled himself from your lips, and a sharp inhale sucked air into your lungs as you coughed, swallowing what was left of his seed. The Prince’s hand moved to the side of your jaw stroking it as he looked down at you, thumb swiping up the seed that had escaped from the side of your mouth. Aemond rubbed it over your lips as he looked at you, your knees aching in protest.

“Filthy.” He purred.

Aemond bent down and pulled you up. The Prince took you to bed before hardening again, fucking his seed deep inside of you in the hour of the owl. You had whined and moaned, and he had fucked you roughly against the soft sheets, growling about his brother, about Jason, about the throne. 

And you had encouraged it. 

As the ebbs of your third release left your body, you found yourself boneless in the bed beneath Aemond, who crawled down the length of your body, planting insatiable kisses against your sensitive skin. 

“I am falling to sleep.” You had argued, trying to pull him up and away from your core, where his tongue darted between your folds. 

“Then sleep.” He uttered, “Let me enjoy the pleasures of my wife.” 

His tongue was soft and gentle, pressing soothing kisses to your core as you felt your eyes flutter shut, fatigue dragging you down into the depths of sleep.

You woke some time later to the familiar stretch of Aemond’s cock moving through you. You had groaned, blinking in the dark up at Aemond he pushed himself inside of you.

“Wha-“

“Shh. Go back to sleep.”

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

@izzicle @ej-shitchats @may-machin @alegria1580 @witchy-jadda @videovampire @inkdelicious @queteimporta39 @virtualsweetsqueen @fo-cus @auratiqs @feyres-fireheart @queenofshinigamis @asoiafwh8re @teasandcrumpets @shesjustanothergeek @grungegrrrl@queenofsarcazm @marihoneywk @curlszx88 @virgogaia @loser-keiji @asoiafwh8re @whore-of-many-hot-men @vipervixxen @theonewiththeimaginaryboyfriends @watercolorskyy @lavendervisions @mazmack666 @chokefrog @orangejump-suit @nik2blog @serrhaewinin @ohemgeewhat @winxschester @cryptidsrcool @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @celestedonut @bloodyvelvet777 @iamapersonthatsalive @av-sos @yentroucnagol @sanzu-s @opheliaas-stuff @bellameshipper @maviee @persephonerinyes @neytiri-09 @ensnaredinwonderland @xbluegracex @sotragedynut @nattieot7 @shesawaywiththefairies-blog @coffedraven @prettycutebunny @celestedonut @the-jess-life @ssulfurr @out-of-life @madislayyy @crazylokonugget @cicaspair418 @katwmk @relminnie @milovart @teagrex @visenyaverse @bellameshipper @toodlesxcuddles @tempt-ress @dontmindmereading7 @qyburnsghost @55gyi53vtnquwziq5 @notnormalthings-blog @maidmerrymint @qyburnsghost @madislayyy @chelseaouat

Bold is who I cannot tag!

#aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond smut #hotd smut #dark!aemond targaryen x reader #dark!aemond x reader #dark!aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #dark!aemond #dark!fic #fic #series #aemond one eye #aemond the kinslayer #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond #smoke fire and ash

[queenvhagar]

Ways that House of the Dragon season 1 whitewashes Team Black and Rhaenyra while doing the opposite with Team Green and Aegon:

1) Rhaenyra's acts of violence are given to Daemon and/or acts of violence committed by Team Black are made less severe.

Book:

Most likely, Daemon and/or Rhaenyra actully have Laenor Velaryon killed so that they can marry each other following Laena Velaryon's death.

When Vaemond Velaryon says Rhaenyra's sons are bastards usurping House Velaryon's ancestral seat of power, Rhaenyra has Daemon execute Vaemond and feed his body to her dragon.

After hearing of Aegon's coronation, Rhaenyra immediately demands the deaths of her brothers and plans to go to war to reclaim the throne.

Show:

Daemon and Rhaenyra make it look like they have Laenor Velaryon killed so that they can marry each other following Laena Velaryon's death, but actually Laenor secretly fakes his death and runs away with his lover. It's only a random servant who is killed by Daemon in order to orchestrate this event.

When Vaemond Velaryon says Rhaenyra's sons are bastards usurping House Velaryon's ancestral seat of power, Daemon immediately executes Vaemond in the throne room in front of the court before anyone can react to Vaemond's words. Though some who have looked closely at the scene think Rhaenyra may have nodded to Daemon before Vaemond used the word "bastard," subtly giving Daemon permission to act, textually she doesn't even comment on it before or after the event.

After hearing of Aegon's coronation, Daemon immediately demands the deaths of the Greens and plans to go to war to reclaim the throne. Rhaenyra considers peace for the "prophecy" and her memories of childhood friendship. Daemon abuses Rhaenyra for being too peaceful (and because she knew the "prophecy" and he didn't).

2) Acts of violence by members of Team Green are emphasized and/or added.

Book:

While competing in a tournament held to celebrate Rhaenyra's wedding, Criston Cole breaks Harwin Strong's bones and then fatally injures Joffrey Lonmount with his Morningstar, and Joffrey dies of his injuries few days later.

Later, Lionel and Harwin Strong are killed in a fire at Harrenhal. Some say it's the curse, but there are four suspects to who could have started the fire: Viserys, Corlys, Daemon, and Larys.

Years later, Aegon fathers a couple of bastards. When Viserys dies, he is rumored to have been found either with a paramour (according to Septon Eustace) or at a child fighting pit being pleasured by a young girl (according to Mushroom, who also insisted he personally once helped Daemon teach a young Rhaenyra the sexual arts). At the Green council, Lyman Beesbury was either 1) killed by Criston Cole or 2) imprisoned in the Red Keep, where he later died.

Show:

At Rhaenyra's actual wedding, in front of everybody, Criston Cole beats Joffrey Lonmount's face in, killing him.

Later, Criston Cole provokes Harwin Strong into a fight in order to expose his affair with Rhaenyra, resulting in him being sent away from court.

Larys Strong has prisoners' tongues cut out and sends them to kill his family by fire at Harrenhal.

Years later, Aegon r*pes his servant and we see her panicked reaction to Alicent. When Viserys dies, the Kingsguard search for him at a child fighting pit where kids fight with sharpened teeth and claws for entertainment, apparently a spot Aegon frequents. At the Green council, Criston Cole kills Lyman Beesbury when he disagrees with Aegon's coronation.

Larys takes sexual pleasure in shaming the Queen, making her show her feet to excite him in exchange for information on her son.

3) Of all the births taking place in this time period, only the women of Team Black are shown experiencing childbirth.

Book:

Among the Greens, there are 7 births. Alicent gives birth to Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron. Helaena gives birth to Jaeherys, Jahaera, and Maelor.

Among the Blacks, there are 10 births. Aemma gives birth to Baelon, dying soon after. Laena gives birth to Baela, Rhaena, and a stillborn son, dying soon after. Rhaenyra births Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey, Aegon, Viserys, and a stillborn daughter.

Show:

Childbirth as a woman's battlefield is brought up in the first scenes of the season, but despite its expressed interest in exploring the relationship that the women in the world have with their role in giving birth and producing heirs, the three women for whom this is explored and whose perspectives are shown are all members of Team Black. Aemma's life is deliberately, violently ended by Viserys while birthing Baelon. Laena chooses death on her own terms when faced with death by childbirth. Rhaenyra is shown giving birth twice. First, she gives birth to Joffrey, and immediately she is shown struggling through walking upstairs with him to show Alicent, who has asked that the baby be brought to her by someone as soon as possible (to confirm he was also illegitimate). Later, Rhaenyra endures a long and traumatic stillbirth upon hearing of Aegon's coronation. The only mention of a Green birth is when Alicent says that Aegon was born "quickly enough."

4) Of all the dragonriders active in this time period, almost all scenes in season one are of Team Black and their dragons.

Book:

Team Black has Rhaenyra, Daemon, Rhaenyra, Laena, Baela, Jace, Luc, Joffrey, and Aegon the younger who have all bonded with dragons.

Rhaenyra and Daemon are mentioned riding together. Same with Laena and Daemon. Rhaenyra feeds Vaemond to her dragon. Later, the book describes Jace and Luc leaving Dragonstone as envoys on dragonback.

Team Green has Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, Jahaerys, Jahaera, and Maelor who have all bonded with dragons.

Aemond is mentioned as having claimed Vhagar and then taking him to Storm's End. Helaena is mentioned as having a connection with Dreamfyre, Queen Rhaena's old dragon. At his coronation, Aegon rides Sunfyre over and around King's Landing for all to see, another symbol of his legitimacy.

Show:

For Team Black, several characters are seen with their dragons in multiple scenes: Rhaenyra is shown with her dragon in 3 scenes, Daemon in 4, Rhaenys in 3 (including 1 completely invented scene for the show where instead of Aegon riding a dragon at his coronation it's Rhaenys instead), Laena in 2, Jace in 1, and Luc in 2.

For Team Green, Aemond is show with his dragon in 2 scenes. Other dragons of the Greens are spotted without their riders in the background of other scenes, unnamed by the show and without their riders.

5) The show invents a prophecy and the white stag to make it look like Rhaenyra seeks to rule for some greater purpose and she has divine right/the blessing of the gods.

Book:

Both sides are motivated through seeking power, though for different reasons. Team Green crowns Aegon to defend their family against Team Black (amid the threat that Rhaenyra's atypical and scandal-ridden claim poses to any other alternative claimants to the throne). Team Black fights due to their perceived birthright and sense of superiority as Targaryens. Eventually both sides do fight to see the other side lose.

Show:

The fact of Team Green's danger is treated as simply poison or rumor fed by Otto to manipulate Alicent and then her children after her because they purely want the power of the throne for their family name or they want to see Rhaenyra lose.

Team Black is given the Prophecy of Ice and Fire TM as a tie in to the main series of Game of Thrones and to provide some heroic, selfless motive for Rhaenyra to want power over anyone else. Then, she sees a white stag and the shot is framed as this divine messenger giving Rhaenyra a godly blessing to rule, even though only Criston sees it too.

#feel free to add more #team green #hotd #hotd critical #anti hotd

[humanpurposes]

I Have Always Been A Storm, Part 2

Read the full chapter on AO3 // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Floris Baratheon

In the year 128AC, Floris Baratheon weds Aemond Taragryen, a daughter and a son both driven to duty, now bound to each other when the realm is on the brink of war. Floris is enamoured by the Prince, but love is something she can only hope will bloom once her vows have been said before the eyes of the Seven- AU where Aemond and Floris marry before the Dance of the Dragons.

Warnings: 18+, eventual smut, pregnancy, arranged marriage, canon divergence, angst, possibly quite a lot of angst, hurt/comfort

Two hundred guests stand before us in the royal sept.

Queen Alicent wished for us to be wed as soon as possible, in a less elaborate affair than the union of Aegon and Helana. This seemed like an agreeable decision in the eyes of the Small Council, one that would be more forgiving on the royal treasury. “All that money for the Princess to weep through the entire ceremony,” as Tyland Lannister had put it. 

There can be no room for mistakes on my part. I am an outsider in King’s Landing. I often find myself dressed in gowns of green, a paler shade than the Queen’s own gowns, but I am still a Baratheon. I have to be perfect. I will be perfect.

I’ve hardly seen my betrothed since I said my farewells to my family. The Queen says Aemond keeps himself busy. In the mornings he takes to the training yard to spar with Ser Criston Cole, then he rides Vhagar over the Kingswood and Blackwater Bay. Some mornings I watch them from my balcony. Otherwise he spends the rest of the day in the library, devoting himself to his studies, looking over papers of state given to him by the Hand, his grandfather. 

I know my chambers aren’t far from his, and yet I take my meals alone. I spend a lot of my time alone when I’m not joining the Queen in her morning prayers. She keeps telling me that things will be different once I am married.

My gown is gold and white with patterns of flowers in the skirt. The fabric flows in the breeze from the open windows. Summer will be nearing its end soon, but the sun has shone proudly over King’s Landing for the last few days. I try not to show the discomfort on my face, but I feel sweat beading under my dress, droplets running down my back. 

Aemond wears a jerkin of green, the three-headed dragon embroidered in gold across his chest, the same eyepatch over his head. My eyes trail down from his jaw to the opening of his collar, where his skin shifts as he swallows against the unbearable heat.

He has already replaced my maiden’s cloak with one in the colours of his own house. We place our hands together and the septon binds us together with a tie of black silk.

His eye meets mine and we say the words.

“I am yours, and you are mine, from this day until the end of my days.”

I am not sure I believe what I’m saying. I want to. I want him to mean it too.

Aemond steps into me, taking my chin in his fingertips to tilt my head upwards.

I’m aware of every sensation, the sweltering heat, the nervous feeling in my stomach, the fluttering in my chest, the shallowness of my breaths, all as if they’re happening to someone else and not me. It’s like I’m watching myself in a dream, existing in a memory.

I close my eyes.

He hesitates before he puts his lips to mine. He kisses me softly, slowly, and I want it to consume me. But then he parts from me and I feel empty. I feel incomplete.

Full chapter on AO3

Tags (commented to be added)

Series taglist: @tulips2715

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @theoneeyedprince @targaryenrealnessdarling @jamespotterismydaddy @tsujifreya @blackswxnn

#my fics #florismond #floris x aemond #floris baratheon x aemond targaryen #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon fic #aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfic #floris baratheon #aemond targaryen smut #asoiaf fanfiction #asoiaf fic #asoiaf fanfic

[tinfairies]

aemond having a worship and breeding kink. him falling for a red priestess who thinks he’s the prince that was promised and wants to bear his child （＾ω＾）(like that scene with melisandre and jon but they do the deed indeed). i’m going to hell for this

Anon if you're going to hell for that, where the hell am I going then? 😳

We're also going to pretend that the Lord of Light and his followers are in Westeros at this time.

Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Content warning: smut

Minors DNI

You had arrived in Westeros, sent by the congregation of The Lord of Light. You were there to scope out the political weaknesses and religious boundaries.

You quickly made your way to the seat of the throne in King's Landing, finding yourself on the small council of the king. A spoiled pretentious drunk of a man.

Certainly this king Aegon could not be the Prince that was Promised. You had always imagined the Azor Ahai to be taller, more charming and definitely better with a sword.

Your doubts washes away when you met the kings brother. Perhaps the lord of Light was right in sending you to Westeros. You had the wrong prince.

You made fast work, worming your way in Aemond's daily affairs. Spending nearly everyday with him gaining intel.

He was very handsome, and kind. To you at least. Your red apparel was ways a stark contrast to his green and black. Everyone knew it was you two even from behind, just based on color and proximity alone.

Aemond soon asked you teach him some magic. He was a man faithful to his Seven, but he was willing to lose his religion for you.

You would tell him the songs of the Lord of Light, he would sit infatuated with how passionate you were about your work.

One night in his room, you told him of Azor Ahai and the prince that was Promised.

"So you think that I will end the eternal winter?" he asked skeptically.

" Not you, the son you will bare. Were you not listening?"

Aemond only heard part of that sentence.

"Who will bare me this son?" he asked smirking and moving closer.

You understood his insinuation. "Any woman fertile enough to impregnate."

"Are you able to breed?" he brushed your hair behind your ear as he got mere inches from your face.

You turned as red as your cloak, and stared into his eye.

"If I am who you wish to bare Azor Ahai then the Lord of Light commands it." you whispered placing your hands against his chest.

He kisses you feverishly, like a man starved.

You start to claw at the buttons on his shirt, he goes to unbutton it, never leaving your lips.

You throw off your cloak, once his shirt is off he goes for your bodice. Piece by piece his and your clothes drop to the floor.

Once you two were finally nude, he pulled back and took your body in.

"Gorgeous."

You blush and go to turn away, he grabs your chin and makes you look at him. "Ah ah. Don't hide from me." he kisses you again and pulls your hips against his. You gasp as his hard cock rubs your stomach.

He moves his arms down and picks you up by your waist effortlessly. You instinctively wrap your legs around him, hot cunt pressed against his abdomen. He dropped you on the bed and crawled over you.

He kissed up your body, biting and sucking at the skin, his fingers found their way to your cunt. He spread open your wet folds and began teasing your clit.

You moaned and thew your head back. He continued to tease. Eventually you started begging for him.

"Please, please I want you to fuck me. I want you to fill me up with cum."

Aemond hummed, relishing in her pathetic pleas. He pushed his fingers into you and started roughly pumping them.

You squirmed under him, gripping his arms. Whining and crying you begged some more.

He finally stopped teasing you, lining his cock up and pushing it into your eager cunt.

You moaned at the sudden intrusion, and he set a hard and fast pace. Aemond moaned into your neck, and you gripped his hair.

"Yes, yes please my prince. Fill me up, put your baby in me."

He growled and snapped his hips impossibly faster. He felt he was getting close.

"Take all of it my whore." His seed spilled into your cunt, you felt the hot liquid dripping out.

Both of you were breathing hard, sweat dripping from the both of you. He stared down at your flushed body and placed a hand on you stomach.

"Azor Ahai, hm?"

#house of the dragon #hotd #house of the dragon x reader #hotd imagine #hotd x reader #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #got headcanons #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones #game of thrones headcanons #Game of thrones x reader #Got #got imagine #got x reader