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dansnaturepictures · 1 year

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01/01/2023-Blog 1 of 2: Lakeside and home

There is a unique feeling that comes over me as one year reaches its end and the hours tick by until first light of a new one, it’s reminiscent of that childhood excitement of waking up on Christmas morning. A feeling of excitement for the unknown, waking up having not seen a single species of bird yet in the New Year and that beautiful mystery of what is to come. I just love starting new bird year lists and having to look for all the species again, the first few days of the New Year are a time when seeing even the commonest birds make me so excited and it’s one of my favourite times of year. You only get this unique morning once in a year so it’s one to savour. My birdwatching for 2023 got off to a fantastic start with 29 species seen between home and on my tradition of a New Year’s Day morning walk at Lakeside Country Park.

At Lakeside this year it was a tale of two families, woodpecker and thrush. As soon as I got towards Lakeside along the northern path and in the woods late on in a long walk round looking for and watching for things in most parts of the country park respectively I saw two each of Green Woodpecker and Great Spotted Woodpecker both of the pairs interacting with each other the greens doing a bit of bill rubbing the great spotted noisily interacting. These were euphoric moments seeing the first two of my thirty four favourite bird species this year always a powerful moment. It’s only the third time I’ve seen Great Spotted Woodpecker one I don’t always see here but had recently on the New Year’s Day Lakeside walk, and each of those times I’ve managed to see Green Woodpecker a more regular one I see at Lakeside and on New Year’s Days as well. I took the tenth picture in this photoset of one of the Great Spotted Woodpeckers. Thrush wise another standout species Redwing beat the commoner Blackbird onto my chronologically ordered year list by one place and a few minutes, it’s always nice when I see something before something commoner and adds to the charm of New Year for me, as I got stunning views of this gorgeous species near the north eastern kissing gate entrance in trees for the second year running. I heard Song Thrush well in the eastern meadows but didn’t see one, but in the woods had perhaps that standout moment I get on these Lakeside New Year’s Day walks which sets it apart from all other years in terms of something different happening that is unique in the year when I spotted a big bold Mistle Thrush high in a tree. Not only a year tick, but a patch tick too the first I’ve ever seen at Lakeside it was great to get that so early on in 2023.

The eastern meadows especially an area by gorse and trees proved productive with Goldcrest, Dunnock and Long-tailed Tit seen well with Wren nearby seen elsewhere on the walk too other key year ticks of the walk. Coot, Moorhen, Common Gull for the second year running on this walk which is brilliant a bird I do like, Mallard as shown in the eighth picture I took today in this photoset and a Greylag Goose flying over the park added the splash of waterbirds to the walk to help the variety to help it be a pleasingly long list of species seen. I took the fifth picture in this photoset of a Black-headed Gull atop a buoy with Moorhens below it seeing one of the former with a summer plumage chocolate brown head coming interestingly. At home for the first time ever that bird I opened the curtains to as though unwrapping a present as I heard them as two were on the feeder, my first bird species seen this year was my favourite garden bird the Goldfinch I saw it nicely at Lakeside too. Garden bird regulars but still quite notable ones right now Blue Tit and Robin as the first picture in this photoset shows, a House Sparrow and Pied Wagtail on the road as soon as I got out the door were other home highlights. The rest of my year ticks this morning are listed below.

It was good to take part in the New Year Plant Hunt as I did last year, where it was great to see the dependable in flower gorse I always seem to find some at Lakeside on New Year’s Day now and amazingly some winter heliotrope a very beautiful flower I enjoyed and learnt on the verges by the road entrance last year there was one flower there which was so delicate and alluring to see I took the second picture in this photoset of them. I also saw red deadnettle, daisy and yarrow out the front on the walk to Lakeside with gone over dock I believe, dandelion type flowers coming to their end, the common or garlic penny cress out the front which I have enjoyed seeing again a lot the past few days, with cleavers and teasel seed heads standing out at Lakeside and berries, rose hips and yellow leaves on a rose bush at Lakeside looking nice on the walk with some coloured leaves on a tree and lots of beautiful catkins at Lakeside including those shown in the third picture in this set.

The fungi on the post between the lakes which I saw on Friday in the sixth picture I took today in this photoset and others like it on trees was a highlight of the walk as well as one other mushroom seen. It was great just to be out in the morning enjoying starting the year in the comfortable surrounds of the outdoors for me, and I took in some beautiful views over the lakes in good weather for the walk with notable flooded areas and frequent puddles and creamy light behind the clouds the wetness of the landscape the key landscape feature that is also unique to the year I seem to get for this annual walk for me now. I took the fourth, seventh and ninth pictures in this photoset of views here.

Wildlife Sightings Summary: (Home)-My first Goldfinch, Carrion Crow, Robin, Feral Pigeon, Starling, Woodpigeon, Collared Dove, Blue Tit, Jackdaw, House Sparrow and Black-headed Gull of the year, Magpie, Grey Silverfish, spiders and an insect flying around the room tonight. I saw my first Magpie and Pied Wagtail of the year on the way to Lakeside I often seem to see these two similarly sounding named birds close to each other on the way to Lakeside on New Year’s Day and I first caught sight this year of one of my favourite birds the Green Woodpecker from outside the park to the north of it. (Lakeside Country Park) My first Mistle Thrush of the year and at Lakeside ever, my first of one of my favourite birds the Great Spotted Woodpecker this year, my first Redwing, Blackbird, Herring Gull, Wren, Dunnock, Goldcrest, Long-tailed Tit, Great Tit with a few of these seen well, Coot, Moorhen, Common Gull, Mallard and Greylag Goose of the year, my first Grey Squirrel of the year, another of my favourite birds the Green Woodpecker, Goldfinch, Robin, Blue Tit, Woodpigeon, Collared Dove, Jackdaw, Magpie and Black-headed Gull.

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moon-rivr · 7 months

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fetish

pairing: ex boyfriend miguel x fem reader

warnings: oral (f and m receiving), doggy, and mating press (pretty sure i probs forgot smth 🧍🏻)

author’s note: i got the idea from listening to the song and i hope you enjoy lol :)

word count: 2830

You swore to yourself that last time was the last time that you would hook up with your ex again, but despite how much you wanted to, you still found your way under his sheets again. Even though you said those words to him at the end of the night, you both knew you were lying and would continue with that cycle. Miguel wasn't a bad boyfriend per se, he did have some struggles with communicating properly and had some unresolved mommy issues, but he treated you like you were the most valuable thing in his life. In the time that you did spend together anyways, since he did always prioritize the Spider Society over you.

You spent your day off running some errands and taking care of your mental health, watching some tv and finding ways to unwind for the following work week. Around 11 while you were binging your favorite series, your phone pinged with a message from Miguel.

stop going back to him(pls): I managed to leave hq early if you wanna come over. I bought those empanadas you liked from Queens.

You felt the internal conflict in your brain, wanting to say no to him and stay home but you also knew that a part of you missed having Miguel hold you and tell you sweet nothings after having sex. You thought about it for a couple seconds before realizing that you'd binged the entire series in one sitting, blaming that as the reason why you would go over to Miguel's place. You wanted to be mad at him for reaching out after telling him that last time would be the last time, but how could you if you kept going back despite pushing him away?

Your palms grew clammy as you paced around Miguel's front porch, thinking if you should just run away and never come back here. You stopped your pacing and looked up when you heard the front door open, seeing Miguel standing there with a puzzled look on his face. "I didn't mean to interrupt your quarter life crisis but my camera sent out an alert," he spoke up a bit later, rubbing the back of his back awkwardly. Your common sense went out the window when you saw him leaning against the doorframe in just a pair of grey sweatpants hung just low enough to get a glimpse of his happy trail and water droplets clinging to his pecs like he just got out the shower.

You stepped into his house, noting that he'd made it look a bit more homely, turning on a eucalyptus candle and had even gotten a small, black cat. Your brow arched as the cat approached you, since Miguel wasn't too fond of animals usually, but you bent down to pet it nonetheless. "My therapist said it might be helpful to get some sort of grieving buddy," he mumbled, his cheeks turning red from embarrassment. "It's cute, what's it's name?" you asked, taking the cat in your arms as you stroked its back. "That's Apollo, he's a pretty decent cat. Doesn't poop outside the litter box," Miguel said, looking over at you as you scratched Apollo’s belly and sat down on the couch.

Miguel handed you the empanada he'd mentioned in the texts wrapped up in a napkin along with a ice cold Coke. "Colombian empanadas?" You asked, pursing your lips a little in amusement since you knew Miguel usually preferred mexican ones. "The little mexican restaurant around the corner was closed, but I'll have to give it to you, those are pretty good," he replied as he sat down on the couch next to you, turning on the tv. He placed one arm around your shoulders as you ate your empanada, just enjoying the pleasure of your company at the moment. "How's it going at the society?" You asked curiously, glancing over at him as you saw his jaw clench a bit. "It's good, got some new recruits and we're in the process of training them," he says after a couple seconds, his jaw unclenching as he takes a bite out of his empanada.

About half an hour later, you two had finished up eating up the empanadas and were just curled up on the couch watching Breaking Bad. "What if we run off to New Mexico and cook meth?" You asked Miguel, your lips curling into a smile as he shook his head, laughing a bit. "Knowing you, we'd probably end up burning the rv," he replied, poking your cheek teasingly. "Well that's what you're there for, for all the science-y stuff while I sit there and look pretty," you told him, a grin on your face as you made the suggestion. His hand gently rubbed circles on your lower back as you leaned against his shoulder, before he spoke out again, "Do you wanna head to the bedroom?"

You knew you should've stopped it there, after he asked you that question but you couldn't help but nod and walk with him to the bedroom. He walked with you to the bedroom, leaving the cat laying on the couch, while his hand gently stroked your back. The physical affection he was giving you was unusual, but you still basked it in the small acts nonetheless. He closed the door behind you, grabbing some of the research papers he had on his bed and putting them off to the side. You took off your shoes and set them off the side, looking over at Miguel as he walked closer to you.

"I missed you," he whispered against your neck, his fangs gently grazing the skin as he started to kiss it. You felt your legs tremble underneath you from how sweetly his lips were running against your skin and Miguel gestured for you to jump, leading you two to his bed. He sat down, placing you on his lap as he started to unbutton your blouse. "Siempre te ves tan chula, corazón," he spoke softly, like the words were only dignified to be heard by you two as he leaned in and pressed soft kisses on your collarbone. He bit down on your shoulder and ran over it with his tongue, letting out a soft moan as your hands tugged on his hair. He continued to nip and lick at your skin, soft moans and heavy breaths filling up the room before he reached your bra. "Are you sure about this, querida?" He asked, his finger toying with the strap as he looked at you for any signs of discomfort. "I'm sure," you replied, watching as his eyes darkened with need and he snapped your bra with his talon. (you always look so gorgeous, love/darling)

"Was it really necessary to snap my bra off?" You grumbled a bit, the thought dying off as you felt his mouth envelop your nipple. "I'll buy you as many bras as you want," he murmured, lifting his head up slightly so you'd hear him before going back to sucking on your nipples. His tongue formed small circles around your areola as your hands wound tightly in his hair. His other hand began rubbing small circles too, providing you with the same amount of pleasure in each one. He pulled away from your nipple a couple seconds later just to switch places, leaving small marks and hickeys in his wake.

He laid you down on the bed after he was sufficiently satisfied with the marks he left on your breasts, working on taking off your pants. You saw the look in his eyes darken a bit as he spread your legs apart, realizing that you weren't wearing any panties. "Toda mojadita y solo para mí, hm?" He said as he got in between your legs, looking up at you. "Solo para ti," you murmured, your hands tangled up in his hair as he slowly started kissing on your calves. It was true, even if you reprimanded yourself every time you exited Miguel's house with your makeup messed up, nobody could make you feel or make you cum the same way that he did. His mouth moved upwards, leaving small kisses as he did before he reached your pussy. He let out a small chuckle as he saw you open your legs instinctively, almost welcoming him in. "What if we try something new?" (all wet and just for me/just for you)

When Miguel had suggested something new, your brain started conjuring up what he could be talking about but you didn't think he'd actually tell you to sit on his face. "I'm Spider-Man, cmon, what could go wrong?" He remarked after you made a comment about crashing his face, your face flushing a shade of deep red. "Fine, but if it starts to get too much just tell me," you said to him after a while of consideration, sitting on his lap. "I think I should be the one telling you that," he replied with a small chuckle, helping you move up to his face. You felt yourself growing nervous as you looked down at Miguel, his eyes glistening with want. You decided to hover against his face for now, feeling his tongue gently running through your thighs.

"I thought I told you to use my face like a damn chair. ¿Qué parte de eso no entiendes, preciosura?" He asked, tsking his tongue as his hands pushed down on your thighs. You gave up on your last bit of resistance when you noticed how much he seemed to want it, your thighs on either side of his face. He let out a small groan as he licked a stripe on your folds, your thighs enclosing tighter around his head. He pulled on your folds gently, his hands massaging your thighs as he took his time to really taste you. (what part of that don’t you understand, precious?)

His tongue slipped inside, licking away at the wetness that was building up. He plunged his tongue deep inside of you, swirling it in just the right way that had your mouth wide open and your hands gripping his hair tightly. "Don't stop," you moaned out, feeling him start to suck on your pussy with a new vigor. You began moving your hips against his face, seeking out your release. His mouth closed around your clit, sucking on it and licking it with just the right amount of pressure as two of his fingers plunged deep inside you. He curled his fingers, pumping them in and out at a steady pace and you felt your orgasm building up. "Miguel, I'm about to cum," you warned, but he didn't relent and held you down with his other hand.

He started licking up your release from your pussy and off his fingers, helping you get off his face. You got a good look at his face, noticing how soaked his mouth and chin were but he didn't seem to care. "Tan deliciosa," he murmured, raising your chin as he kissed you softly. The taste of you and him combined was intoxicating, something that you couldn't get in another place. You got down on your knees, starting to take Miguel's sweats off before he did it for you, taking them off in record time. "And here you were calling me out for not having panties," you said with a small laugh, his cock slapping your chin as he finished up with taking off his pants. "Gotta let the cheeks breathe." (so delicious)

You swiped the precum building up at the tip with your pointer finger, your gaze on him as you licked it. Your mouth enclosed around his cock, your gaze on him as you started to suck on the tip. He put his hand at the back of your head, slowly starting to guide you deeper. One of your hands was wrapped around his shaft, pumping the parts that you couldn't take in your mouth as your other hand cupped his balls, massaging them. He let out a moan when he looked down to see your nose pressed against his pubic hair, his cock hitting the back of your throat. You pulled away, a string of saliva left before you went back to sucking on his cock.

He let out a guttural moan as your mouth enclosed around his cock perfectly, your hands cupping and tugging on his balls. You took more of his length in your mouth, looking up at him as the tip of his cock touched the back of your throat. "I'm gonna cum, princesa," he moaned out, his hand on the back of your head. You didn't relent, your mouth still taking his length entirely as he shot out spurts of cum in your mouth. He released completely in your moan, your eyes capturing his as you swallowed his cum. He took your hand, helping you up as he guided you back to the bed. "On your hands and knees, cariño." (princess/sweetheart)

You quickly got to your hands and knees, letting out a small yelp as you felt a slap on your ass. He gripped your hips tightly as he slipped inside you, your previous orgasm providing him with the lubrication he needed. He started off slow, his hands on your hips as he thrusted before quickening his pace. His heavy balls slapped against your thighs as his hips moved at an animalistic pace to help you both reach that peak of pleasure. His hand pulled on your hair, pulling you close to him as he kissed on your shoulders, biting down. He couldn't help but smile at seeing your shoulders marked by him, knowing that he imprinted himself on you at least for a couple days. One of his hands moved down to your clit, rubbing fervent circles on it as he basked in the way your hands clawed at the sheets underneath you. Your mouth contorted in an 'o' shape, letting out moans of Miguel's name.

"Right there, Miguel!" You moaned out loudly, holding the sheets underneath you in a vice as you felt your orgasm building up once more. With one final thrust of his hips, you slumped against the bed as you came, clear liquid coating the base of Miguel's cock. You took a few moments to come down from your high, looking over to see that Miguel was already ready for the second round. You laid on your back when he pushed your knees against your chest, slowly pushing his cock back inside you.

Your walls tightly clamped around his cock as he started to thrust inside you, your hands gripping the sheets tightly as he started to move faster. Miguel’s gaze was focused on the way your breasts bounced with each of his thrusts. His hands moved to grip your hips tightly as he thrusted faster, your walls clenching around him tightly. "You say each time is the last one but no one can fuck you like this, hm?" He said, his mouth in a cocky smirk as he continued to move against you. "No! Nobody can," You babbled, all coherent thought dying with each one of his thrusts. He let out a small chuckle before one of his hands started to circle around your clit, rubbing it just right. The tip of his cock kissed your cervix as he thrusted deeply, your hands clutching onto the sheets even tighter.

You let out a loud moan as you felt his cock brush up against your g-spot, your toes curling as he made it his mission to continue to hit that spot. Your walls clenched around his cock tightly before you came once more, clear white liquid hitting his abdomen. "No one else can make you squirt like I can, isn't that right?" He teased you, thrusting in you one last time before he came, his cum dripping from your pussy to his bedsheets. He took out his softening cock out of you a couple seconds later, grabbing a rag from his bedside table to clean you up.

"You don't have to go right away, y'know? Stay a while," he spoke up after a while, rubbing small circles on your stomach as he looked at you. However, you were already wallowing in regret as he did so, blaming yourself for not having enough self control to deny his desires every time he called. Despite all this, you did stay for a while and enjoyed his company, pretending for a moment that he did actually want something more with you apart from a late night fuck.

You quickly picked up your clothes about an hour later, putting them on as you glanced over to see Miguel already looking at you. You finished up getting dressed and fixed up your hair, dipping your head down to kiss his cheek. You lingered for a moment before whispering, "This is the last time."

You could only hoped that you sounded convincing enough to Miguel.

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 7 months

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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 5: Turn Off The Lights And Turn Off The Shyness]

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

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, Otto being the worst (per usual), violence, serious injury, cryptic Helaena prophecies, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content including noncon (18+), dragons, demented flirting, a late-night surprise, Larys Strong returns. 😞

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

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Of All The Gin Joints In All The World” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.3k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

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

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜

The sun would burn him, but moonlight is kind. You’re on the balcony of Aegon’s bedchamber, two chairs, two cups of wine, another full pitcher on the table between you, a glass bottle of warm rose oil like amber, like gold, freckled with curled ruby petals. You’re dressed in your usual attire, simple designs and neutral colors, greys and creams and dusky pinks; tonight your gown is a flat, inky blue that matches the night sky. Aegon is wearing his unpretentious cotton trousers—stained with splotches of pomegranate juice, his recompense before you allowed him the wine—and a tiny braid in his shaggy, silver hair.

“I look like your house’s sigil,” Aegon says as he massages rose oil onto his forearms, his palms moving in large sloppy circles over a patchwork of scar tissue; you would do a better job, but he says he wants to learn how to care for his wounds on his own. His dragon ring—gold wings, jade eyes—gleams in the cool, ghostly moonshine. His words are teasing, but his tone is dark, troubled, weary. “Some red, some white. All ugly.”

You smile. You aren’t agreeing, just playing along. “Our motto is better than our flag.”

“I might have been inebriated during that lesson.”

“Perpetual Resurrection.”

Aegon looks at you, confounded. “Quite the mouthful.”

“Crabs molt throughout their lifetime. They crack their own skins open and climb out. If they get stuck, they die. If they get attacked before their new shell hardens, they die. But if they live…they’re a brand new version of themselves. Larger, wiser, more powerful.”

“Spiders,” Aegon says. “You’re trying to placate me with some rousing metaphor about what are essentially aquatic spiders.”

“They’re tasty too,” you say, grinning. “Especially when their shells are still soft. The cooks would serve them fried and us kids would sit around the table ripping the legs free and throwing them at each other.”

“What, you can eat the crab whole?!”

“Yes. Once the faces are cut off and the organs scooped out.”

He pretends to be repulsed by you. “Harrowing. Revolting. This is why Targaryens have always refused to breed with your kind.”

It’s funny, but it isn’t, because it’s a little too close to what you’re both thinking. Under the moonlight, you watch Aegon with the words caged behind your teeth: What do you want most? Who are you in your bones? Where would we be if the world wasn’t crashing down around us?

He slathers rose oil on his scarred right cheek—carelessly, distractedly—and accidentally pokes himself in the eye. “Ow.”

You ask: “Why do you want to do that yourself now?”

“To prove I can. To feel ever so slightly less like an invalid.” He takes a swig of his wine and gazes out over the nightscape ocean, stars in the sky, stars reflected on waves. “I am a study in irony. I spent my whole life waiting for it to be over. I poisoned myself, wasted years, resisted any semblance of usefulness. And now I finally have things I want to accomplish, I finally have reasons to live…and I’m trapped in the flesh of some pathetic, deformed, calamitously weak stranger.” He shakes his head, despondent, still not looking at you. “I can have a body that works. I can have a soul. But I can’t have both at the same time. It’s so fucking unfair.”

“I like you exactly as you are. Body and soul.”

“Everything I own, everything I’m given…” He stares down at his palms, open and empty. “It is destroyed, gets killed, goes mad. I ruin causes. I ruin people. I couldn’t do that to you.”

“I think I’m going to be ruined either way. I’d rather you be the one responsible.”

“Angel,” he says, low and serious. And now his gaze comes back to meet yours. “Who are you supposed to marry?”

You don’t want to tell him. You don’t want it to be true. Your voice is a whisper, almost lost in the night wind. “Cregan Stark.”

His eyes shoot wide, not just startled but terrified. “Stark?!”

You nod miserably. “My father took me and my sisters to Winterfell as part of a trade mission. Cregan decided he wanted me. I never encouraged it, I never desired it, I swear I didn’t—”

“No, I believe you,” Aegon says. He swallows a gulp of wine noisily, his hand shaking. “You were right. I can’t touch him. I can’t stop it. Not unless I win.”

“You don’t want the Iron Throne,” you tell Aegon, already knowing it’s true.

He snorts, a harsh derisive sound. “Who would?”

“Lots of people, I think. But not you or Rhaenyra.”

This intrigues him. “She doesn’t want it either?”

“Not from what I’ve seen and heard. Or, at least, she didn’t until Luke was killed. It changed her. I’m still not convinced she wants to be the queen, but she wants vengeance. And absolute power is a sure path to it.” And so the suffering continues, it goes around and around like a wheel, it is a debt that is never satisfied but only spread like plague.

“I don’t understand why Aemond did that,” Aegon says. His words are hushed, like he’s never spoken them to anyone but you and never will. “When he returned from Storm’s End, I held a feast for him. I had to, someone had to, someone had to pretend it was a victory instead of a murder. But it didn’t make any sense. Arrax was an inconvenience, not a threat. Luke was far more valuable as a hostage than a corpse. Aemond has always been the disciplined brother, the strategic one. I won’t claim to be clever. But I can’t find any strategy in what happened there.”

“Aemond has a temper. He is haunted, I believe. He is not above reckless fury.”

“No, evidently not.” Aegon sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair; again, his dragon ring glints under the moonlight, silver reflected off gold. “I’ll try to win,” he says. “For my family. For you.” Then he smirks, a grim attempt at humor. “Though I pity Cregan Stark for the paradise I will deprive him of.”

You do not return Aegon’s smile. “Don’t have too much pity for him. I have no expertise and I’m scared to death of it. I’d probably end up hiding under his bed, gripping the legs for dear life. He’d have to drag me out and tie me down.”

Aegon is alarmed; his storm-blue eyes are now focused, seeking. He is aware that he has wandered into a quagmire. He treads carefully. “When you say no expertise, you mean…none at all?”

“None.”

“But what about all of those anatomically-correct cock illustrations in your medical books?”

Another joke you can’t bring yourself to laugh at. You drink your wine to stop your lips from quivering, smooth the silk of your gown with a trembling hand. You see it no matter where you look: the pool of red on Theodora’s bedsheets, the dawning and inescapable realization on her face. This is her life now. This will always be her life.

Aegon says gently: “You have no expectation of pleasure.”

“It seems…inherently violent. For the woman. Even if it isn’t meant to be. Being overpowered, being invaded. The man decides when and how it happens. The woman endures.”

Aegon stares at you—biting his full lower lip, deeply somber—but doesn’t speak. He gives you the impression of someone with so many thoughts swimming around in his skull he is struggling to choose just one.

You smile dimly. “I’m sorry. I’ve made you sad.”

“I’m, um…” Aegon pauses to collect himself; he drains his wine cup and sets it back on the table. He is uncharacteristically cautious, like he thinks one unwise word will break the spell of whatever exists between you, this temptation, this need. “I’m saddened by the fact that you think of it that way. Because it doesn’t have to be…distasteful. Frightening. Coerced. It shouldn’t be, in fact.”

“I suppose I’ll find out if the Blacks win this war and Cregan Stark comes to claim me.”

Again, Aegon is exceptionally circumspect. “You’ve never wanted any man?”

“No. Never. Not in that way. Until…” You look at him, willing him to understand. I want you, but I’m so goddamn afraid to. I’m afraid of this world, I’m afraid there’s no hope left in it.

Slowly, Aegon smiles, soft and warm. And without any grasping, animalistic greed, he reaches over to rest a palm on your thigh, night-dark silk draped over skin that doesn’t flinch away from him, doesn’t even have to fight the instinct to. You place a hand on his. Your fingertips trace the gold wings of the green-eyed dragon ring he never takes off. And it is sealed like a covenant under the stars, this allegiance that neither of you could begin to explain to anyone else.

Footsteps are coming through Aegon’s bedchamber, heavy and purposeful. Otto Hightower appears in the balcony doorway. He fills the space like storm clouds flood a clear sky, like blood saturates linen. “You’re getting fat,” he tells Aegon gruffly.

“You’re getting ever more wrinkly and close to the afterlife.”

Otto glances to where Aegon’s hand still rests on your thigh and snaps: “If you’re well enough for that, perhaps you would deign to join us in the council chamber. You could shock everyone by actually acting like a king.”

Then he’s gone, taking those last echoes of the moment with him.

~~~~~~~~~~

“They know she’s here,” Larys Strong says. His audience is gathered around the table: Otto, Criston, Daeron, Grand Maester Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, the knights of the Kingsguard, Aegon slumped way down in his seat and you beside him feeling his forehead worriedly for fever. Because Aegon and Daeron are in attendance, the council chamber is one chair short. Aemond has elected to be the person to stand; he lurks, severe and silent, in a corner of the room half-lit by torchlight. Daeron is dressed in a vibrant teal, Aegon in black; Aemond wears green, dark and brooding like envy.

Criston Cole asks: “How is that possible?”

Otto sighs irritably, rubbing his forehead. “We have spies. I’m sure Rhaenyra does as well.”

“Someone apparently glimpsed the prince regent…um…” Larys searches for the diplomatic word. “Escorting her through the streets of King’s Landing.”

“Dragging is what he did,” Aegon says, glaring at Aemond. “Abducting. Attacking. Imprisoning.” Aemond, arms crossed over his chest, studies his boots and pretends not to have heard him.

Larys continues: “The Blacks don’t believe that she is here of her own volition.”

Otto’s eyes narrow. “What, they think we’ve detained her as some sort of…healer? Hostage?”

“No, my lord,” Larys says, hesitantly, awkwardly. “They don’t imagine the king’s motivations to be that honorable.”

Otto is losing his patience. “Meaning?”

Larys toys with his restless, rodentlike hands. “They think she is being…violated.”

A stilted, scandalized hush falls over the table. “Good,” Aegon says, invoking gasps and gapes. “If Green supporters believe her to be my captive, they won’t harm her. And if the Blacks think she is being held here against her will, she would be safe with them as well. No matter who wins, she is not in danger.”

“That is hardly beneficial for your own reputation, Your Grace,” Tyland Lannister says.

Aegon grins beneath cold eyes; he shows his teeth like a wolf, like a dragon. “Was my reputation so pristine to begin with, Lord Lannister?”

“No, perhaps not,” Tyland mumbles. Still, he should not have said it aloud. Otto huffs another sigh and rolls his eyes.

“So you intend to keep a Celtigar daughter in your service?” Otto says to Aegon.

“I have no doubts concerning her loyalty.”

Larys adds: “My lord, I must say, I cannot see a tactical advantage in her saving the king’s life if she retains any loyalty to Rhaenyra’s cause.”

“Then why save him at all? Why bother? He was lying there half-dead, soon to be properly dead, and she brought him back practically singlehandedly. Why?”

“Mercy,” Aemond says quietly from the corner, and everyone turns to look at him. “Many people have none of it. She perhaps has too much. And now they have grown…” He gestures vaguely, perhaps bashfully. “Attached to each other.”

Jasper Wylde is dismayed. “But the king has a wife.”

Daeron snickers. “Yes, and that has always proved to be such a deterrent in the past.”

“Daeron,” Aegon cautions mildly.

The youngest Targaryen brother obediently sobers and shows the palms of his hands in contrition. “My apologies.” He hides his face with a slurp of his wine cup.

“And what about Cregan Stark?!” Otto exclaims. “You’d encourage his outrage, his Northerner savagery? Seven hells, he thinks you’re spending your days raping his betrothed, do you imagine that will not invoke fiercer wrath, put all of us at greater risk?!”

“Lord Stark was never a reachable ally to our cause, in my estimation,” Larys says calmly.

“That’s not the point, Larys! The point is—!”

“I can offer you something in return for the heightened danger you have assumed,” you interrupt, and these men stare at you as if suddenly remembering that you are here in the room with them, not a phantom or a myth or a cautionary tale but someone real. Aegon glances over, one eyebrow raised on his drawn, perspiring face. He doesn’t know what you’re going to say either.

Otto peers menacingly across the table. “What could you possibly have to barter with? The king is well enough now. He will live with or without you.”

“I have information. I know the workings of Rhaenyra’s council in the leadup to Rook’s Rest.”

“You attended her council meetings?”

“No, but I spent evenings with my father and brothers as they discussed them.”

Otto sits back in his chair, pondering you. After a moment, he nods. “Go on then.”

“I want one concession before I reveal what I know.”

“Besides being permitted indefinite room and board in the Red Keep, which you are in no way entitled to?”

“Not negotiable,” Aegon says.

Otto chuckles, humorless, incredulous, shaking his head. “Fucking insane. Alright. What is it you want, girl?”

“If any member of House Celtigar is taken captive, I want them to be given the opportunity to swear fealty to King Aegon and receive a full pardon for their sins. If they refuse, they are to go to the Night’s Watch, not the scaffold.”

“That’s your price? That’s it?”

“Yes.”

Otto is amused. “Nothing for you? No gold, no land?”

“No.” The prospect hadn’t even occurred to you.

“Not very self-serving. So unlike a Celtigar.” Otto grins, not kindly at all. “Your terms are accepted.”

You begin. “The Greens possess great wealth, now split for safekeeping between Oldtown, Casterly Rock, and the Iron Bank of Braavos. But Rhaenyra’s funds are far more finite. My father has enriched her coffers in part with taxes placed upon houses of the Crownlands. You are always seeking new allies, people you can turn from her side to yours, Corlys Velaryon, the Dragonseeds. Thus far, you have been unsuccessful.” Otto frowns, but he is listening. “I know there are families who have compelling grievances concerning my father’s taxes. Families who have become disenchanted with Rhaenyra’s leadership…or lack thereof, they might say. Rosby, Stokeworth, Cave, Langward, Bourney, Boggs, Hardy, Chyttering. Probably others as well now. They occupy a tactically significant position, being so near to Dragonstone and Driftmark. And I believe if you wrote to them, they would answer.”

“I’ll send ravens,” Otto says. He marvels at you, like a puzzlingly strange creature, a luminescent fang-toothed fish from the depths of the ocean, a direwolf from beyond the Wall. “You don’t want your side to win this war?”

“I want the killing to stop. For both sides.”

“Well, you won’t get that. The bitch will never surrender. That hope died with little Luke Strong.” Otto glowers bitterly at where Aemond stands in the shadowy corner, but he addresses you. “That is your impression as well? She was entertaining the possibility of a truce before he died at Storm’s End?”

You steal a glimpse of Aemond, and you are struck by an unexpected stab of sympathy for him, compassion that feels like a betrayal of your knowledge of the torture he had planned for you. But what is there to say but the truth? “Rhaenyra was considering it very seriously. She and Daemon quarreled over the subject.”

“Of course they did.” Otto looks at Criston, then back to Aemond. “When are you leaving?”

“Soon,” Criston answers for the prince regent. “Very soon.”

“Not soon enough,” Otto spits like venom, and everyone else averts their eyes.

“My lord,” Larys intercedes. “There is one more matter to discuss, and I believe it will be of great interest to His Grace the king.”

Aegon is struggling to concentrate. He blinks groggily at the Master of Whisperers, his brow creased with pain. You smooth his damp, white-blond hair back from his face, threading his braid through your fingertips; you refill his wine cup and give it to him. When Aegon lifts it to his lips, his hands shake so badly he spills scarlet beads like blood down his chin. He wipes them away with his sleeve. Grand Maester Orwyle offers him a small glass bottle of milk of the poppy, but Aegon refuses it.

“Is he alright?” Daeron mutters to you.

“He’s fine. He’s tired, that’s all.”

“Waste no time, Lord Larys,” Aegon says. “I fear Grandsire’s ire has exhausted me. He’s more ferocious than a dragon. We should find a saddle that fits, perhaps Criston could ride him to the Riverlands.”

“Keep guzzling wine, I’m sure that will improve your condition,” Otto bites back.

Larys continues: “It concerns Rook’s Rest.”

Now he has everyone’s attention. “What about Rook’s Rest?” Aegon says. Instinctively, he’s begun twisting the golden dragon ring on his left hand.

“I received word one hour ago that the Blacks have retaken it.”

“What?!” Otto shouts; the rest of the table is in uproar. Criston stands and goes to conspire with Aemond in the corner of the council chamber, urgent indecipherable whispers.

“Sunfyre,” Aegon says frantically. “I have to go to him, I have to get him out—”

“He is already gone, Your Grace,” Larys replies.

“Gone…?”

“Lord Walys Mooton went down to the beach to slay the dragon once his men had taken the castle. He was burned alive.”

“Perfect,” Daeron says, beaming radiantly.

“Lord Mooton’s men fled for their lives, and when they returned, Sunfyre had disappeared. He could not be found anywhere in the vicinity of Rook’s Rest. Moreover, his footprints in the sand stopped abruptly. Which means he must have departed—”

“Into the water…?” Tyland Lannister says, perplexed.

“No,” Larys corrects him. “Into the sky.”

“Sunfyre is flying again?” Aegon asks, his face childlike, astonished.

“That’s impossible,” Criston says. “His wing was broken, I saw it.”

Larys drums his fingers on the tabletop. “I cannot conceive of any other explanation.”

“Then he’ll find me.” Aegon smiles. Sweat snakes down his temples; his face is white, bloodless, barren like the moon. “When Sunfyre is ready, he’ll find me and we’ll be together again.”

“Oh, thank the gods,” Otto exhales. “The Old, the New, that ghastly Drowned one…” He waves a hand at you. “And do you have any to add, Lady Celtigar? Some crab deity your traitorous people worship?”

“I regret to disappoint you, my lord. To my knowledge we have none.”

“Three useable dragons,” Otto says, mostly to himself. “Three is good. With three, we have a chance. And if I can recruit Vermithor or Silverwing…”

“I should go with you when you and Criston march north,” Daeron tells Aemond.

“No,” Aemond returns immediately.

“If you’re going after Daemon, you could use me,” Daeron insists. “Tessarion and I can help.”

“You are needed in the Reach with Lord Ormund Hightower.”

“You just want him all to yourself,” Daeron realizes, exasperated. “You want to be able to say that you were the person to neutralize the Blacks’ greatest asset, that you won the war—!”

Criston says: “He’s not going on some suicide mission chasing Daemon and Caraxes all over the Riverlands. He’s staying with me and the army. He’s using Vhagar logically, responsibly. Right, Aemond?”

“Of course,” Aemond answers, entirely toneless.

Otto whirls to Aegon. “And when will you be able to fight again? Soon, I hope. Surely the culmination of your existence is not one single instance of utility before lapsing back into being some drunken, idiot degenerate.”

In reply, Aegon moans and crumples to the floor. Grand Maester Orwyle and the men of the Kingsguard rush to him, but Criston gets there first; when you cannot rouse the king, Criston throws him over one shoulder—increasingly difficult with each pound Aegon gains, softness and health that you consider a great victory—and ferries him back to bed. As you follow after them, you hesitate in the doorway of the council chamber. Now that Criston is gone, Otto has crossed the room and pinned Aemond to the wall. His large hands, heavy with rings, are pressed to Aemond’s chest; his face is snarling, wicked, callous.

“You have to fix this. You have to end it.”

“I know,” Aemond replies softly.

“Everything that’s happened is your fault.”

“I know,” Aemond says again, then rips free from Otto’s grasp and flees the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two days later, Criston leads his army out of the city. They will meet reinforcements on the road between the capital and the Riverlands. There is infantry on foot and cavalry on horses; above them in a blue sky cluttered with vast, cottony clouds are Aemond and Vhagar. As they head north, Daeron and Tessarion fly south towards the Reach to rejoin Ormund Hightower and his men. In Winterfell, Cregan Stark is receiving word of where (and with whom) his betrothed currently resides. At Harrenhal, Daemon and Nettles are kindling rumors like dry wood in a fire. On Dragonstone, Rhaenyra is nursing her rage and paranoia like a hungry child, like a wounded man who has milk of the poppy poured down his throat. And you remain static here in King’s Landing, anchored, steadfast, something immoveable like the ocean or the shore it meets.

You can see Aegon’s bedchamber windows from the beach. You keep glancing up at them, though you know he won’t be there; the sunlight is too harsh today, the potential damage to his skin too great. In a month, he may be able to venture outside as he used to. In two or three, he might be able to fight again. He might be able to kill more than just one errant Norcross boy who dared to touch you.

“Helaena wouldn’t come down to join us?” you ask Autumn. You’re walking with her in the surf, the hems of your held aloft so the froth of the waves can wash over your ankles. Perhaps ten yards away and out of earshot, Alicent is kneeling in the sand and playing with Jaehaera and Maelor. They are her great comfort now; they are not the only purpose she has left, but they are the kindest. Their tiny hands are preoccupied with building a sandcastle and adorning it with seashells, pebbles, shards of driftwood, strings of seaweed like green ribbons. You’ve started to notice how much Jaehaera resembles Aegon, his murky blue eyes and his high cheekbones and his gentleness that no one else seems to recognize. You’ve started to see him everywhere you look.

Autumn shrugs, her face apologetic. Her hair is more than just copper in the afternoon daylight; it is fire, it is blood. “I really tried. You know how she is.”

“I’ll visit her afterwards.”

“She unnerves me,” Autumn says, stroking her round belly and shuddering. She earns her keep here by helping to look after Helaena, Jaehaera, and Maelor. Aegon treats Autumn the same way he treats his wife and children, which is to say he generally ignores her; on the rare occasion he is subjected to her presence for more than a fleeting moment, he becomes uneasy, irritable. Autumn does not appear to be offended. She says this is the best job she’s ever had. “She’s always muttering the strangest things. Caterpillars and crabs and dragons and only the gods know what else. Yesterday she told me not to dance with the half-year queen. What the fuck does that mean?”

“Helaena’s a bit different,” you admit.

“She’s inbred, that’s what she is. I can’t imagine what those kids are going to grow up to be like. A brother and sister for parents? It’s a wonder they don’t have feathers or tails.” Autumn taps the swell of her belly. “At least this one—if it’s a Targaryen after all—has had its bloodline thoroughly diluted.”

You watch her standing there in the fiery late-afternoon light, this body that has comforted, consoled, satisfied, suffered, known so many men. “What does it feel like?” you ask quietly.

“What? Being with child?”

“No, the…um…the act that led to it.”

“Oh, yes.” Autumn stretches with her hands on the small of her back and smiles vaguely, nostalgically. “That’s the strange thing. It can feel like heaven or hell or nothing at all. If the man knows what he’s doing, and cares enough to try, he can make it better for you.”

“Better how?”

She furrows her brow, shoots you a skeptical sideways glance. She is aware that you are inexperienced, but the extent of your blind spots continuously shock her. It occurs to you that perhaps naivety is a privilege; some cannot recall a time before they were acquainted with truths of the world that others consider forbidden. “You know. He’ll use his hands or his mouth to get you ready. Or better yet, both at once.”

“Ready,” you repeat, not understanding.

“Well, you see…” Autumn takes a moment to decide how best to explain. “Men change when they are aroused, yes? Women do the same. It takes longer, and it is not always so obvious. But it is vital. The more ready you are, the more comfortably he will fit inside you.”

“And what if he doesn’t get you ready? If he doesn’t have the skill, or he doesn’t believe it’s necessary, or he doesn’t even know that’s something women require?” Or he just wants to hurt you. He just wants to watch you bleed like something he goes into the woods to kill and gut and devour.

Autumn smirks cynically. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“The sizes involved. Some men are bigger than others, and women have different dimensions as well. Couples can be well-matched or not. Sometimes it isn’t too bad. Sometimes it feels like you’re being ripped apart. And that doesn’t necessarily stop after the first time either.”

“And you can’t say no.”

“You can say no all you want. But he doesn’t have to listen.”

You peer out over Blackwater Bay, sunbeams flashing on wave crests and gulls swooping in the reddening sky. But you don’t really see it. What you see are fingerprints of dirt or ash on your thighs, snow in your hair, books laden with dust, fur coats and evergreen trees, rust-stains of blood on bedsheets.

“I’ve heard that Lord Stark is a very large man,” Autumn nudges. She knows, everyone knows.

“He’s massive,” you say forlornly. “He’s taller than Aemond and twice as broad.”

“The king isn’t so big,” she says, pretending that the thought has just popped into her mind, as if she hasn’t noticed the way you and Aegon look at each other, speak to each other, find excuses to touch each other.

“No,” you agree in a whisper.

“And he’s not a brute. I can’t fairly speak to his skill, I never had him anywhere close to sober. But he has no appetite for women’s pain. That’s a valuable gem in a man, it’s like stumbling across a ruby or a pearl.”

You nod; but you don’t want to think about Autumn lying with Aegon. You don’t want to think about the child they might share. In a world so dark, it seems cruel to begrudge people creating life where none existed before. But when you picture Aegon touching someone else, that darkness seeps in through your skin like rain soaks the earth and can’t find its way out. “We’re going to the library together tomorrow, aren’t we?”

Autumn groans. “Did I agree to that? I don’t believe I did.”

She did not, this is true; you badgered, she deflected. “You’ll enjoy it.”

“I am illiterate.”

“I told you. I’ll teach you how to read.”

“Why would I want to stare at ink marks in a book all day when I could be outside in the sunshine listening to the ocean and herding inbred little freaks like sheep?”

“Because books can take you anywhere,” you say.

“I like where I am. I’ve never seen anyplace better.”

“Okay, Autumn,” you concede, smiling. “I’ll ask again tomorrow. Hopefully you’ll change your mind.”

“Say hello to Helaena for me,” she says, meandering back towards Alicent and the children. Her footprints in the sand are erased when the gurgling waves roll over them. “Maybe one of those fancy books can help you translate lunacy into the Common Tongue.”

Upstairs in her bedchamber, Helaena is standing in front of an open window. It doesn’t offer a view of the ocean; it is positioned over a courtyard of sandstone and chatting courtiers. Helaena does not seem to hear them. She gazes out into the sunset, celestial rage on her impassive face.

“He’s leaving soon,” she says, not turning to look at you.

“Who, Helaena? Aemond? He left days ago. He’s already gone, he’s on his way to the Riverlands. But he’ll be back soon.” You don’t know if that’s true—it probably isn’t, in fact—but you’re certain that Helaena misses him. Her children do too; he is more of a father to them than Aegon has ever been, not in body but in soul.

She only repeats: “He’s leaving soon.”

“Helaena, what—?”

“He’ll leave you. Then you’ll leave him. He’ll make you.”

At last, and very slowly, she revolves like the stripe of shadow across a sundial. In her cupped palms is a butterfly, shimmering gold wings and spiderlike black legs. It takes flight, flutters aimlessly through the vermillion air, escapes out the open window.

~~~~~~~~~~

A peculiar twist of fate: his palm on your forehead, his whispers through your hair. Now he is the one who has stolen into your bed when the moon and stars hang high in the darkness outside. There is a noise somewhere beyond him, disembodied and hazy, that reminds you of torrential rain: omnipresent, thunderous.

“Angel,” Aegon is saying. “Wake up. Please wake up. I have to go.”

Go? Go where? You murmur, still half-asleep: “You can’t leave.” He isn’t strong enough yet. He can’t fight, he can’t run.

“I have to. They’re here.”

“Who…?”

The answer comes from the sounds that you are only now awake enough to understand: screaming, pounding boots, slamming doors, the ravenous crackling of fire, the shrieking of dragons. You have learned all of their unearthly voices. That’s not Vhagar or Tessarion or Sunfyre or Dreamfyre… It flashes by your windows, a comet of gold and flames.

You bolt out of bed. “Rhaenyra—?!”

“Rhaenyra, Syrax, Daemon, Caraxes.”

Daemon shouldn’t be here. He should be losing battles to Aemond and Criston. “But he’s at Harrenhal!”

“Not anymore.” Aegon takes your hand and pulls you out into the hallway, the hem of your nightgown billowing around your legs, his short silver hair flying behind him. There are servants and guards rushing by you, weeping, shouting, searching for places to hide. Grand Maester Orwyle ambles towards the rookery to send out ravens. Several rooms away, you can hear Helaena wailing and Autumn trying to soothe her. Larys Strong intercepts Aegon and gives him a hooded cloak; Aegon yanks it over his bare, mutilated chest, whimpering as the rapid movement strains the red-and-ivory disarray of scar tissue that used to be his skin. “You have everything?” he asks Larys hoarsely. You notice now that the Master of Whisperers has a satchel slung over one shoulder.

“Yes, Your Grace. Milk of the poppy, rose oil, the crown.”

“Wine?”

Larys produces a bottle. Aegon gulps down half of it, then passes the rest to you. You hesitate before finishing the wine, red like the sigil of House Celtigar, like fire, like blood. “They are closing all roads out of the city,” Larys tells Aegon, speaking swiftly. “King’s Landing will be taken. We will surrender. We cannot fight a dragon, let alone two.”

“Aemond and Criston—?”

“Daemon must have outflanked them.”

Aegon grabs your hand again and does not let go as he trails Larys through corridors and down claustrophobically tight spiral staircases. “The roads are blocked,” Aegon explains to you breathlessly. “But there are secret passageways beneath the castle. I know them. Larys knows them. Daemon probably knows them too, but he has other places to be.”

And through a window of a staircase, you see him: Caraxes spiraled around the apex of the Tower of the Hand, screaming fire into the sky before descending the length of the tower towards the hoards of hysterical courtiers fleeing below, his claws jostling loose bricks that rain down on them.

The bottom of the stairwell opens up into a large, dusty, dirt-floored chamber with stone tunnels leading in every direction like spokes of a wheel. Alicent is there, sobbing wildly, and so is Otto. Otto is telling Jaehaera that she must be a brave little girl and go with Sir Willis Fell. Alicent is giving little Maelor over to Sir Rickard Thorne, your once-alleged-kinfolk. The child is panicked and crying, flushed face and white hair. Aegon glances at the scene and then keeps moving, towing you along with him.

“Princess Jaehaera will go to Storm’s End,” Larys says. “Prince Maelor will go to Oldtown. They face execution if they stay. We must risk smuggling them out of the city.”

“What about Aegon?” you ask as the three of you hasten into a corridor thick with cobwebs and illuminated by torchlight. The stone ceiling is arched and perhaps seven feet tall; faintly, you can still hear the muffled turmoil of King’s Landing falling to Rhaenyra and Daemon.

“I’m going Dragonstone.” And it does not elude you that he didn’t say we. “If Rhaenyra is here, that likely means Dragonstone is vacant. I will go to the Crownlands families that you believe to be willing to betray her and beg them for support. I will take Dragonstone and prepare a counterassault from there. Hopefully Sunfyre will find me. Hopefully I’m not killed on the way.”

“Okay,” you say. “I’m going too.”

“You’re staying in King’s Landing.”

“No.” You stop dead, wrenching your hand out of Aegon’s. “No, what if you get hurt, or sick, or what if you get really bad again—?!”

“Listen!” he shouts with dire intensity, his eyes wide and pleading in the torchlight. “I can’t protect you. I can’t even protect myself. There could be bandits on the road, there could be Black soldiers, there could be animals, there could be fucking anything. I can’t take you with me. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get to Dragonstone. But I know if I stay here Rhaenyra will murder me. I don’t have a choice. I have one option, and it’s not good. But you’ll be safe in King’s Landing.”

“Aegon, no—”

“The Blacks don’t think you’re here by choice. They think I’ve imprisoned you. Tell them that’s what happened and they will welcome you back. Your family will protect you.”

“Aegon, please don’t—”

His palm on your cheek, his braid coming unraveled in his hair. “You will wait out the war with them. And when it’s over I’ll find you.” Tears glistening in his eyes, his voice going soft and tender. “If I’m still alive, I’ll find you. I swear to all the gods I will.”

He’s leaving. He’s really leaving. “What can I do?” you ask, your words strangled; your throat is burning, your eyes wet. “What can I do to help you?”

And you expect him to say things you already know: Don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone. Don’t tell anyone what you’ve heard in the Greens’ council meetings. Instead, Aegon grins as he says: “Try to get one of your three superfluous sisters to seduce Cregan Stark.”

You laugh, the sound echoing off ancient, filthy stones.

“My mother and Otto are waiting for you. You will be with them when they are taken to Rhaenyra. They are high-ranking prisoners of war, they will be spared the brutality of the Black soldiers and so will you. They will corroborate that you were my captive.”

“I understand.”

“I have to go now,” Aegon says like an apology, swiping tears from your face with his thumbs. He breaks away from you and follows Larys Strong down the tunnel. They are shadows under the torchlight, cloaks and whispers.

“Aegon,” you call after him, and he stops. I never told you what I wanted. I never told you what I feel for you. “What if I never see you again?”

You don’t know what you want him to do or say. There’s nothing that could make this right. But he soars back to you, takes you roughly and desperately, buries his hands in your hair and kisses you deeply, tasting like wine and heat and the smoke filling the world outside. He means for it to be quick, but he can’t stop. His tongue darts between your lips, his hips press to yours, you arch into him wanting more, infinitely more.

What was I so afraid of? you think dizzily. How could I be afraid of anything with him?

“Your Grace,” Larys appeals regretfully. “Please. We don’t have much time.”

Aegon twists off his dragon ring—gold wings, jade eyes—and slips it onto your left hand. And you’re still staring down at it, mystified, as Aegon disentangles himself from you and vanishes into the darkness.

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