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sincerelyverena · 3 months

Note

the oliver fic section of tumblr is SOOOOO dry rn so I'm wondering if you could write about how you've been friends with ollie since oxford and got invited to stay the summer with felix. then while playing spin the bottle you and him have something? IDK IM JUST RAMBLING BUT YEAH

i enjoyed writing this so so so much. i diiiid take this in a way different direction than i anticipated, but i hope you enjoy this nevertheless. thank u dearly for ur rambles! mwah! 🤍

⟡⁺ SEVEN MINUTES IN HELL

. . . OLIVER QUICK X FEM!READER ‘testosterone boys and harlequin girls.’ @ajs-222 @michael-loves-chickens @surazim @soocore @fedyascoffin

inbox is always open to requests!

in whichꕀ

✦ ﹒hate has no bounds. except when you're stuck in a wardrobe with oliver quick.

tagsꕀ

✦ ﹒implied sex ﹐fade to black smut ﹐enemies with benefits ﹐dom!oliver ﹐spoiled!reader ﹐reader would’ve probs bullied you in high school ﹐oliverrr you little stalkerrr ﹐felix and reader have a sister-brother connection ﹐ oliver brat tamer arc ﹐farleigh has naturally sharpened canines beware ﹐reader is a homie hopper ﹐YES OLIVERR USE YOUR HANDS ﹐DRUNK N HORNY, DRUNK N HORNYYY ﹐smack my ass like the drum slurp the dick til it cum ﹐forced proximity ﹐degradation ﹐phat exposition beware ﹐the plot is absolutely plotting ﹐implied incest between minor characters

THANK YOU TO MY WONDERFUL BETA READERS: @sparklehani ﹐@vikwrites

You pushed the frame of your sunglasses upward with the pad of your thumb. The accessory nestled into the top of your hair, positioning yourself to soak up the grandeur of old money that ascended far beyond where the naked eye could see.

Saltburn. A spectacle passed down by word of mouth.

The double ebony archways are considered to be a set of doors shifted in position. Presented to you, the skyscraper-remnant entrance is extended with a gradual creak of effort. Revealing the beauty of the estate’s foyer in the process.

“Miss Esmeray.”

You were too absorbed in the elegance etched into every breath that was drawn in the manor alone to notice the suited male positioned behind the doorways. Declan, was it? You weren’t too opposed to not giving a singular shit about the name of a mere, working butler.

To outsiders, those morals would’ve been doubted in the fashion in which you approached the estate’s employee.

You inclined forward. The painted maroon of your lips puckered as you scattered lightweight kisses upon either side of the loose, wrinkled surface of the butler’s cheeks. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Declan.”

He didn’t seem particularly phased – on the surface at least – apart from the cool hardening of his formerly strained eyes.

“It’s Duncan.”

You stifled the urge to laugh.

“That’s what I said, wasn’t it?” You leaned backward with a hushed hue of voice and a poised frown. A frown that didn’t last long as you slipped by with an isolated thrum of your heels along the blemishless, maintained floors.

The porters that had withheld your luggage followed suit, grasping the attention of Duncan. He continued to clasp his hands behind his back, surveying the situation with a stare that would put a hawk to shame.

“Leave the luggage there. The estate butlers will see to it.” The note of exasperation that tainted Duncan’s articulation caused your personal porters to arrange the stacks of luggage onto the flooring without missing a beat.

The bound of employees hit the open doorways, leaving you to bask in a well-deserved solitude. Or so you had thought.

The hue of your flickery eyes had fixated immensely upon the silhouette which overlooked the foyer. An individual that leaned along the fencing of the plank-relied stairway, slinked in the comfort of the shadows. Even in the limelight of darkness, you could scrutinize the sight of a chiseled jaw and the irises of dusked aquamarine.

Oliver Quick. Bile slicked the crevices of your throat. That slimy, freakish companion of one of your closest friends from Oxford. The sole reason you were invited to the estate in the first place.

And that sole reason broke out into the foyer before you could’ve mustered a word.

“[Y/N]!”

Felix Catton. Gorgeous, radiant Felix Catton came bounding toward you. Arms sprawled wide open, and a grin of nothing more but graciousness broke across his lips. Devoid of awaiting a response, Felix tossed the base of his arms around your shoulders. The toned muscle propped behind the sleight of your neck, burying himself into you in the process.

“Hi, Fi.” You mumbled around the top of his broadened shoulder, basking in the familiarity of his scent and aura. The tension that had made itself known in the base of your abdomen uncoiled, just the slightest.

You had inclined backward momentarily. The palms of your hands propped themselves upon the sleight of Felix’s jaw. You surveyed Felix closely and blew out a sharp breath. “Felix, you’re looking thinner. What have they been feeding you here?”

“The summer fucks up my appetite, you know that,” Felix grumbled pointedly.

“That’s not an excuse, Fi.” Your forefinger pinched the practically non-existent fat lining his cheeks, reeling a small grimace from the male.

The dense thrums of rhythmic footsteps spliced unnervingly through the moment. You tore the unyielding hue of your stare from Felix toward Oliver, who positioned himself solidly against the foot of the stairway.

“Ollie!” Felix unraveled his arms away from you, in turn, to acknowledge his self-titled best friend. The male was peacefully oblivious to the glowering irritation that etched itself into your gaze. “You remember [Y/N], yeah?”

“How could I forget?” Oliver quipped the mere intensity of his gaze maintained upon you. You felt as if he was staring right through you, aware of every crook, crevice, and secret of your being. Deep speckles of disgust were blanketed behind hues of feigned interest.

As the moment drew on, he extended a hand. You harshly glared into it. Whilst the remainder of the inner circle Felix had established in Oxford grew to warm up to Oliver’s meek, somewhat awkward presence. You loathed it.

“Mum has been dying to see you all day, [Y/N].” The strained hues of Felix’s voice tore into the steadily growing silence. His lips curved upward into a thin smile. Felix could virtually feel the tension tighten between his two companions.

“She’s in the morning room.”

You pecked him on the cheek on your way out. “Thanks, Fi.”

Felix’s words of prominence held a generous truth. Lady Elspeth Catton pushed the teacup amid her hands aside the second her eyes had met the radiance of your presence. You mustered a small smile at the sight of the woman you had known for the year prior.

“Oh, darling. It’s been too long.”

The all-too-familiar scent of high-end designer perfumes assaulted your nostrils as Elspeth brought you into a momentarily embrace. You had come to terms with the preceding summer that she had grown to be more of a maternal figure than your mother ever would be. Even if you were inclined to remove your nose ring and settled for a less dramatic false lash to soothe her fear of what she deemed to be ugly.

In those logistics, you had no idea why she hadn’t thrown Oliver out the second she met his acquaintance.

“Come, come, come. Sit down, I’ll whisk up some tea for you…”

“Hot chocolate.” You had a hard time grappling with the concept of politeness.

“Oh, of course! How would I forget?”

As Elspeth handled the hot chocolate-bearing teapot, you were prompted to discuss the prior school year. Conversations flowed from academics to the selection of boys and girls alike who had the misfortune of encountering your diva-like logistics.

Elspeth indulged in her tea. “Did Felix mention the festivities we’re having tonight?”

You propped a spoonful of whipped cream atop the chocolate goodness, a frown painting your lips. “Not at all. What festivities?”

“One of the annual dinners with the Catton’s family friends is proceeding tonight,” Elspeth explained, tone somewhat bored with the lack of any mentions of gossip present in this crevice of the conversation. The flimsy painted surface of her nail tapped away at her teacup.

“Please tell me it's the Lockwoods.”

“Who else would it be, darling?”

“Thank Christ.”

As Elspeth continued to chatter onward about the newest scandal she observed with the Lockwoods, you pertained to drifting off in thought. Concerning the night ahead. And the dread that followed with the idea of socialization with a bunch of stuck-up acquaintances alike yourself.

And Oliver Quick.

You rolled the base of your fingers around the rounded cigarette Felix had outstretched. Flimsy smoke curled outward from the plumpness of his lips, drifting upward toward the coiling stairs above your heads.

You circulated your lips around the rim of the drug stick, angling your hand backward as you took a hit – brimming with a buzz of pleasure. The cigarette slipped back into Felix’s hand, which inclined away to pass it toward Oliver. Whom you hadn’t even bothered to glance toward once during the entirety of the night.

The remains of the others flocked behind, the light hue of conversation prominent in the air. The three others you’ve befriended – Wiona, Lincoln, and Valencia – had befriended the Catton children in their younger years. At the annual dinner that commenced the year prior, you discovered that they had developed an annual tradition for Spin the Bottle.

The sole reason why the group of eight traversed up the spiraling stairway in the first place, bottles of alcohol propped in hand.

A prominent part of you wordlessly hoped that the alcohol would loosen you up a tad. Alas, with the sensation of Oliver’s eyes bored into the back of your head. You were bound to feel a tad paranoid. Especially when you weren’t oblivious to how every movement you made was tracked.

The minuscule smirk when the base of your nail had chipped. The glimmer of distaste when you looked up and down the outfits of the current houseguests. The burn of eyes when you laughed a tad too loudly. The indescribable emotion that blared throughout Oliver’s surveying gaze as you stared into him. An attempt of intimidation that was never accomplished.

The solid front of the bathroom’s tiles was undeniably cool, in contrast to the thin garment that shielded the top of your thighs.

You proceeded to tuck yourself across the minuscule opening between Farleigh and a most currently amused Felix. The glass-spun bottle of the night lay vulnerable in the grip of his broadened fingers.

“Care to make a bet on this year’s game?”

A short laugh stirred itself from the crevice of your throat. You inclined your head over the brink of your shoulder, scrutinizing gaze propped upon the curly-haired male sat inches away. Farleigh’s eyes crinkled with the intensity of his curved lips, tongue tracing the rim of his canines.

You suddenly grew aware of the sheer amount of certain plastic bags you had smuggled down your bra upon arrival. Ziplock bundles of goodness Farleigh would surely die for. A sentiment visible from the mere spark of interest blanketed behind his eyes.

“You seriously think I’ll say no to a good gamble?”

With a tinge of casualty, Farleigh swung a singular arm over the bridge of your shoulders. His voice grew hushed, but the intention of his words burnt into the crevice of your ear. “One of those pretty bags of yours if it lands on Valencia and Lincoln.”

“They’re siblings, munchkin.” The force of your articulation twisted with a prominent combination of distaste and fluid judgment.

“So what?”

For someone who always had something to say, you hadn’t been rendered this speechless in a long, long time. Alas, Farleigh wasn’t the only soul that expressed his amusement with the fact.

Oliver stared right into you. Twisted amusement circulated within his gaze.

Felix proceeded to illustrate a spectacle of himself, the glass-rimmed bottle set down on the tiled ground before him. Dramatics and flairs. Nothing out of the ordinary for your beloved Fi, who expressed the rules and regulations of the game as if his company hadn’t played for the years prior.

This excluded a scrutinizing Oliver. A prominent smirk threatened to overcome your lips at the sight of his cockiness. His prior attitude slipped away at the news of having to potentially be stuffed in one of the Catton’s family closets for several minutes – with his luck – accompanied by a total stranger.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to begin.

Felix offered a riveting motion with his hand. The echo of uproar, paired with the creak of the bottle against the tiles bounced off of the thinly-veiled walls as he gave it a fluid spin.

The uproar crescendoed into a screeching halt as the pitcher shook into a steadied pace. Its glimmering tip angled precisely toward a noriette-haired girl, who was in the midst of pertaining her slight nose toward the strip of snow-white goodness laid out on the back of her hand.

“Wiona!”

“You better hope and pray, darling.”

“Leave your drink with me, Wynn!”

Felix stuffled the broadened nature of his fingers into his mouth. He offered a low whistle toward Wiona, whose smirk was shielded by her bob-length curls.

He inclined toward the glass-rimmed bottle once more. “Right, whose the lucky boy… or girl? We don’ discriminate here…”

Murmurs of agreement followed the winding silence of the spinning contraption. Accompanied by short-circuited laughs, and gambled musterings. Overtaken by shrill yells as the crown cork inclined precisely toward Farleigh, whose curves were still draped over you.

“Leigh, that’s you.” Felix had confirmed, to the delight of those inclined around the circle. His eyes crinkled, appropriate to the intensity of the sparkling grin that graced his otherworldly face. “The blue room awaits you lovebirds…”

The jangling of cash and the slip of dope occurred.

The game continued as such. And with gradual time, all participants grew intoxicated by the minute with the presence of booze and crack. Two of your tit-coke bags have been ripped out of your disposal with the force of the circle’s gambles, gaining triple the amount in the process. Especially when Lincoln and Valencia slipped into the next room.

You found yourself with the curve of your head lolling atop the pad of Felix’s shoulder. An endearing warmth buzzed throughout you, rooted in the alcohol burning the crevice of your throat.

One of Felix’s broadened palms settled upon the hitch of your scalp. The other claws at the scarcely dented bottle once more, sending it into a tile-searing spin.

Commotion peaked within the room as the pitcher sloped toward Oliver.

Shadowiness engulfed your vision as the wardrobe doors closed in. Bathing in the darkness of mere loathing for two factors in this twisted, twisted equation. For the bottle. And for Oliver Quick, who had never been closer to you than in this moment. Bile rose in your throat for the second time that day.

It was just your luck that the bottle inclined towards you at that moment.

“That’s ironic.”

A slither of outside illumination managed to crack into the wardrobe, lining the crevice of Oliver’s azure hues. Speckled with what was perceived as faint amusement, tightening the knot of tension present in the atmosphere.

The sleight of your back strained as you stumbled toward the clanky side of the closet, desperate to discover an escape. To no avail. The faint ghost of a scoff reverberated from the hollow of your throat. “What’s ironic, huh?”

For some reason. For whatever reason at all, Oliver inclined toward you. The slightest indeed, but it managed to send your heart hammering between your ears. Nothing more but pure loathing pulsated throughout you with the sudden proximity. It was the alcohol. Booze does funny things to the mind, right?

Olivcr’s alcohol-tinged breath mists upon your lips. His words slurred somewhat. “For som’one that gets everythin’ she wants, you seem pretty… helpless right now.” “Anyone that finds themself in a closet with you would be.”

“I’m jus’ sayin', it’s pretty pathetic.”

A gradual grin seeped onto Oliver’s face at the undeniable loathing that flared within the depths of your eyes. You looked as if you were a tick away from murdering him with your bare hands, and it brought him nothing but pure amusement.

“Pathetic…” The word dripped off of your lips with slow, taunting articulation. A twisted of taunted tipsiness. With the fiery force of each syllable, you leaned forward and clasped a sloppy hand toward the center of Oliver’s chest, an attempt to shove him further away.

“Pathetic?”

You had made your intentions very clear to extend the distance between you and the male. To your luck, you had found yourself even closer.

Oliver didn’t appear phased, gaze carving holes into you. “You think the complete world of yourself, I’d say that’s pretty pathetic.”

Your stare narrowed down further. Silence draped over you momentarily with the intention of cold-shouldering Oliver until the seven minutes eventually ticked by. You adverted your eyes, purposefully scrutinizing the slight gap between the worn closet doors. The illumination blurred amid your intoxication.

“Look at me.”

A roughened palm tore you back toward reality. Accompanied by a thread of fingers that pressed into the curve of your cheeks. Your once inclined head had surrendered into Oliver’s grasp, involuntarily meeting his gaze.

“Whoa… he’s finally thinkin’ for himself for once.” You spat out around the mere brute of his hands. Even though they radiated a certain chill only Oliver could possess, a prominent warmth glowed in every patch of skin he had clutched onto.

“Instead of bein’ Fi’s little hound…”

Oliver’s grappling hand seemed to tense with every batter of your words. “Shut your bloody mouth before I do it for you.”

“Wooow… so scary–”

You barely possessed the will to blow out another sharp breath before Oliver’s lips were interlocked with your own. The breath you had been holding hitched upright into your throat. Your chest constricted. In replacement of the disgust you preempted, velvety warmth pulsated throughout your entire being with a singular brush of the male’s mouth along yours.

With the fashion in which Oliver devoured your lips, you wondered if he wished to eat you alive.

You blamed it completely on the booze and the crack.

He was the first to pull back from the embrace, hands still tucked immensely around your jaw. A glow of succession is prominent in Oliver’s aquamarine stare, a glow that brought forth a sleight of irritation to overcome you.

“I believe you liked that.”

“Your ego is as big as your head, Oliver.”

He inclined his head, a smile wandering upon his lips. “That wasn’t a denial, now.”

The palm that cradled the sleight of your jaw loosened the slightest. It moved toward the back of your neck, utilizing the position to guide you toward him further. His lips. So close. Nearing with time. The curve of your abdomen burned with a newfound desire, christening your inner walls with its molten warm goodness.

But you couldn’t care. You just couldn’t.

“You’re completely… fuckin’ mad.”

The seven minutes must be up now, wouldn’t it? Your ears strained themselves through the momentary silence as you processed tidbits of laughter from the next room over.

You reminded yourself to beat the everliving Christ out of Felix Catton the next morning.

The palm still collared around your neck dug downward into the base of your shoulders. In the same leering motion, the edge of a heel curved into the density of your legs. Before you can even process the situation, the rock-hard surface of the wardrobe is felt underneath your suddenly aching knees.

“Now, now…”

You inclined your head upward. The twisted hues of Oliver Quick bored down upon you, like wood to an already brewing fire engulfing the inner workings of your womanhood. The hollow of your throat bobbled as you gave a dense swallow.

An even denser zip of Oliver’s dress pants sounded throughout the wardrobe.

“How about I teach you a lesson on how a brat should behave?”

WORD COUNT: 3K MASTERLIST REQ ME!

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aerahyasashi · 4 months

Text

IDIOSYNCRASIES CHAPTER ONE

Yandere! Suguru Geto x Fem! Gojo's Sister! Reader

Sypnosis: Where suguru geto founds himself deeply enamored with satoru's non-sorcerer sister to the point of obsession.

Warnings: Yandere stuff, Gore, Violence, Foul language, Abuse

Note: this isn't a oneshot, I'm gonna post every part of this soon, this is a fanfic and i originally posted this on quotev. I'm still learning on how to use tumblr so the aesthetic might be a lil shitty😭😭 also, feel free to make a request! May it be an hc or a oneshot! Just no incest please.

Chapter two

Chapter Three

Chapter four and five

Chapter six and seven

•───夏油傑───•

THE GENTLE RAYS of the sun filtered through the wide-open windows of the room of the strongest sorcerer; Gojo Satoru.

[Name], Gojo’s sister, felt the gentle kiss of the sun beams against her soft and [S/c] complexion as she gazed on the window. The sunlight illuminated the sky, casting its vibrant glow all around, while the cheerful melodies of chirping birds echoed in the distance.

Mornings in Japan held a serene and tranquil atmosphere, a fact that [Name] would have readily acknowledged and embraced without any hesitation, if it weren’t for her asshole of a family.

[Name] felt her jaw tighten and her [E/c] eyes narrowed at the mere memory of her stupid family before she blinked suddenly when she saw a butterfly land on satoru’s windowpane.

As she observed the butterfly alight on Satoru’s window, her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. This particular butterfly appeared unusually large compared to the typical ones she had seen before that would mostly be on their garden. its wings displayed a gradient of ebony and ivory hues.

The upper part of its wings exhibited a deep, velvety black, while the lower section faded into a lighter, softer shade. her lips slightly parted as a hint of yellow pigment started to spread across the previously pristine white patches on the butterfly's wings and the butterfly abruptly fluttered away, although she could have sworn that she perceived a peculiar trickle of yellow, as if the fragile creature had bled before her very eyes.

From what she had read, insects blood were mostly clear colored, yellowish, or greenish. So perhaps, the butterfly had bled and she couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps that was a sign.

‘That’s weird’, she thought.

“What was that?” [Name] inquired with astonishment, turning to face Satoru, seeking an explanation for the enigmatic occurrence.

“Hemolymph,” Satoru responded nonchalantly, causing her to tilt her head inquisitively.

“What the hell is a hemelonymp?” she inquired, her words a bit slurred , unable to pronounce the word properly, and her curiosity piqued by this unfamiliar term.

“It’s Hemolymph.”

Satoru corrected.

“Hemonymph?”

“No. Hemolymph.”

“Hemolymph is a fluid that serves as an equivalent to blood,” Satoru elucidated, succinctly summarizing the essence of hemolymph, but leaving her with a desire to comprehend its intricacies.

“That butterfly actually reminds me of you, to be honest.”

Satoru attentively tended to the small droplets of blood that had emerged from the slit on her lip, which was now swollen and adorned with painful bruises. He dabbed a soft tissue against the injured area, gently blotting away the traces of crimson liquid, leaving no remnant behind.

[Name] winced slightly in pain, the sound escaping her lips while Satoru diligently attended to her injuries, ensuring that her lip was free from any remaining blood.

“Is it because the butterfly was bleeding, just like me?” She asked once satoru is finished and her eyes followed Satoru as he disposed of the tissue stained with her blood.

Satoru nodded, acknowledging her observation. “Partially, yes, but like, you’re pretty just like that insect.” he replied,

Her gaze averted as she responded solemnly while shaking her head.

“I ain’t like that butterfly though, i mean, i don’t have freedom.”

Expressing her deep frustration, she acknowledged the various constraints that were hindering her progress. Letting out a sigh filled with exasperation, she placed her hand gently on her forehead, as if trying to alleviate the weight of her burdens. In the midst of her contemplation, she found herself questioning whether her circumstances would be different if she possessed the six eyes and limitless, just like her brother.

“Right,” satoru mumbles bitterly.

“Hey, ‘toru.. maybe if i’m not a non-sorcerer and i possess the six eyes and limitless like you, would they grant me freedom?.. and maybe... even love me?” [Name] inquired, observing how Satoru seemed to receive favoritism from their family.

Satoru glanced back at [Name], his expression revealing a hint of annoyance.

“Nah, they don’t love me,” he replied casually, as if it were a matter of fact.

“Why on earth would you desire their love when they’re all assholes anyways?” Satoru questioned, his head slightly tilted as he gently held [Name]’s cheek, squeezing her cheek as if it were his own little stress-relief toy, causing her to shoot an annoyed look in his direction.

He persisted in compressing her cheeks with his fingers until she slapped his hand, causing him to burst into laughter. As she gingerly massaged her cheeks, a disapproving expression formed on her face.

“Stop laughin’. ‘ts not funny.” [Name] huffed, annoyed, though, she concurred with Satoru’s observation that they were unquestionably horrible people, as they consistently subjected both her and Satoru to their abusive behavior.

“Huh, whatever.” satoru rolled his eyes, pouting a bit.

“Okay, but back to the topic, you don’t need those suck up bitches; you only need me,” Satoru responded, accompanied with a smile and [Name] couldn’t help but emit a dismissive snort.

“Suppose that you’re right, they’re all assholes.” [Name] conceded, her voice laced with annoyance.

“A shame, because If you asked me to, I would’ve killed them all for you.” The intensity of his loyalty was evident in his voice. he harbored a deep dislike towards them; His own family, excluding [Name] ofcourse.

To him, they were simply a group of despicable assholes who failed to treat him as a child should be treated. Instead of showering him with affection and care, they regarded him as a precious gem—not in the loving way, but rather, they treated him like a possession to be controlled and manipulated.

Their motives behind their actions were solely driven because he possessed the coveted six eyes technique and the limitless technique, which enabled them to flaunt him as a trophy rather than genuinely loving him.

However, Satoru’s adored sister; [Name], stood out from the rest. Their relationship was exceptional, as she treated him with genuine affection and treated him as an ordinary human being—and not see him as if he was a deity.

The love she demonstrated towards him was reciprocated wholeheartedly, further strengthening their bond. Consequently, he developed an instinctual need to protect her; [Name] was the only person who had truly shown him what love meant, the person who healed his inner child.

Satoru also possessed a deep understanding of the underlying cause behind the mistreatment experienced by [Name]. The core reason was rooted in her identity as a non-sorcerer amidst a lineage of esteemed and influential sorcerers. Incapable of perceiving curses and not having the ability to interact with them. Thus she became a target of their cruelty.

She became a living embodiment of shame for the Gojo clan, which motivated their abusive behavior towards her. Despite being aware of this, Satoru remained indifferent to such prejudices. He saw the situation as profoundly unjust, harboring a sincere desire for [Name] to receive affection and tenderness instead.

The mistreatment she endured did nothing but deepen his conviction. And their control over her was so extreme that she wasn’t even allowed to step foot outside her own home, satoru has to sneak hed out whenever he could. And it was all because the Gojo clan, couldn’t bear the thought of being embarrassed or shamed by the revelation that their esteemed bloodline of ‘all sorcerers’ also consisted of a non-sorcerer. This overprotectiveness towards their reputation had always existed.

They were fucking lunatics that is willing to kill and abuse a child just for the sake of their damn reputation.

The initial motive for Satoru's intention to eliminate the gojo clan was primarily due to this particular reason. Satoru proceeded to fix his gaze upon [Name], and he gently ruffled [Name]’s words.

“But seriously, i’ll kill them.”

“Just say the word, [Name]. and nii-chan will kill them all.

With a hint of amusement, she snorted.

“If you did that, you would become the new disgrace of our clan.”

Despite being labeled as the black sheep and outcast among their clan members, [Name] found it rather amusing that Satoru would jeopardize his reputation for her sake. However, deep down, she was aware that Satoru possessed an effortless ability to resolve any situation. He was the strongest after all.

“Wouldn't want you to take the title i worked so hard to earn.”

[Name] added sarcastically, displaying a hint of amusement.

Satoru rolled his eyes and let out a snort.

“Why would I be considered a disgrace to the family when there won't be any family left once I kill them all?” He countered, a mischievous grin creeping onto his face. The idea of wiping out their entire clan appeared to be a lighthearted topic for him, even though the gravity of such a deed was not lost on either of them.

[Name] sighed irritably and rolled her eyes.

“Whatever..” She muttered a half-hearted response, her lips forming a small amused smile as she glanced at Satoru. Despite her annoyance, she couldn’t help but feel a bit amused by his persistent optimism.

“Anywayyy”

Satoru began.

“Let’s go out and grab something to eat outside.” He intertwined his fingers, attempting to divert the conversation. However, [Name] furrowed her brows and shifted her gaze away, visibly troubled.

“You do realize that I'm forbidden from leaving, right?” she said with a weary sigh, her frustration mounting. But Satoru simply shrugged off her concerns.

“Who the fuck cares about those ridiculous rules?” Satoru grumbled indignantly, clasping her forearm gently.

“Definitely me.”

[Name] retorted as she shot him a scolding look, trying to free her arm from his grasp. Although she yearned to venture outside with her brother, the fear of punishment held her back. After all, she dreaded a repeat of the painful whipping she had endured just two weeks prior, as punishment for accidentally spilling scalding hot tea on her mother. the faint red marks of it still lingered on her back. Yet, she had never confided in Satoru about it, fearing his anger.

“No, thank you. I'd rather not,” she mumbled softly, her voice filled with reluctance. Satoru’s eyes narrowed, a hint of annoyance evident on his face.

“Nah uh, you listen to your nii-chan, girl.” Satoru pressed his lips on a line as he looked at hed.

“We’re goin’ outside. You look pale as hell, as if you haven't basked in sunlight for ages,”

•───夏油傑───•

Satoru had actually fucking dragged his sister out.

And left her alone on the fucking park to buy food, and now, [Name] was sitting alone on a park bench while patiently (maybe not) waiting for satoru to come back.

[Name]’s hair danced in the gentle breeze as she settled onto a park bench, cherishing this rare moment of solitude. Being confined indoors for such a prolonged period had taken its toll on her. Satoru, aware of this, would often aid her in secretly venturing outside, allowing her to at least bask in some fresh air.

As she sat alone, she let out a soft sigh while immersing herself in the melodious symphony of birds chirping.

Satoru excused himself momentarily, venturing off to fetch food, leaving [Name] alone in the park. Despite his assurance of a speedy return, anxiety gnawed at her insides. After all, she was in the midst of the public eye, vulnerable to discovery by her own clan members. With bated breath, she patiently awaited Satoru’s arrival, she closed her eyes for a moment before reopening them.

She let out a quiet gasp and visibly flinched as a man suddenly sat on the bench beside her. Her heart thumped within her chest, reverberating almost deafeningly in her ears. Her hands trembled slightly and became clammy, but she dare not move until Satoru returned. The thought of venturing away from her spot only increased the risk of losing her way or being spotted by a member of the Gojo clan.

To create distance between herself and the stranger, [Name] discreetly scooted away, distancing herself as much as possible. She studied him intently, her gaze sweeping from head to toe, absorbing every intricate detail of his appearance. His jet-black hair was tied up neatly. It was impossible to miss the bangs that gently brushed and covered his left eye partially, swaying along with the wind. Notably, he donned a similar uniform to Satoru, although with subtle differences such as the baggy pants in contrast to Satoru's fitted attire.

As she observed him, a certain assumption formed in her mind: he too must be a sorcerer, just like Satoru.

The moment the man let out a cough, an unanticipated reaction ignited within her, causing her to flinch and almost leap out of her seat. The visible disgust etched on his face indicated that he had consumed something repulsive, leading [Name] to assume that he had indeed eaten something disgusting.

[Name] felt a lump in her throat. Hed hand twitched, wanting to extend aid to the man in need. However, memories of Satoru's teachings echoed in her mind, warning her to not talk with strangers.

Yet, this man appeared to be a sorcerer and there was a possibility that Satoru might be acquainted with him, considering they attended the same school.

‘Does satoru knows this dude?’ she pondered.

Engulfed in internal conflict, she weighed the pros and cons of assisting him, before deciding to finally help him.

‘Ew..’

She cringed a little as she watched the man next to her suddenly regurgitate his stomach contents onto the floor, the man reached out to clutch his throat in discomfort, his voice barely audible as he uttered words akin to expressing his disgust.

[Name] wrestled with the internal conflict of whether she should engage in a conversation with him, torn between her desire to offer some solace and her uncertainty.

Taking to heart the advice she had received, which emphasized the importance of aiding others in their time of need, she pondered on how she could ease his discomfort.

Suddenly, a notion sprang to mind—she could offer him candy, as it might help alleviate the lingering taste of his stomach acid that clung to the recesses of his mouth.

Taking a handful of candies that she habitually kept in her pockets, she hesitantly tapped the man’s shoulder, hoping to offer him some solace. In a hesitant tone, she uttered,

“Excuse me, sir.”

[Name] offered him an awkward smile.

The man turned his gaze towards her, encompassing her in his piercing stare, momentarily taking her breath away. The twinkle of unease shimmered within her throat as he forced a smile whilst rubbing his throat, further validating her suspicion that he had indeed consumed something vile.

“Hello there, can I be of any assistance?” he kindly inquired, his smile was forced, though, [Name] noted.

“I noticed that you just vomited... and your esophagus were probably burning from the corrosive stomach acid that accompanied your vomiting.” she observed.

He observed her with a slightly confused look, realizing that her choice of words was rather unusual. An idiosyncrasy perhaps? After all, she was expressing it in a manner more suited to scientific discourse, something not commonly done by regular individuals.

With an effort to disregard the repulsive scene of his vomit on the floor, he raised his head to meet her eyes.

“Well... It definitely causes a burning sensation,” he said, letting out a small chuckle.

“Ah.. but still, I'm sorry that you have to see that. I didn’t noticed that someone is here...” he admitted, his hand gently massaging the back of his neck.

Expressing his distaste, he remarked with a slight hint of disgust on his face,

“I just recently consumed something... disgusting.”

He added, the thing he consumed happened to be a special grade curse, and it definitely tasted like shit, it was so disgusting to the point that he vomited in the end.

“that explains why you vomited then,” she mumbled. “Yeah,” he replied awkwardly.

[Name] extended her palms towards him, revealing a collection of candies neatly stored in a shiny golden plastic container.

“These are mint candies, sir. You can have them,” she offered, flashing a warm smile at him.

“This’ll help you get rid of the shitty taste of whatever you had eaten.”

In response, he blinked and mustered an awkward smile.

“I’ll have to refuse, but thank you for the offer”

The thought of accepting the candies crossed his mind as a potential remedy for the repulsive aftertaste of the curse he had inadvertently consumed earlier. However, he hesitated, not wanting to impose too much on this unfamiliar girl. What if the candies were poisoned or had some ulterior motive behind them? Nevertheless, he couldn't deny the striking resemblance she bore to Satoru, albeit in a somewhat vague manner.

“I insist, sir please take it.” she asserted.

“No, really, I'm alright,” he politely declined again, accompanied by a smile, shaking his head to emphasize his refusal.

“Please.. I insist sir, please accept this,” she pleaded with a concerned expression, momentarily forgetting Satoru's advice to never talk to strangers.

He observed [Name]’s face and contemplated quietly, recognizing that perhaps it wouldn't be too terrible to accept her offering. A small smile formed on his lips as he spoke to himself.

“Alright, I suppose I can give it a try,” he replied, his voice barely audible. He accepted the candies from her outstretched hands, feeling a bit awkward in his actions. As he took the treats, a bright smile radiated from her face.

“I’m Gojo [Name],”

he looked at her with curiosity. Judging by her surname, she must be a member of the Gojo clan, he speculated.

In response, he introduced himself, “Geto Suguru.”

Now Suguru understood why Satoru resembled the girl—they must be related somehow. The thought crossed his mind to inquire if she was acquainted with Satoru, a highly probable assumption, but he dismissed the idea. However, suguru couldn't help but feel perplexed by one thing—why was she a non-sorcerer despite her clan's background?

“It’s nice to meet you, Geto-san.” she smiled at him.

“Likewise, Gojo-san” he replied, a small smile curling at his lips.

An awkward silence then filled the air.

Feeling awkward, Suguru gingerly unwrapped the candy and placed it onto his tongue. The taste was delicately sweet and cool at the same time, and his mouth gradually began to cool as he continued to savor the candy. With each swirl around his mouth, the repugnant taste of the curse and his stomach acid started to dissipate.

Yet, his gaze suddenly became focused as he noticed a concealed curse lurking on a nearby tree. Intriguingly, she followed his line of sight and directed her confused gaze towards him. Tilting her head slightly, she inquired,

“What are you looking at, Geto-san?”

“Nothing..” Suguru replied. After all, he knows that she, being a non-sorcerer with no curse energy, was unable to perceive curses like he could. He casted a quick glance at her before he directed his attention back to the tree. However, before suguru had the chance to utter a word, [Name] preemptively spoke, causing him to pause.

“Oh, I see you found a curse up there then.”

•───夏油傑───•

Extra:

•Gojo got lost and was panicking

•Gojo doesn't know that [Name] can see curses

•Geto thinks that [Name] is pretty

•The candy [Name] gave Geto is her homemade candy.

•Gojo was actually planning on taking [Name] to jujutsu high with him and just give her a cursed tool to see curses.

•They're still students in here.

•Gojo is a platonic yandere

Support me on wattpad?🥺

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x you #jjk x reader #yandere #yandere jjk #yandere suguru geto #yandere geto #yandere gojo #yandere x reader #yandere x you

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domainedewinter · 3 months

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The price of fire

Summary: Aemond meets a mysterious silver-haired girl on the beach while facing Vhagar. But the more he tries to know her, the deeper her secrets seem.

Warnings: DUBCON, TYPICAL TARGARYEN INCEST, profanity, innuendo, he/him pronouns, she/her pronouns, fingering, oral m receiving, oral f receiving, misogyny, toxic behaviour, Dom!Aemond, begging, underage hotd style, nsfw.

(coming soon, I will indicate the chapters containing smut with a 🔥)

Rating: 18+, MDNI

English is not my first language.

Chapter one ⤞⟢⨳⟣⤝ Roxaene ⤞⟢⨳⟣⤝

When Roxaene heard her father, Dorian, talk about an upcoming long journey to the continent - for diplomatic and political reasons - she couldn't help but bring it up to him during dinner that evening. It was a bit challenging to convince him, as he was always apprehensive about bringing her too close to King's Landing, especially the royal family.

She had to promise him not to go out without him and not to be seen without covering her hair. Dorian had never wanted to explain exactly what had happened when she was just a kid, only vaguely mentioning that he had been entrusted with a baby with silver hair and lilac eyes, and he had accepted this gift, having lost his wife and their son a few months prior.

He came from a good family and had always taken care of her properly, even teaching her how to read, write, and a great deal about the Kingdom. Roxaene quickly realized she was very different from the ebony-haired children she used to play with; she didn't blend in.

This was her secret, one of her secrets. Roxaene had spent countless days on the beach, dreaming of discovering what lay on the other side of the ocean, who her parents were, and why they had abandoned her.

Was it because of her silver hair? Her pale skin and violet eyes?

Thinking she might finally find answers to all her questions, she embarked with Dorian - persuading him with her big lilac eyes, begging him not to leave her alone for so long - and after weeks of travel, they arrived in King's Landing.

The city was immense, so different from what she knew and saw back in Dorne.

Of course, she wasn't allowed to roam the streets like she did at home, but it was already more than she had hoped for. After two evenings spent in the establishment where they were staying for their visit - a grand residence of a wealthy merchant and a friend of Dorian's - her adoptive father entered her room, finding her lost in thought on the balcony.

“Dear child, don't linger at the window for too long, someone might see you. I know you’d like to go out, and I’ll take you to see the city soon, but for now, you have to promise to stay here.”

His voice was soft and caring, as always. He was a tall man with a dark complexion and ebony hair, richly dressed and rather untouched by the years. Money had given him this luxury; being one of the main wine importers of Dorne, he had quickly made his fortune by trading with the capital and, subsequently, several other estates of great families.

His hand rested on Roxaene's shoulder, who continued to look outside, smiling, listening to the sounds of the city, imagining the lives of the people who lived there.

She had always been like that; dreamy and curious, two traits that could prove dangerous if one did not take care of where dreams and thoughts wandered.

Dorian knew it all too well and wanted to spare his daughter from falling into the wrong hands.

It was risky enough to have brought her with him.

"Don't worry, father, I'm already gratified to be here." She replied, finally turning to him. A richly decorated silk held her hair tied and concealed, but it didn't take away from her natural beauty, radiant and vivid.

"I have to go negotiate a few days' ride from here, with merchants from the city, and it's not a place for you. Behave while I'm gone. Until then, don't show yourself, don't go out and obey Lady Loyd."

Dorian's hand had quickly moved from her shoulder to her chin, lifting her gentle face. "And promise me not to unveil your face in front of Lady Lloyd. I made sure they take care of you without asking questions, but I could never answer the ones they might ask if it happens."

Roxaene nodded, placing her so pale hand on her father's tanned one.

"I know, father, I'll be careful. You can leave with a light heart."

He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead, holding her face between his hands, almost possessively; since the day he was entrusted with this small, silent, and calm baby with large violet eyes fixed on him, full of tears, he had made it his life's mission to protect her.

But staying alone in Dorne was not an option when her head could be so easily put on the line.

People could be such greedy monsters when money jingled, and promises were kept. Stealing babies and killing children didn't faze anyone when it came to being richly rewarded. Dorian refused to take that risk, to return to Dorne to find his house empty and his maids sorrowful and confused if Roxaene were to be abducted.

He left the room as he had entered; without a sound and with a heavy heart, the guilt of leaving her for days darkening his thoughts without him having any control over the situation.

⤞⟢⨳⟣⤝

That evening, Roxaene didn't have the heart to argue, and she watched him depart on horseback. She managed to obey him the first night, but her impulsive and curious nature quickly took over.

When everyone seemed busy elsewhere after dinner, she put on a dress and a cape to hide herself as best as she could from prying eyes, then slipped out through the window, heading as far away as possible.

At first, she didn’t know where she was running, letting her steps guide her, trusting her instincts. It felt so good to be outside, freely, to watch the sun begin its descent into the sea.

She headed toward the beach, perhaps because it reminded her a bit of home, unconsciously, until a towering silhouette caught her attention. Roxaene thought it was some kind of enormous rock, but as her hands started tingling, she realized it wasn’t made of stone. The more she approached, the more she could make out its contours until her breath caught in her throat in surprise; a dragon.

An immense dragon lying on the beach.

Any sane person with a shred of survival instinct would be turning and putting as much distance between themselves and the creature as possible, but Roxaene, unfortunately, didn’t seem very sensible in that particular moment.

Without hesitation, she slowly advanced toward the dragon, her steps determined nonetheless.

Throughout her life, she had dreamed of dragons, strange dreams from which she woke up sweaty, hands burning, and breathless. She could swear she heard their roar on certain mornings upon waking up and smelling the scent of sulfur, feeling the heat of the fire. She had never spoken of this, already being so different from the other children in Dorne, the young girl with moon-colored hair had preferred to keep a low profile, not drawing attention to her dreams in addition to her appearance.

But this time, it wasn't a dream, nor a hallucination or an invisible sensation; a huge dragon stood right in front of her, just a few meters away, lying on the warm sand of the beach on this falling night. Without thinking, Roxaene advanced, again and again, reaching out towards the enormous creature, and her biggest secret began to glow, brighter than ever. Inside her hand, glowing arabesques, similar to the color of fire, had drawn themselves, like molten lava, moving on her palm, becoming brighter as she approached the dragon, which, sensing her presence, began to raise her massive head.

Although her heart pounded in her chest, Roxaene listened only to her courage and instinct, dangerously approaching the fierce mouth that was starting to open in front of her.

⤞⟢⨳⟣⤝ Aemond ⤞⟢⨳⟣⤝

To escape the strange pressure that never left him when he was at the Keep, Aemond Targaryen had done what he did all too often; after the meal, when he wished his mother a good night, he slipped outside, mounting Vhagar to fly over the sky, the sea, the surrounding forests until the cold stiffened his fingers, and he decided to descend to go where no one would find him.

His elder brother, Aegon, had his own ways of escaping their family and the Keep, joining the city's shady neighborhoods as soon as the lanterns began to shine, forgetting his duties, responsibilities, and the expectations of those he could never satisfy, between glasses of alcohol and the arms of whores.

Aemond preferred the calm of the beach, the tranquility of the sea, and solitude.

A solitude that no one had dared to disturb for years, five years precisely, since he had lost his eye - violently torn out by the little bastard.

Until now.

Because as he was lost in his thoughts, the young man had felt a change, tiny and almost imperceptible in Vhagar, but his bond was so strong with the creature that he couldn't be wrong.

Standing up, he had walked cautiously, slightly hunched as he circled the dragon, a dagger in hand until he reached the spot that seemed to attract the monster's attention, to witness a very strange vision; a girl, his age or perhaps younger - he couldn't determine it - hooded, stood in front of Vhagar, reaching out as if to touch the beast. Except that her hand, as pale as it was, glowed in a supernatural, magical way.

A strange fear ran through the prince's veins, imagining that the girl wanted to harm his dragon; Aemond rushed at her, throwing her to the ground as he fell with her.

"Vhagar! No!"

What the girl hadn't seen - or maybe she had seen it but hadn't moved - was the fire building up in Vhagar's throat, the heat rising crescendo, ready to explode like a lava torrent and reduce her to ashes. But at the words of his rider, the monster's maw had closed gently, leaving the animal to rest its head without caring further about the two small humans quarreling in front of it.

Perhaps Aemond had just protected Vhagar; perhaps he had just saved the stranger struggling under his body, her wrists pinned above her face, held in the prince's one hand, her eyes looking at him with a mix of anger and fear. The fall had knocked her hood off her head, revealing her silver hair, braided to the side, with a few strands escaping around her face.

Aemond couldn't ignore the girl's physical characteristics that caught his eye, frowning as he carefully placed his dagger near her to grab her face with his free hand, looking her straight in the eyes, his inquisitive gaze seeking answers.

"Who are you?!" He asked breathlessly, trying to be firm as he struggled to hold her in place. The prince was not used to being denied anything, but the stubborn look the girl shot him almost distracted him. He tightened his grip on her face, being more directive and threatening.

"Answer me, who are you and why were you trying to attack my dragon? Do you seek death? Because Vhagar was about to grant your prayers!"

He almost seemed angry that she had been so reckless, but the girl only struggled more, apparently unimpressed by him.

"I wasn't trying to hurt your dragon, and I don't want to die, so let me go!" She replied with rage, kicking and wriggling her hips to free herself, but Aemond held on and had a clear physical superiority over her; the rigorous training he engaged in daily since the accident had sculpted his body fiercely and effectively.

However, despite all his hours of training with Cole and all the fighters he now beat, nothing had prepared him for such audacity from a woman, let alone one so young and in a definitely delicate position.

#house targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #prince aemond #aemond x oc #aemond x fem!oc #hotd aemond #hotd #hotd fanfic #aemond smut #magic #house of the dragon #dragon

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50fwegwnhc · 1 year

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tiff42970 · 8 months

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amoranger · 5 months

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tethered vows; aemond targaryen [1]

chapter i – the puppeteers' puppets

pairing—aemond targaryen x sansa stark genre & warnings—hotd/got au, angst, arranged marriage, strangers to lovers, anguage (swearing), alcohol mention and usage, sexual depiction, violence, incest mention. word count—6.7K summary—it is believed that a good relationship between the Iron Throne and the North was the key to a peaceful, prosperous, reign. The Hightowers, strategists seeking to secure the North's loyalty to the Greens, orchestrated an alliance under an arranged marriage between Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, and Aemond Targaryen, the second son of King Viserys and Alicent Hightower.

Winterfell, nestled in the heart of the North, loomed with its ancient towers against the icy backdrop of winter. Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, moved through the castle with the grace befitting her noble stature. Her auburn hair cascaded like a waterfall, a stark contrast to the snow-covered landscape. As Sansa wandered through the great halls, her footsteps echoed in the vastness of Winterfell. The chill in the air hinted at the relentless grip of winter, yet the castle exuded a warmth that spoke of the indomitable spirit of House Stark.

The fluttering of wings drew Sansa's attention as a raven descended, its ebony feathers contrasting against the snow-laden courtyard. Sansa extended her arm, allowing the raven to perch. The scroll attached to its leg bore the unmistakable mark of House Stark. Breaking the seal, Sansa's eyes scanned the words carefully. The message was a summons, not just for her brother but for her as well—a call to the South, to the heart of the Seven Kingdoms.

Sansa set forth to find her brother, Cregan Stark, the Lord of Winterfell. She traversed the winding corridors until she reached the lord's chambers. The door, adorned with the direwolf sigil, stood slightly ajar.

"Cregan," Sansa called out, her voice carrying a blend of urgency and curiosity.

The room, lit by the glow of a hearth, greeted her with the sight of Cregan Stark, a figure of Northern strength and resilience, looking up from his desk.

"What is it, Sansa?" Cregan inquired, his expression betraying curiosity and anticipation.

Sansa handed him the scroll, her eyes meeting his. Cregan broke the seal, his eyes scanning the words that unfolded of an unexpected summons.

"A proposition," Cregan murmured, his brow furrowing. "They request the presence of both the Lord and Lady of Winterfell in the South."

Sansa, standing beside her brother, felt a surge of apprehension. The proposition held the promise of change, yet the North, with its ancient traditions, stood as a steadfast beacon in the face of uncertainty.

"Northerners don't do well in the south," Sansa remarked, her gaze fixed on the snowy expanse beyond Winterfell's walls.

"No," Cregan agreed, his voice carrying the weight of generations of Northern resilience. "We do not."

The siblings stood in the room, the cold Northern wind sweeping through the cracked window, a reminder of the harsh winters that shaped their homeland. Sansa paced the room, her auburn hair trailing behind her like a fiery banner.

"In the name of the gods, Cregan, why do they need both the Lord and Lady of Winterfell in King's Landing? It's not like we have time for Southern frivolities." Sansa said, her brows frowned together.

Cregan, seated by the hearth, raised an eyebrow, considering the question. "Maybe they've run out of snow and need some Northern chill to cool their heads. Or perhaps they've heard our cooking is far superior."

"I highly doubt they summoned us all this way for a cooking contest." Sansa shot him a look, a mix of amusement and exasperation.

"You never know. " Cregan leaned back, a grin playing on his lips. "They might be desperate for a taste of real food in the capital."

"Real food or not, it's suspicious. I can't fathom why they'd want us both there, and in such haste." Sansa sighed, deciding to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand.

Cregan scratched his beard, feigning deep contemplation. "Maybe they've heard about my impeccable sense of fashion and want me to give the court a makeover."

"Yes, because King's Landing is in dire need of a Stark fashion intervention." Sansa rolled her eyes. "Truly, the crisis of the century."

Cregan chuckled before his expression fell into a more serious one. "I'm as puzzled as you are. They've summoned us abruptly, and to what end? I don't recall sending any singing ravens or performing any juggling tricks that might warrant such attention."

"It's unnerving." Sansa perched herself on the edge of the table, a thoughtful expression on her face. "The South is... unkind."

"The North doesn't meander like the courtiers in King's Landing." Sansa's eyes met Cregan's, a silent understanding passing between them. "A journey into the dragon's den, then?" Cregan asked, shooting a sly smirk to ease the nervousness settling between the room.

"Pit." Sansa clarified, earning a raised eyebrow from her brother. "They call it the Dragonpit."

Cregan chuckled before reiterating his choice of word, "Dragon's pit."

"Maybe they demanded you declare yourself for the princess," Sansa said, her voice tinged with a mixture of frustration and speculation. A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she considered the potential ramifications.

"Which one?" Cregan replied, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion.

"Helaena Targaryen." Sansa replied, her gaze fixed on the snowy landscape beyond Winterfell.

"Didn't her brother wed her?" Cregan questioned, the ways of Southern alliances proving perplexing to his Northern manner.

"Right." Sansa stayed silent for a moment, the weight of realization settling in. "Such curious customs."

"Agreed." He chuckled in agreement.

The snowy expanse of Winterfell's courtyard seemed to stretch infinitely before them as Sansa continued, her frustration growing with each passing thought. "It'll take us almost month—three weeks if we're lucky—to reach King's Landing. And by the time we arrive, they might have just forgotten about us."

"Whatever it is, Sansa." Cregan stood, placing a hand on Sansa's shoulder. "We'll show them we are proud Northerners, Aye."

"Let's just hope it doesn't involve any unnecessary twirls or curtsies." Sansa sighed, a mixture of frustration and determination in her voice.

"If it does, I'll be sure to trip over my own feet. A Stark's way of making a statement."

Sansa couldn't help but smile. "That might just be the statement we need to make."

The stone stairs echoed with the soft thuds of Sansa and Cregan's boots as they left the room. A heavy sigh escaped Sansa's lips, forming a misty cloud in the brisk Northern air. The Winterfell courtyard awaited them, surrounded by walls of gray stone that seemed to absorb the chill. It had been two long years since their father's passing, and only six months since their mother joined him in the embrace of eternity.

The siblings descended the cold, worn steps, arriving in the open space of the courtyard. Winter's touch lingered in the air, making each breath visible. They approached the ancient weirwood tree that stood as a silent witness to the passage of time. Kneeling, they bowed their heads in prayer, seeking support from the old gods.

"Let us pass this journey safely," Cregan whispered, his voice blending with the rustle of the tree's leaves.

"Let the journey be quick," Sansa added, her words carrying a quiet determination.

Sansa's thoughts drifted to the departed, to her father and mother, and to the generations that had come before her. The unseen ancestors, a part of her heritage, inspired a prayer from her heart. Though she rarely ventured beyond the walls of Winterfell, the vastness of the North was her world. Yet, with the unexpected summons, an unfamiliar weight settled in her chest.

Sansa's eyes closed as she continued her silent supplication. She wasn't afraid, or at least she couldn't afford to be. A woman now, aged nine and ten, she carried a quiet bravery within her comely demeanor. Her prayers spoke not only of personal safety but also of a deep-rooted longing for the familiar confines of her home.

"And bring us home," Sansa whispered, her plea lingering in the crisp air as if carried away by the wind. The simple words held the weight of a determined heart, a wish for sanctuary in the face of the unknown.

The journey from Winterfell to King's Landing unfolded as both a physical trek and a venture into unfamiliar territories. Sansa and Cregan rode on horseback, flanked by loyal Northern bannermen proudly displaying the direwolf of House Stark on their banners. The landscape, covered in a blanket of snow, sprawled before them as they navigated the winding roads. Sansa's gaze wandered over the vastness of the North, where towering pines stood like sentinels and frozen rivers snaked through the familiar land. It was a place ingrained in their hearts, a landscape that had shaped the Stark family for generations.

The cold air nipped at their faces as they rode, carrying with it the scent of pine and the chill of winter. It was undeniably beautiful, the North. It really was. Its beauty, however, was a subtle charm not everyone could fathom. Sansa felt a deep appreciation for the land that had cradled her existence. The towering pines and snow-covered landscapes painted a sight that words struggled to capture. Sansa couldn't predict the duration of their stay in King's Landing, but a lingering feeling suggested it wouldn't be brief. The prospect of an extended absence from her northern home weighed on her, and a sense of longing for what she had left behind settled in her heart. It was as if she already missed the North, its quiet beauty and the familiar embrace of Winterfell.

Cregan, riding alongside his sister, raised an eyebrow. "Something on your mind, Sansa?"

"Just basking in the glory of our home." Sansa replied, her eyes scanning the endless horizon. "We'll be entering a different world soon."

"Duty calls." Cregan grunted in agreement. "We've got to dance to their tune, even if we can't figure out the steps."

The journey continued, the road stretching ahead like an unending tapestry of uncertainty. As they moved farther from the familiar contours of Winterfell, the shadow of annoyance grew, eclipsing the curiosity that initially accompanied their Southern sojourn.

In the evenings, as they set up camp, Sansa and Cregan would share moments of silent reflection. The North, with its towering walls and ancient castles, felt like a distant memory. The South, with its political intricacies and alien customs, became a reality they had to confront.

"Twenty days until King's Landing." Sansa murmured, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

Cregan, his gaze following the same horizon, nodded in silent agreement. The road to King's Landing, like a river winding through unfamiliar lands, carried them closer to a destiny entwined with the fate of the Seven Kingdoms—a destiny that neither of them could escape, even if the taste of Southern irritation lingered on their tongues.

Day by day, the subtle warmth of the South crept into their journey, coaxing Sansa and Cregan to shed layers of their accustomed Northern garments. The furs and heavy cloaks that were a second skin in Winterfell now felt burdensome under the burgeoning Southern sun. The landscape transformed from the towering pines of the North to the rolling hills and expansive plains of the Neck.

On the 10th day, Sansa cast a wary glance at the sky as she unclasped the cloak that had shielded her from the Northern winds. The air, once crisp and biting, now carried a gentler touch. It was a silent acknowledgment of their passage from the familiar chill of the North into the milder climate of the South.

As the road wound through the Neck and into the Vale of Arryn, Sansa found herself grappling with an unexpected discomfort. The cool breeze that had been her constant companion since leaving Winterfell was replaced by a warmth that felt unfamiliar. She longed for the bite of winter, the scent of pine that lingered in the Northern air.

On the 15th day, as they traversed further into the Vale, Sansa's frustration reached a tipping point. The lush greenery and temperate climate, while undoubtedly pleasant to many, grated against the ingrained sensibilities of the Lady of Winterfell.

"We've crossed the Neck, Sansa." Cregan stated, his tone carrying a note of caution. The Vale lies ahead."

Sansa's eyes, once filled with curiosity, now bore a glint of aggravation. "It's too warm."

Cregan, understanding his sister's sentiments, offered a sympathetic nod. Looking over the rest of their Bannerman surrounding them, he replied, "Seems our men shares your distaste of the southern air."

Sansa, her gaze fixed on the horizon, couldn't shake the sense of displacement that accompanied their journey. The farther they ventured into the unfamiliar territories of the South, the more she longed for the familiar embrace of Winterfell.

As they pressed onward, Sansa found herself caught between the memories of Winterfell's cold embrace and the ever-warming breeze of the South—a journey of physical distance and emotional dissonance. The road to King's Landing, fraught with both external challenges and internal conflicts, stretched before them, promising a destination that seemed increasingly distant from the home they knew.

The gateway of King's Landing loomed before Sansa and Cregan Stark, a colossal entrance into a realm vastly different from the North. No longer clad in the thick garments that shielded them against the Northern winds, they strode forward in their respective armor, the direwolf sigil proudly displayed—a symbol of Northern resilience in the face of Southern unfamiliarity.

As they moved inside the city, the stark contrast between the North and the capital of the Seven Kingdoms became apparent. The markets were a riot of colors and sounds, merchants hawking exotic goods from distant lands. Garments of rich fabrics adorned the citizens, a stark departure from the practical furs and woolens of Winterfell. The hustle and bustle of the city seemed to pulse with a life of its own, a stark contrast to the quietude of the North.

Sansa, her gaze sweeping over the unfamiliar surroundings, felt a knot of trepidation tightening in her chest. The overwhelming sense of unfamiliarity was both exhilarating and disconcerting. The air, heavy with the scents of spices and foreign perfumes, held an essence that Sansa couldn't quite place.

Cregan, walking beside his sister, observed the Southern city with a stoic demeanor, though the subtle furrow in his brow betrayed the weight of their displacement. The towering Red Keep, visible in the distance, seemed like a distant fortress from a dream—a place where power and politics intertwined in ways that were foreign to House Stark.

The crowds moved like a river through the city, and Sansa and Cregan found themselves carried along, their Northern armor cutting through the sea of Southern fabrics. The unfamiliarity, though tinged with an underlying sense of fear, also held an element of intrigue—a glimpse into a world that had only existed in stories and whispers.

As they continued deeper into King's Landing, Sansa and Cregan couldn't escape the realization that they were outsiders in this bustling Southern hub. The North, with its vastness and solitude, felt like a distant memory. In its place stood a city teeming with life and complexity, where every corner held secrets and every face seemed to conceal its own agenda.

"It looks as if time itself runs faster here." Sansa observed.

Cregan grunted in agreement, his eyes narrowing at the myriad colors and sounds that assaulted his senses.

The air was thick with the scents of exotic spices and foreign perfumes, a stark departure from the crisp scent of pine that lingered in the Northern air. As they made their way through the crowded streets, Sansa bit her tongue to suppress the urge to voice her Northern disdain. The South, with its ornate architecture and lavish displays of wealth, felt like an alien realm.

"Northerners don't belong here," Sansa muttered under her breath, her frustration simmering.

"Aye," Cregan responded, "We don't."

The journey became a test of restraint for Sansa and Cregan. The Northerners, fiercely proud of their traditions, had little patience for the subtleties of Southern courtly life. Sansa, in particular, found herself biting her tongue more than once, suppressing the urge to express her Northern bluntness in a land that valued diplomacy.

"But remember, Sansa, every word and gesture will be scrutinized." Cregan reminded his sister, his tone a mixture of caution and understanding. "We're guests in their realm."

Sansa nodded, the weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders. The road to King's Landing stretched before them, a path that led not only to the seat of power but also to the heart of a realm where dragons ruled and alliances shifted like the winds.

The grandeur of the Red Keep's halls enveloped Sansa and Cregan as they were escorted to the council chamber, where they expected to meet King Viserys. However, upon entering, they were met with an unexpected sight—King Viserys was not present. Instead, the Queen Alicent and the King's Hand, Otto Hightower, awaited them.

Sansa and Cregan exchanged a subtle glance, a silent acknowledgment of the peculiarity of the situation. The rumors about the King's declining health had circulated, but the extent of his infirmity had not fully registered until this moment.

"Lord Cregan, Lady Sansa, welcome to the Red Keep. I trust your journey was eventful?" Queen Alicent, regal and composed, extended a courteous nod of welcome.

"As eventful as one could hope for, Your Grace." Cregan offered a respectful nod in return.

"Thank you, Your Grace." Sansa, her gaze lingering on the Queen's composed demeanor, replied, "The journey was as smooth as can be expected."

"Forgive the King's absence. His health has been a cause for concern, and attending to matters of state has become increasingly challenging." Otto Hightower, the King's Hand, interjected with a cordial tone.

Sansa and Cregan exchanged a glance, their thoughts mirrored in unspoken words. The absence of King Viserys cast a shadow over the grandeur of the Red Keep, and the implications of his weakened state raised questions about the stability of the realm.

"Rest assured," Queen Alicent, keenly aware of the unspoken tension, continued, "King Viserys would have welcomed you personally if he were able. In his stead, we are here to extend the hospitality of the crown."

Sansa and Cregan, despite the unexpected circumstances, offered courteous nods of gratitude. The journey from Winterfell to King's Landing had already been fraught with unfamiliarity, and the absence of the King served as a stark reminder that they had entered a realm shaped by political intricacies and uncertainty.

"Why have we been summoned to the capital? " Cregan cuts to the chase, his voice steady yet brimming with curiosity. "What is the nature of this proposition?"

Instead of answering in the council chamber, they were led to a separate room where the air seemed charged with the weight of impending revelations. The room was adorned with the sigils of the Seven Kingdoms, a reminder of the collective power that shaped the fate of Westeros.

Sansa and Cregan stepped into the council room, their eyes quickly assessing the assembly within. Queen Alicent, the authoritative Hand Otto Hightower, and the councilmen occupied the space, their presence unmistakable. Yet, what drew her attention was the unexpected figure of the second-born son of King Viserys and Alicent Hightower. She recalled his name as Aemond. Aemond Targaryen. The rumors had not exaggerated. He stood there, an eyepatch concealing a significant scar above, a testament to battles fought mayhaps, or an accident in training. Despite the mark, he carried himself regally, unmistakably a fine prince in the room. As Sansa's gaze briefly met his, there was an unspoken curiosity that passed between them.

The council room, adorned with the symbols of power, witnessed a tense gathering as Sansa and Cregan took their seats. The exchange of pleasantries echoed in the air, a surface-level politeness that veiled the deeper currents of political intrigue and power play.

"Once again, Lord Cregan, Lady Sansa, we thank you for making the journey to King's Landing." Queen Alicent, with a regal grace that belied the complexities at play, once again extended her gratitude. "Your presence here is of great importance."

Sansa, though offering a polite nod in return, couldn't shake the undercurrent of skepticism that lingered beneath the queen's words. The acknowledgment of their importance felt more like a reminder of their place within the intricate hierarchy of the realm.

How can we not, Your Grace? Sansa thought, her inner voice echoing with a touch of bitterness. Mere servants under the crown's eyes, expected to dance to the tune of Southern politics.

Cregan, ever composed, maintained a stoic facade as he inclined his head in acknowledgment. Queen Alicent, her eyes meeting Sansa's with a knowing glint, continued with the formalities, all the while aware of the unspoken tensions in the room.

The council room's atmosphere grew tense as Queen Alicent continued, her words hanging in the air like a delicate tapestry, each thread revealing a piece of the Southern proposition. Sansa and Cregan exchanged subtle glances, a silent acknowledgment of the intricacies they were about to navigate.

"The nature of this proposition," Queen Alicent began, her eyes shifting between Sansa and Cregan, "is to strengthen the alliance between the Iron Throne and the North. The Crown seeks unity, a binding force that will ensure the stability of the realm."

Sansa, despite her composed exterior, felt a flicker of unease. The mention of an alliance with the North was expected, but the form it would take remained a mystery. She cast a glance at Cregan, her eyes silently conveying a near boastful sentiment. Sansa had suspected that the Crown might seek a marriage alliance, and she had envisioned Cregan being the focal point.

To her surprise, Queen Alicent's next words shattered Sansa's assumptions. "However, it is not Lord Cregan's hand that we wish to bind in alliance. It is yours, Lady Sansa."

Sansa's eyes widened in disbelief, and her gaze darted to Cregan, who wore an expression of equal astonishment. The room seemed to close in around them as the weight of the revelation settled like a stone in the pit of Sansa's stomach.

Cregan, ever stoic, turned to Sansa, his eyes betraying a mixture of realization and concern. Sansa, in turn, fought to maintain her composure. The alliance sought by the Crown had taken an unexpected turn, and the burden of securing the North's loyalty now rested squarely on Sansa's shoulders.

"Your Grace, I must admit, this proposal is unexpected. May I inquire about the specifics of this alliance and why it is Lady Sansa who is to be wed, rather than myself as the Lord of Winterfell?" Cregan's expression a mix of incredulity and concern, spoke up, seeking clarification from Queen Alicent.

Queen Alicent, her regal demeanor unwavering, leaned forward slightly as she explained, "Lord Cregan, it is true that the Crown seeks a union with the North, but the dynamics of our House present a unique challenge. Helaena, my daughter, is already wed to my first-born son, Aegon. I have no other daughters to be promised to you. However, the Crown sees the potential for a strong alliance through a different avenue."

Sansa, her gaze fixed on the Queen, felt a knot of anticipation tighten within her. The unexpected twist in the Southern proposition hung in the air, and the Queen's next words unveiled the true nature of the alliance.

"It is my son, Aemond, who would be wed to Lady Sansa. Aemond Targaryen, the second-born son of King Viserys and myself, is present in this council room for a reason."

Aemond, who had remained silent until now, met Sansa's eyes with a steady gaze that held a mixture of curiosity and a hint of resignation. The weight of the moment settled upon the Lady of Winterfell, and she exchanged a glance with Cregan, both silently processing the implications of the Crown's unexpected proposal.

The council room, once abuzz with discussions and explanations, fell into an uneasy silence as Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, posed the question that hung in the air like a heavy cloak.

"And if I refuse?" Sansa's voice, though calm, carried a weight that resonated through the room. The councilmen exchanged uncertain glances, their allegiance torn between the loyalty owed to the Crown and the acknowledgment of the Lady's autonomy.

"Lady Sansa," Queen Alicent, her regal poise undeterred, met Sansa's gaze with a measured expression. "The Crown values unity and stability. Your refusal would not only defy the Crown but could potentially jeopardize the fragile balance we seek to maintain in these tumultuous times."

The tension in the room thickened as the gravity of Sansa's question hung in the air.

"So it is not a proposition, it's an order," Sansa declared, her voice carrying a stern resolve that echoed through the council room. The weight of defiance, though wrapped in the guise of Ladylike poise, hung in the air like an unspoken challenge to the Crown's authority.

"Sansa," Cregan interjected in a hushed tone, a plea for caution, an acknowledgment of the delicate balance they were navigating.

However, it was not Queen Alicent but Otto Hightower, the King's Hand, who had responded. "Lady Sansa, the Crown merely seeks what is best for the realm. The union proposed is not just a matter of preference but a strategic necessity in these trying times. Your cooperation is crucial for the stability of the Seven Kingdoms."

Queen Alicent, ever composed, took charge of the moment. "Lady Sansa, you will be given the necessary time to duly consider the terms of this proposed marriage. We understand the weight of this decision and acknowledge the importance of your deliberation."

The Queen's words, though carrying a veneer of courtesy, held an unspoken expectation. Sansa and Cregan, now bound to the complexities of Southern politics, were to stay in the capital for the next week, a timeframe designated to solidify the union that the Crown deemed imperative.

"During your stay," Queen Alicent continued, "we hope that you will reach an agreement that is acceptable to both parties. The Crown values the cooperation of House Stark, and we believe that this union is in the best interest of the realm."

The room, still fraught with tension, now held the promise of a temporary reprieve—a week for Sansa and Cregan to navigate the intricacies of the Southern court, consider the implications of the proposed marriage, and come to a decision that would shape the future of House Stark.

Sansa felt the weight of Aemond Targaryen's one-eyed gaze, an unrelenting focus that seemed to pierce through the delicate facade of courtly decorum. As the doors closed behind them, leaving the council room in their wake, Sansa's eyes met Aemond's, and an unspoken exchange transpired—an acknowledgment of the complexities that now intertwined their fates.

Aemond, the second-born son of King Viserys and Alicent Hightower, bore the legacy of House Targaryen in the form of a single piercing eye, a mark of distinction and, perhaps, a reflection of the trials that shaped the scion of dragons. She had wondered what happened for him to lose an eye.

The week ahead promised negotiations, considerations, and the delicate dance of alliances, but in that fleeting moment, Sansa and Aemond stood as silent participants in a drama that transcended the confines of courtly formalities.

As the council room doors closed behind them, Sansa and Cregan found themselves at the precipice of a pivotal week—one that would test their resilience, challenge their principles, and ultimately define their role in the unfolding drama of the Seven Kingdoms. The road to King's Landing, which began as a physical journey, had now transformed into a journey of choices, alliances, and the complexities of a realm where power, politics, and personal autonomy were in constant tension.

In the guest chambers of the Red Keep, where the Starks would be spending their stay at, Sansa's discontent found voice. The echoes of her frustration resonated through the air as she spoke to Cregan, her brother and confidant, about the unforeseen turn of events that had brought them to the heart of Southern intrigue.

"I cannot believe," Sansa lamented, her voice a whisper of exasperation, "that we've spent almost a month traversing these realms, only to be greeted by an absurd proposal. Marriage! As if it were the simplest solution to bind the North to the Crown. To wed without regard for one's heart? It might as well be their custom but I will not allow it to be ours."

Cregan, the level-headed anchor to Sansa's impassioned fervor, offered a measured response.

"Except," he began, his voice a calm counterpoint to Sansa's fervency, "mother and father were promised to one another. And by the end of it, they did share deep affection."

Sansa, unyielding in her stance, retorted with a distinction that cut through the nuanced shades of affection.

"Deep affection is not love, Cregan. It is not a compromise, nor a mere settling," Sansa affirmed, her words carrying a weight that echoed the ideals she held dear.

"What is it then?"

"I do not know." Sansa, pausing as if searching for the right words, finally responded, "I have never been in love."

"Precisely."

Cregan Stark observed his sister's quiet demeanor. The flickering candlelight played on the contours of her face, casting shadows that mirrored the tumult within her.

Sansa, usually composed and resolute, now bore an air of vulnerability. Her silence spoke volumes, and Cregan, attuned to the nuances of his sister's emotions, could see the unrest beneath it.

"I don't dispute what you say, Sansa. Yet, where dragons soar in the skies, we must consider this alliance."

"Love," Sansa continued, her tone a mixture of defiance and resignation, "should be the foundation of such unions, not political convenience. Our ancestors, beneath the heart tree in Winterfell, did they not pledge their troths in the name of love, honor, and duty?"

"Aye, Sansa." Cregan, his expression unwavering, acknowledged Sansa's sentiments. "But these are different times. Love, as noble as it may be, often takes a backseat to the demands of the hour."

"There is more to this than a mere alliance." Sansa, though comforted by Cregan's steadiness, countered with a resolute stance. "You think it too."

Her resolute stance unwavering as she met Cregan's gaze. In the muted glow of the chamber, where shadows clung to the stone walls, Sansa's eyes held a glint of determination that mirrored the Northern steel of her ancestors.

"I see that while marriage is the simplest route, there are other means to forge bonds between Houses. Why thrust this now?" Cregan, the steady anchor to Sansa's fervency, acknowledged her observation. Cregan paused, his voice measured, "And that is a question I cannot answer."

The Stark siblings, now standing on the precipice of decisions that would shape the destiny of House Stark, found themselves confronting not only the complications of duty but also the mysteries of the Crown's intentions.

A new day in King's Landing dawned with a crispness that hinted the fresh morn. Sansa and Cregan found themselves walking through the labyrinthine halls of the Red Keep, where murmurs chattered in the background. The sun had awoken the siblings slowly, at least for Sansa. Cregan was still deep in slumber when she barged down inside his chambers and pulled the blanket out of his grasp to wake him. He had unintentionally called her a witch for doing so and Sansa paid it no mind for it happened a lot ever since they were children. Now dressed and less grumpy, they made their way through the bustling corridors, when a messenger approached Cregan with a summons from the Crown. It was an invitation to join Prince Aegon Targaryen on a hunting expedition.

Cregan never met the first born prince of the crown. He had many rumors, both great and lacking. Some say he was a dutiful prince, charming, adventurous. Some say he was crude, obnoxious, and drunk. The wolf of the north was not a cowardly man and he was dutiful. He accepted the summons and made his way to the courtyard where Prince Aegon awaited, his figure mounted atop a spirited steed. Prince Aegon does not resemble Prince Aemond much, he observed. Maybe if his hair was of the same length as the younger brother, but it falls only right under his chin. It was not silky nor treated as Aemond was, but greasy and rough. He looked less regal than his mother, and he seemed uninterested by this activity more so than Cregan himself. The air was thick with anticipation, and Cregan couldn't shake the feeling that this seemingly casual hunt held a significance beyond the pursuit of game.

"Lord Cregan," Aegon greeted, his words slurred with the remnants of last night's revelry, "Ready for a bit of sport, are we?"

So he is a drunk, Cregan thought,

Cregan, maintaining his stoic demeanor, nodded in response. "Aye, Prince Aegon. A hunt could prove refreshing."

As they rode into the outskirts of the city, nearing the borders of Kingswood, Cregan observed Aegon's demeanor with a discerning eye. The Prince's disposition, however, revealed a less than favorable character. Aegon's behavior, marked by rudeness and a penchant for drink, painted a portrait that contrasted sharply with the regal exterior expected of a Targaryen prince. Despite the uncouth nature of his companion, Cregan kept his cool, navigating the nuances of the hunt with a practiced ease. The conversation flowed in fits and starts, interspersed with Aegon's raucous laughter and slurred remarks.

As the day wore on, Cregan's thoughts turned to the broader implications of the Crown's intentions. In the heart of the forest, where the sounds of rustling leaves and distant wildlife intermingled with the clatter of hooves, the air was tinged with the earthy scent of the forest, and the duo rode side by side.

"So, Stark," Aegon started, as he leaned back in his saddle with an air of nonchalance. "What's the North like? Cold, I suppose? And filled with your wolves?"

"The North is cold, My Prince. As for the wolves, well, direwolf sightings are rare south of the Wall." Admitted Cregan, "Many lies beyond the wall."

"No wolves for the wolves of winter?" Aegon raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "How tragic. What do you Starks do without your furry companions?"

"My grandsire lived with a large black direwolf he named Shadow for the better part of his life. But, the wolf returned to the wild once his owner passed. Although, not many live near Winterfell anymore, we manage just fine without them. Wolves or no wolves, the North stands strong, and so do the Starks." Cregan shot back.

"No offense, Stark. " Aegon grinned, yet uninterested in the nuances of Northern life, dismissed the comment with a careless wave. "Wolves, Starks, honor—tedious topics, don't you think? I prefer the thrill of the hunt, the feel of blood on my hands."

Cregan, unfazed by Aegon's lack of decorum, retorted with a snarky yet respectful tone, "Ah, the thrill of the hunt. A noble pursuit, indeed. Though in the North, we hunt not just for sport but for sustenance. A different kind of thrill, one that serves a purpose beyond personal satisfaction."

As they rode deeper into the forest, Cregan's observations of Aegon's behavior became increasingly evident. The Prince's lack of honor and respect for the customs that defined the North grated on Cregan's sensibilities.

"Starks and their notions of honor. A pack of wolves, loyal to a fault." Aegon, growing more animated with each passing moment, raised a wineskin to his lips. "Boring, really."

"Honor may be boring to some, Prince Aegon," Cregan responded, choosing his next words carefully, "but it is the foundation on which the North stands. A foundation that has withstood the test of time."

Aegon found men like Cregan to be tedious beings. What has duty done to this men that they became so proud of flaunting the word so easily? He didn't understand it. He doubt he'll ever understand the meaning of duty. He loved his wine, his women, girls, men, and boys. His mother might tell him otherwise, but he was not meant for the throne. Obnoxious as he was, he was still self-aware that he would be an unfit ruler. The king never really acknowledged him as a son, not really. Aegon, along with Helaena, Aemond, and little Daeron, was simply just there. Duty was lifeless, duty was dull. That was all Aegon could believe in.

Within the confines of the Red Keep, Sansa found herself strongly advised—or rather subtly ordered—to remain within the castle walls. The Queen's suggestion, masked as a genteel invitation, held an unspoken expectations. Sansa was to join Aemond Targaryen for tea, a ploy to weave their relationship. Tea? She came all this way to the heart of the crown so sit and drink tea? A tea with the prince, little Sansa would often came to her mind. No, a tea with a dragon, the present her reminded herself.

She entered the designated chamber, the air hung with the fragrance of steeping tea. Aemond Targaryen awaited, reclining with an air of careless nonchalance. His one-eyed gaze met Sansa's, and his expression still. The cut under the patch looked deep and old. She wondered what could terribly have happened for him to lose his eye.

"Tea, Lady Sansa? A peculiar choice for a Northern lady." Aemond broke the silence with a brusque greeting.

"One would think dragons prefer a stronger brew. Seems your mother has other plans." Sansa replied with a sardonic smile, undeterred by Aemond's bluntness.

Aemond's gaze, sharp and unyielding, met hers as he took a sip from the delicate teacup. "My mother has her schemes, as do many in this court."

"And so the Prince cuts to the chase." Sansa, her wit undiminished, lifted her own cup, swirling the tea within. "Alliances, the lifeblood of the realm, is it not? A marriage here, a cup of tea there. All in the name of unity."

Aemond, unaccustomed to Sansa's dry humor, raised an eyebrow. "Unity is a fragile thing. It requires delicate handling, like this porcelain teacup, for example."

Sansa's laughter echoed through the chamber, a melodic sound that cut through the tension. "Yet, I've heard dragons prefer a more direct approach. Fire and blood, If i'm correct?"

"Fire and blood have their place. But sometimes, a cup of tea can be just as effective." Aemond's expression shifted, a flicker of amusement playing on his features. He leaned back with an air of indifference, remarked, "You Starks are a curious bunch. Wolves, honor, and now tea. What's next? A poetry recital in the godswood?"

"Perhaps, My Prince. Though, I fear your dragons might find the verses lacking in fire." Sansa, ever quick-witted, retorted, "But, as to remind you once more, your mother chose this activity."

"Ah, my mother's choices." Aemond clicked his tongue, "Tea, poetry, all part of a grand design."

Sansa, sipping her tea with an air of grace, nodded in agreement. "Where even a cup of tea carries the weight of alliances."

"Alliances, Lady,"Aemond, though initially brusque, found himself drawn into the banter. "can be forged in the oddest of places. Even amidst verses and teacups."

Sansa's laughter, a melodic sound that echoed through the chamber, filled the air. "And so, we find ourselves here—two unlikely allies bound by a cup of tea."

As the tea was poured and the tension in the room simmered, Aemond and Sansa sat with a blend of sarcasm and candor. The tea, though steeped in tradition, became a vessel for the forging alliances in a realm where dragons soared and wolves tread carefully in their shadows. Aemond hadn't really looked at her the first time they met when she arrived the day before. She was taller than most ladies he's met, but still a good few inches under him. Her sitting posture was almost as perfect as his mother. She grew up with decorum then, he observed. Her hair a shade or auburn he never seen before, deep in some parts, vibrant in places when the sun touched her head. She was anything but ugly and he would be a fool to think otherwise.

"I do not wish to be promised to you, My Prince." Sansa admitted quite bluntly. She was always too honest for her own good. "And I don't doubt that you are as displeased about this union as I am."

"Honesty, a rare trait in this court." Aemond replied, regarded Sansa with a raised eyebrow, "How do you know I am displeased with this union?"

Sansa almost rolled her eyes at his question. Was he truly taking her as a fool?

"Three sips I've taken of this tea and you have not once asked me anything regarding my interests." Sansa answered as a matter of factly, "That could be offensive to a lady, My Prince."

"I meant no offense." Aemond answered callously.

"I'm sure you didn't." Sansa retorted with similar disdain in her voice, looking out into the garden instead of him.

His finger touched the spoon of his tea, moving it aimlessly, before admitting, "I have my own misgivings about this union."

"It seems we are pawns in a game played by others."

"I did not expect to find common ground with a Stark." Aemond, his expression reflecting a mix of resignation and understanding, nodded in agreement. Sansa did not answer immediately and Aemond noticed her bemused expression, "No flattery intended. Just an acknowledgment that agreements are found in the unlikeliest of places."

"An acknowledgment or a resignation?" Sansa, her demeanor retaining a hint of skepticism, raised an eyebrow. "Will you even enjoy being wedded to a Stark?"

Aemond, his one-eyed gaze steady, replied, "It seems we have little choice."

From afar, Queen Alicent and Otto Hightower observed the unfolding scene in the chamber, where Sansa and Aemond engaged in a conversation that hinted at the complexities of their newfound alliance. Sansa, ever perceptive, noticed the scrutinizing gaze of their audience.

"They are watching us," she stated, her tone tinged with a blend of sarcasm and amusement.

Without looking at where Sansa was gazing, Aemond, his expression unreadable, said, "The puppeteers overseeing their players."

Sansa, taken aback by the bluntness of Aemond's observation, glanced at him with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. The term "puppeteers" held a weight of implication, and she couldn't help but wonder at the underlying sentiments behind Aemond's words.

"Was that what you were thinking?" Aemond asked Sansa candidly, his one-eyed gaze fixed on her.

Sansa took her eyes off him, and with a subtle shift in her demeanor. Aemond, acknowledging her silence with a smirk, observed as she subtly changed the subject.

"I wish to return to my chambers," she declared, her tone carrying a hint of weariness. "I'm feeling sickly after the long hours we spent on horseback as we journeyed here, My Prince."

Aemond, though perceptive, chose not to press further. "As you wish, Lady Sansa."

As she exited the chamber, Sansa's excuse lingered in the air—a subtle deflection that allowed her to retreat from the scrutiny of both the puppeteers and the puppeted.

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