#journey through night vale

[sam-grey]

Oh wow I hate hate Strex Corp. I also hate Kevin, he is not Cecil and rubs me in all wrong ways

#sam speaks #47 - company picnic #welcome to night vale #wtnv #journey through night vale

[lovelykhaleesiii]

Aegon is the best big brother to his sweet sister, who is in third trimester of pregnancy; not only does he help her relieve the feeling of her heavy breasts by sucking on her tits greedily like a babe, he sometimes helps the aching feeling between her legs by sticking his cock, tongue or fingers in her cunny

Such a good brother, especially when she’s not even his wife

Blood of my Blood.

PAIRING: Older!Brother!Aegon ii Targaryen x Little!Sister!Fem!Reader

WORDS: 1,715.

WARNINGS: incest to the max, implied affair [Aegon is the father of the child], age gap [reader is of mature/consensual age], lactation kink, pregnancy kink, slight reference to breeding kink, p in v sexual intercourse, possessive!Aegon, swearing.

A/N - now I NEVER write brother x sister tropes even in the ASOIAF universe just because it’s not really my cup of tea, but this ask sparked something very very feral in me. I might make a neice x uncle version of this or a Daddy Aeg x daughter!reader version.

credit to the owners of the images.

Curse the Gods who afflicted the journey of motherhood, for it could be such a gruelling thing... Heading into the final few moons of your first pregnancy, you had never felt such intense discomfort in your life. Your beloved mother, Queen Alicent, had informed you of such grievances, although with little empathy for her pregnancies had been quite embracing and facile. Your eldest sister, Helaena, having already given birth to a set of twins, now in the early stages of her current pregnancy with your elder brother, Aemond, could somewhat console you, becoming an anchor of support.

It was Aegon, your eldest of the siblings, that you seemed most attached to, for it was Aegon that granted you bliss in your pregnancy, more so than your absent husband, some delinquent lord of the Vale. You had argued your way with your mother, and batted your eyes to your father, begging you to stay in King's Landing, in familiar territory with the finest maesters at hand. More so, it was Aegon who had plotted with you this essential plan.

"Do you truly think that the maesters of the Vale and that imbecile you call husband will keep you safe and satisfied, dear sister? Not in the least... But I can."

Aegon's temptress of a tongue was convincing alone, although it had been his merciful gestures of chivalry that kept you sane and grounded. Easing your aches and pains of expecting, Aegon became your sole beacon of ease, like the formidable arms of a warrior and you, the damsel he heroically carries.

"Do they ache again, sweet sister?"

The softness in his husky, drowsy voice breaking the silence of the chamber, woke you whole from your half-hearted daze. You had both succumbed to slumber [often Aegon insisted that you remain closely by his side, even in bed] what felt like hours long ago, and yet through the ginger firelight, by the open window, night remained swallowing the sky.

"Mhmm-" You uneasily stir: weakly trying to muster enough strength to sit yourself upright: however, with the sheer, bulging mass of your grown belly you visibly struggled until Aegon's efforts of pulling you effortlessly upright ended your dilemma.

"Want me to help, princess?"

His calloused, thick hands began to rub small, soothing circles against your lower back, knowing the babe inside exerted much pressure on your lower spine: its weight growing more rigid with each passing month.

"You've helped me enough, Aegon. I mustn't ask more from you... If this state is any indication of me being a mother, consider me a terrible one," You defeatedly utter, one hand stretched from behind supporting your upright position, whilst the other softly caressed at the protruding temple of your clothed belly.

"Don't speak like that, Y/N, dearest. This is your first babe, you must understand your body is adjusting. Hel suffered a great deal with the twins also, and now, look at her... You are going to be a beautiful mother, indeed. I have no doubt...C'me here."

Lightly tapping at your exposed thigh, your night gown had been pulled up just below your way with all the commotion and movement. Obeying, Aegon summoned you onto his lap, shirtless he had entered the bed, however before you could even gather motion to straddle yourself atop: he'd managed to tear away his undergarments, leaving his exposed girth, reddened at the tip with excitement. Modestly covering himself with the sheer, ivory linen.

"Right now?" Your snappy tone vicious, however Aegon remained unfazed.

"Well, little sister, if I'm being quite frank it seems you've been dreaming quite vividly... Do you not hear the moans and pleas that escape your lips in sleep, crying out for me, begging... Want your elder to sate you, is it? Was that babe growing inside of you not enough, you wish me to spoil you some more, hmm?"

"A-Aeg- We shouldn't..." You meekly whimper, a surge of heat coursing through your face, certain your cheeks had grown scarlet with shame.

"All you had to do was ask."

His dark voice a low growl, like some concealed predator eager to ambush. Aegon's motions remained in contrast, tender and cautious, easing your delicate and sensitive frame over his wide, gelatinous thighs. A scorching sensational painfully heightened sent lightning bolts in waves throughout the entirety of your body, shuddering with excitement as your aching cunt eased itself over his pulsating cock. It had been a while since you had been intimate with Aegon like this, prior to the pregnancy in fact: the changes your body had undergone since were bracing and raw.

Feeling the tensity beneath and the heat as you began to bob ever so slowly and sensually over Aegon's tense, fat cock: feeling its hard tip hitting at your cervix [you had hoped rather than the babe]. Your tight walls overstretched, desperate to adjust to his girthy width, you swore to yourself it had never felt this stimulating ever before: every primal sense in your body, every fibre of your being resisting the urge to collapse into a faint against Aegon's soft chest, gripping onto the bare, pale skin of his broad shoulders for dear life.

"That's it, rūs [baby], doing so-so well. It hurts I know, but Daddy's gonna make you feel so much better. Keep going, princess."

Head rolling back in admiration, you felt the intensity from between your inner thighs beginning to lessen, a wetness pooling between, coating the friction to ease the motions. Your hands release their strong hold over him, as your eyes began to wonder over his body, you had immediately noticed the raw, reddened marks lashed across his ivory skin. To avoid any more damage, you guide your relaxed hands up towards Aegon's short strands.

Tugging and playfully pulling at the loose, platinum locks, whilst Aegon's face remained buried, eagerly lapping at your petal-like skin on the base of your neck. One strong arm snaked around your back, gripping you firmly by the neck providing some lumbar support, whilst the other strategically untied the knots of lace at the front of your night gown, exposing your voluptuously full tits. Hardened nipples raw and perky, even as Aegon teasingly flicked at your tit with this thumb, a grimace forming across his handsome face you felt against your skin: kneading the swollen, plump flesh with his palm, you instinctively squirmed and moaned with such debility.

"Seven Hells, you are so fucking full, dārilaros [princess]. This babe is going to be so spoiled. Such a good Mumma, already eager with milk for the bub... Could feed the an entire realm, Mumma."

"J-Just you A-Aeg. Only you get to taste this sweet m-milk before the babe. T-Tell me how good I taste," Stuttering whimpers mottled between mouthful of moans echoed between the dense walls of Aegon's royal chambers. His fat cock still buried and plunging itself deeply inside of you, penetrating against your already tainted and filled womb, Aegon's hand cupped at your breast from beneath. Lifting your tit upwards, latching his mouth tightly against its curvature peak.

"Mhmm- Keep going big boy... M-Making me feel s-so good, A-Aeg. H-Have your full."

The imminent relief your occupied tit began to succumb to, felt like a blissful dream. You felt your breath could finally release, not hitched against your throat from the sheer agony of feeling it was about to burst. The milk you intently sensed, lusciously pouring into Aegon's ravenous mouth, his plump, moist lips suckling at your skin, totally encompassing the nipple in its entirety. His teeth lightly gnawed at your flesh, however, it was a pleasant sensation nonetheless.

"So w-warm and fresh- Gonna f-fill me up so fucking much. P-Poor princess... The weight of these, the copious a-amount- I-I'm greedy for you. Sh-Should've fucked you earlier in your womanhood... Drenching your w-womb of my seed, till we fill the keep i-if need be. M-Mother would rather enjoy it."

Aegon, famished like a destitute of the realm, bathed his taste-buds of your milk from one breast and onto the other: regaining his breath between each as he felt inclined to credit your production. Descending his face down once more, he spared no further second wasting away, as he continued to fervently feed, like a man starved of pure water.

"Th-The el-eldest you may b-be, such a b-big baby y-you are. S-So needy for me, huh? A-Always needing t-to take me, m-make me yours. Every bit of me... Is devout t-to you, A-Aegon."

As if your breathless, sensual words had struck a chord in him, a man gone mad with a fever. His hold on you had tightened, his mouth suckled deeper, tugging at the flesh of your bosom, whilst his cock felt it had grown a size more inside of you. The wet mess coating between your inner thighs now glazed all over Aegon's plump lap, expressed no denial of his power over you, the purpose he gave to you. In theory and practice, you felt your body collapsing into a bliss, a shudder of ecstasy waved through your feeble body as you screamed for Aegon, a gush of your wetness coating all over his stiff cock buried inside. Only to be met with Aegon's mutual appreciation of your vulnerability and submission towards him.

"That's it, baby. Such a beautiful woman... Gevives [beauty]. You honour me with this holy act. You privilege me to your womb, your body and your life... Skorkydoso kostagon nyke mirre deny ao mirros? [How can I ever deny you anything?]."

Easing yourself off of Aegon, your limp, frail body tiresome and relieved of such exploits endured. Aegon knew better than to leave you to your own strength, as absent as it was: carrying you over towards your empty side of the bed, still laying you closely against his natural warmth.

"Continue to serve me, brother. And I shall pay it back 100 times over... And besides, if it had not been for your mischief many moons ago, I would not be in such a state. Although, I wouldn't have it any other way, Aegon... I love you."

"Avy jorrāelan [I love you], my dearest, sweet little sister. Continue as you are and I might have to fuck another babe in you once more to teach you a lesson or two."

general taglist [bold means I could NOT tag you] - @succnfuccubus @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @elegantsplendour @sylasthegrim @arcielee @s-we-e-t-t-ea @sahvlren @aemondtargaryensrider @watercolorskyy @hypnos-daughter-certified @urmomsgirlfriend1 @backyardfolklore @snowprincesa1 @zaldritzosrose

Aegon ii taglist [bold means I could NOT tag you] - @who-told-you-this-was-butter @f4ll-for-you @jawline-of-steel @daughter-of-the-stars11 @bucknastysbabe @callsignwidow

credit for divider - @/saradika-graphics

#aegon ii targaryen #tom glynn carney #aegon ii targaryen imagines #aegon ii imagines #aegon ii targaryen imagine #aegon ii imagine #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii targaryen fanfiction #aegon ii fanfiction #aegon ii smut #aegon ii fluff #aegon the second #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x fem!reader #aegon ii x sister!reader #king aegon ii targaryen #king aegon ii #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd imagines #hotd imagine #alicent hightower #aemond targaryen #helaena targaryen

[laurellerual]

Arya and Sansa storyswap: an exercise in imagination

Premise: I tried to speculate what might happen if Sansa manages to escape King's Landing and Arya gets stuck in the capital. I collected my thoughts on this scenario trying to make logical, credible choices that respected the characterization of the characters and the timeline of the books (the wiki was very usefull for this). I discarded all the scenarios that end in "…and then she dies horribly" because they're boring. I write with assumption that they would still remain POV characters and therefore mantain a minimum of plot armor. Like everyone, I have my biases so it's not perfect, but I tried to put myself in the most neutral mindset possible. Enjoy and let me know your thoughts. Part 1, Part 2

Part 3/3: Reunion

A Storm of Swords

Sandor and his “squire" are captured and bringed to Stoney Sept in the Riverlands. The Brotherhood without Banners takes them to Hollow Hill. Clegane is put on trial for various atrocities committed by Lannister soldiers, but he survives and is freed.

Arya is recognized by Harwin and Sansa. The two sisters reunite and remain under the "protection" of the outlaws. Because of this, the story takes a very different turn from here on.

For example, I don't think Arya would try to escape the Brotherhood so soon. As a result I don't think the Hound would be unable to kidnap the Stark girls again. However, the Hound could also decide to stay with the Brotherhood. He could plan to go to the Twins, introduce himself to Robb as Arya's savior, and ask him for a job.

So the Brotherhood proceeds as planned, they now have another valuable hostage and intend to take both girls to Lord Edmure's wedding and ransom them to their family. A group of men (like Lem, Harwin, Tom, etc) accompanies the sisters to Harroway to cross the Trident, but their journey is delayed because they find it flooded (like in Arya IX).

They reach the Twins just in time for the Red Wedding, and the outlaws manage to drag the Stark sisters away and save them. Arya and Sansa go through a complicated period of mourning but the fact of being together helps them. The two want to hold onto hope that perhaps their mother might have survived.

One night Arya has her first wolf dream in a long time: she sees Cat's body and drags it out of the river. In the morning Sansa suggests asking the men to go back and look for the woman, but Arya tells her that she's dead. As per canon Lord Beric, Thoros and the others come across the corpse and Dondarrion dies to resurrect her.

Lem's group continues their journey, this time they intend to take the girls to Lysa Arryn, but they discover that the mountain clans are bolder than ever and decide not to take the risk and return to the Riverlands.

The Stark sisters are getting impatient, Arya suggests that the two could run away and try to get to Winterfell alone. Sansa has to inform her sister that Winterfell was conquered by Theon months ago. She is devastated and abandons all plans. Lem's group returns to the Hollow Hill to discuss a new plan with Beric or perhaps to take more men as escorts before returning to the Vale.

Waiting for them in the hill, there isn't the lightning lord but Lady Stoneheart! Mother and daughters reunite.

A Feast for Crows

That's it. Final cliffhanger, sorry.

#arya stark #sansa stark #asoiaf #sort off #asoiaf fanfiction

[tinylittlepistols]

Jonsa Halloween 2023

Day 5 (October 31st): Free Choice

Resurrection/Witch/Spirit

Jonsa AU (Inspired by Practical Magic)

Since leaving the North to attend the most prestigious fashion school in the South, Sansa has had a made a lot of mistakes. Leaving the safety and protection of Winterfell, which has been the Stark family estate for hundreds of years, was one of them. Making the wrong friends and trusting the wrong people was another. But dating Joffrey Baratheon was the worst of them all.

When Sansa drops out of school, and leaves her dreams behind to hide out in the Vale with a scandal-plagued Joffrey, things go from bad to worse. What started out as the occasional shove or insult from Joffrey has turned into black eyes and broken ribs.

Miserable, missing home, and done with Joffrey — and with love — Sansa leaves the Vale in the middle of the night and heads back North to what’s left of her family (plagued for generations with a curse, Stark men never make it back past the Neck if they journey South); a curse that has already claimed their father and their big brother Robb.

Sansa never expects Joffrey to follow.

When she finds herself dragging her ex-boyfriend’s dead body out of her childhood home (specifically, the greenhouse floor, where he dropped dead the second time, not the kitchen table, where he died first) and through her mother’s magical garden, with her little sister late one cool autumn night, she knows she’s really, really messed up.

It isn’t until two (very handsome) Federal agents show up the next day looking for a missing Joffrey, that Sansa begins to think the family curse is alive and well and about to get her arrested for murder. That is, if Joffrey doesn’t get her first.

_____________________

Featuring two witchy sisters bonding over murder and magic, a mother still grieving her dead husband while raising two teenaged boys on her own, and dealing with her own mess of a sister (and her sister’s sheltered young son) a rowdy Rickon, who’s as wild as their uncle Brandon used to be, an observant Bran, who may possess magic to rival all the Starks put together, and a pair of Federal agents who are about to meet two women who will change the rest of their lives (if they don’t get them killed — or fired — first).

* With bonus agents Lannister and Tarth, who deal exclusively in cases of the paranormal, spooky and just damn weird.

#jonsa halloween 2023 #jonsa #jonsa au #jonsa fic #sansa stark #jon snow #jonsa halloween #arya stark #gendry waters #gendrya #practical magic inspired jonsa au #I have part of this fic written #and intended to post a first chapter by Halloween #but as usual my crippling self- doubt and second guessing has taken over #but at least I made some pretty picsets! #(I have so many picsets lol)

[fictionalmenxyn]

Don’t follow the wrong person

Biker!ghost x afab!fem!reader

F/d- favourite drink

Tw: being stalked, harassment, creep following you, panicked reader, fighting, language and intimidation (I believe that’s it)

—–—

You were currently walking towards your usual bus top, that after every shift you have working as a tattoo artist; you’d take the bus home and continue either your day or night depending how long you take.

It was the same as any other day, you wave goodbye to your co-worker and friend. You walk out the tattoo parlour and into the small mini market a few shops down to grab a small snack and drink. As you entered the shop you were soon to exit the shop with your snacked goods.

Walking over to the bus stop it was quiet today, no one sat at the stop. So you took a seat and waited for the bus. You grabbed your phone from in your jacket pocket, looking at the bus app to see where the bus was you saw that a little tab had notified ‘bus delayed by 30 mins due to traffic jams’.

You huffed and decided to walk since it’d only take you around 15 to 20 minutes to walk. So you stood up and had a quick glance around. You noticed a shady looking man stood across from you. They wore all black and had a hat on which covered his face for the time being.

You thought nothing of it yet kept an eye on them as you started your journey home.

As you walked home the sun started to set which made the even look pretty and the breeze ever so slightly stronger.

As you walked you took your ear buds out as they had just died. You sighed in annoyance and shoved them into your pant pocket. You guess someone above in the clouds must of use that as a warning of possible danger because you heard walking behind you and muffling speaking. So you glanced as you saw that very shady looking guy, he seemed to be muffling words to himself as he was alone.

You decided to pick up your pace as the evening grew closer and you felt more uncomfortable. You also noticed they too picked up their pace. Your breathe started to become more quick and you became more scared.

You knew then that they were following you making you more panicked, so you did what you were taught; you grabbed your phone and scrolled through your contacts and began to ring the one and only Simon Riley. He answered almost instantly, you whispered “Si?” He replied “hey, doll, you ok?” You whispered “uh where are you?” He spoke “I’m at the bar, why?” You answered “I’m being followed.” He asked “where are you to?” You replied “cherry vale, by James street” He said “ok, come straight to us here, don’t go to your place, then come straight to us, yeah?” You answered “ok, I’ll send you my location just in case.” You heard him hum in reply as you sent him your location.

You kept your pace fast but not fast enough to run, you don’t know how fast this person can run so you didn’t want to chance it.

—–—

You sighed in relief as you saw the brightly light sign of the bar Simon always goes to. He’s apart of a biker gang called ‘Ghosts 141’ it’s named that as Ghost was one of the first to be apart of the gang. But everyone agreed it was a good name.

You watched as the ‘snakes eye’ sign glowed brightly, you saw all the gangs bikes in a continuous row. You walked into the bar and quickly glanced back at the door seeing the person still walking towards you.

You walked over to the bar and asked “where’s Ghost?” The bartender spoke “the usual spot.” With a tilt of his head.

You looked over and headed towards their known spot. You were relieved when you saw the boys sitting and having many conversations between them. Soap spotted you first and shouted “there she is! Y/n come to join us have ya!” You nodded as you looked at Simon he stood up and asked “you alright? Have they left?” You shook your head and as you turned around the person spotted you and walked over.

You felt your spine shiver, it was revealed that the person was a man who had a very untamed beard. His appearance seemed dirty, he had greasy hair that stuck out of the bottom of his cap and his hands seemed dirty and so are his fingernails. This making you feel uncomfortable you knew it was harsh but the man had been stealing you since the bus stop. You weren’t the type to judge but this wasn’t the time to be kind to this unknown stalker.

Ghost was first to speak “can I help you, sir?”

The guy replied “no, I’m just here with my date, we were just about to grab a drink, isn’t that right?” He suggested at you. You couldn’t even speak, you still had some fear in you although Simon was standing there. You still felt uncomfortable, Simon spoke “this is your date?” The man nodded and placed an arm around you and squeezed your shoulder. You cringed at his action, he spoke “come on, let’s get going, leave these men in peace.”

You attempted to subtly shove you into walking away with him but failed. As you tripped and fell, Simon asked “what are you doing?” The guy spoke “my bad sometime I forget how strong I am.” Soap and Gaz helped you up and made sure you stood between them.

Ghost spoke “I don’t think you know who she is do you?” He nodded and spoke “I’m on a date with her, it’s our first date.” Soap chuckled and said “yeah, right” the man defended “we are! Aren’t we sweetheart.” He smirked at you showing his teeth which you cringed at. Simon spoke “are you sure? Cause last time I remember that’s my fiancée.” The guy’s smirk dropped instantly and so did his skin tone.

The guy became white as a sheet when he heard ‘my fiancée’. Simon walked over and fisted the guys shirt and spoke deeply “I think we should have a talk outside, about how you’ve been stalking her.” The guy looked at you angrily, for what you didn’t know till you heard him shout “you did it! You dressed like that! Not my fault!” Simon spoke “that’s enough!” He demanded “outside now!” As Simon practically dragged the guy out he shouted “she shouldn’t dress like that if she didn’t want me following her!” He kept making awful excuses.

You looked down at your clothing, a long black skirt with a black button up shirt and a small corset with made your what you thought ‘cute outfit’ complete. It was your uniform for work practically, you had to wear black no matter what your outfit was.

Gaz gestured you to sit and join them while Soap goes out front with Simon. The bartender brought you over a drink after watching all the commotion. He knew what you liked to drink so he made you your f/d. You thanked him as Price started up a conversation with you to ease your fears about that guy.

After some time Soap and Simon join you all, Simon kept you close that night. Making sure you were okay and that your safe.

Late evening you all decided to call it a day. You and Simon headed over to his beast of a motorcycle. God you loved when you both went on joy rides and feeling the air brush your body. Lucky for you, you were actual dropped off this morning by Simon so you had your helmet on you.

Simon helped you up onto his bike, he felt your arms wrap around his large yet attractive waist. You held him tightly as he drove through the almost empty roads. Ending the day both of you in bed laying closely and talking about your days before the incident. Times like this you were glad Simon was there to protect you at time like earlier. Also you were proud that he was protecting and making sure your safe at all times.

And he was just proud that he made you smile after a bad situation. You two are proud to say your both are soon to be happily married.



(Maybe a wedding post next time???)

Have a good day/night!🫶

#task force 141 #cod x reader #task force 141 x y/n #cod mw2 #cod headcanons #cod modern warfare #y/n mw2 #platonic task force 141 x y/n #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #ghost modern warfare #ghost call of duty #ghost #ghost mw2 #ghost x reader #biker girl #biker boy #biker gang #simon riley x you #simon riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley imagine #ghost posts #ghost riley #simon ghost x you #simon ghost riley x you #Simon ghost Riley x fem reader

[notbrokenjustfake]

The rain fell incessantly, heavily. The air was filled with humidity and the pungent smell of the undergrowth, the ground soft and muddy at times.

It hadn't been the easiest hike he'd faced recently, but despite the fatigue that was beginning to grip his calves he couldn't help but marvel at the splendor of Chenyu Vale. The emerald green of the foliage fading into the jade green of the river made the worry of finding a dry spot for the night something of little importance.

He had left Beidou and the Crux crew at Yilong Wharf, with the promise of meeting up in Liyue in two weeks to attend the Lantern Rite. They had spent the last few months on exhausting journeys between Liyue and Inazuma, and although he was now accustomed to life at sea and had come to love it, he felt the need to get back in touch with the land - and in the meantime train a little, which was difficult to practice on the deck of a pitching ship. Immersed in the view and his thoughs, he realized a second late that there was someone under the sloping roof of the abandoned hut towards which he was heading; a dark, shadowed figure that gave off the scent of dry, sharp wind. He had done nothing to conceal his presence and hoped the stranger would not be alarmed by it – encountering armed samurai when stranded in a storm could be a rather unpleasant experience. Therefore he tried to appear as harmless as possible when spoke to him.

- Good evening. I hope isn't too big of a nuisance if I take shelter under this roof. -

Entering the shadows he could see his sudden companion in misfortune better, and the enormous hat he was sporting inadvertently made him smile.

It had been his first visit to the Vale, passing through in between secret meetings and the turnip’s endless insistence of scholarly work which he had been heading back to albeit deliberately slowly. His avoidance is not due to the task, he rather enjoyed it, but the hive of the overly chatty researchers frayed what little patience for humans he possesses.

Akuji would simply rather be anywhere else, but all sentences and debts will be served and paid in time.

He’d only taken shelter for a moment of respite and to watch the downpour, the weather itself only being a mild irritant only to one’s ability to travel. Thus, no fire lit to aid in warmth or dry clothes. The thought hadn’t even occurred to the puppet, and it is a wonder the man had noticed him at all in the waning day light.

“Hmm.” The Wanderer looked up at the strange, soaked man and nodded in acceptance. “Not at all.” His tone was curt, but not entirely impolite though he made no effort to introduce himself either, seeing little point in doing so.

The puppet examined the white-haired man giving him a polite smile, not out of worry of danger simply just out of habit, though he kept his face slightly obscured by his hat. It was clear to him that the man was Inazuman and likely a ronin. Not many others would seek refuge in long abandoned huts or hovels aside from those carried by the winds.

The ronin seemed pleasant enough, quite soft in speaking and mannered in way that is a rarity in those the puppet comes across. Not that Akuji had considered the fact that many of his unpleasant conversations are a result of his… bluntness, but it is refreshing, nevertheless.

#kaedahara kazuha

[rocks-in-space]

1. Welcome to Night Vale, Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Cranor // 2. via @1five1two // 3. Cosmos, Carl Sagan // 4. A Psalm for the Wild-Built, Becky Chambers // 5. "Point B,” Sarah Kay // 6. @sammy-whamm // 7. “Song of Myself,” Walt Whitman // 8. "Phenomenon of Floating,” Rob Gonsalves// 9. "Wild Geese,” Mary Oliver// 10. “End Poem,” Julian Gough. 

[Image IDs:

1: Text reading “Be proud of your place in the cosmos. It is small, and yet it is. How unlikely! How fantastic!”

2: A semi-realistic painting of dark blue ocean with a small silhouette of a person standing on the beach. The sky is black on the horizon and transitions to a galactic blue starry sky.

3: Text reading "The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of starstuff."

4: Text reading “Do you not find consciousness alone to be the most exhilarating thing? Here we are, in this incomprehensibly large universe, on this one tiny moon around this one incidental planet, and in all the time this entire scenario has existed, every component has been recycled over and over and over again into infinitely incredible configurations, and sometimes, those configurations are special enough to be able to see the world around them. You and I—we’re just atoms that arranged themselves the right way, and we can understand that about ourselves. Is that not amazing?”

5: Text reading “I want her to look at the world through the underside of a  glass bottomed boat/ To look at through a microscope at the galaxies that exist on the pinpoint of a human mind.”

6: A drawing of a person with dark skin, blond hair, and glowing yellow eyes wearing a peach dress. They are kneeling and are surrounded by multi-colored planetary rings. A number of small moons and a small Saturn float around their head.

7: Text reading “I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey work of the stars.”

8: An optical illusion painting of a person with light skin, long brown hair, and a purple swim suit floating on their back in a lake. The lake is surrounded by rocks and pine trees. The sky above is blue with white and peach clouds which starts to look more like Earth from space on the right side of the painting. The trees become a starry night sky on the right side as well.

9: Text reading “Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,/ the world offers itself to your imagination,/calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting - / over and over announcing your place/ in the family of things.”

10: Text reading “and the universe said you are not alone / and the universe said you are not separate from every other thing / and the universe said you are the universe tasting itself, talking to itself, reading its own code/ and the universe said I love you because you are love.”

end ID]

#web weaving #web weave #connections #poetry #space #becky chambers #wtnv #welcome to night vale #carl sagan #mary oliver #sarah kay #quotes #sam speaks

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (42/?)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Word Count: 18,112 (OOPS, but not really)

Story Summary: Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, the Lady of Runestone, was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royce, as a desperate grasp at revenge.

Ignored by her father, and alone following the death of her mother, she is raised in King’s Landing alongside her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen. As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. But their lives are far from the fairy tales they read, and as tensions in the family rise, they find their paths may diverge.

Will they be pulled apart when the dragons dance?

Chapter Summary: In the Vale, Arianwyn receives a wedding present from Ser Gerold and has a candid discussion with her Godsmother. At Storm's End, Aemond goes on a tumultuous hunt with Borros Baratheon. Both are met with unpleasant interruptions to their missions.

Warnings: none, other than Baratheon/frat-boy shenanigans

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Three Days, Part II

On the 24th day in the ninth month, 136 years after Aegon’s conquest…

Arianwyn sat by the window of her rooms with the periwinkle scrap of silk still gripped in her hand, absentmindedly running her thumb over some of the Runes – those for wisdom and peace – while she drank her morning tea. Though she supposed ‘mid-morning tea’ was the more accurate term. When she woke, the sun had already been well into its journey across the sky.

Brynna would be horrified that she had slept so late, especially as a guest.

But perhaps the maid would be lenient, given how it had been her host who had kept her up with wine and a never-ceasing demand for stories. Arianwyn had not wanted to ask after the time before bed, and she would not inquire about it today either. If she genuinely did not know, she would not have to lie if Brynna asked about it – should she ever find out.

The apartments Arianwyn had been given were so large that she doubted they were actually intended for use as guest quarters, but she would not complain. From the window in the bedchamber, she could look over the garden where Emrys was staying. He had roused along with her and trilled sleepily when she came to the window to greet him.

Not wanting him to be confined for so long in the small courtyard, she had sent him into the mountains to explore. He had been all too excited to obey. The stress and terror of the last night were quickly forgotten. For in the daylight, the mountains offered him the novelty and excitement he had so long been denied on Dragonstone.

The window in the sitting room offered a view of the mountains themselves. Arianwyn drank her tea while watching Emrys weaving between the peaks, sending the snowcaps tumbling down, and flying through the mist from the waterfall just below the castle.

Alyssa’s Tears, it was called. After the mythical woman who had not shed a single tear when her entire family was slaughtered. As punishment for her heartlessness, the gods refused her peace in death until her tears fell upon the Vale and wet the ground in which her family was buried. The waterfall was supposedly fed by the tears she cried in whatever restless afterlife she was doomed to. But the water spilled from so high that it turned to mist long before it reached the valley floor and never truly touched the ground below.

The story was one of the many without a happy ending in Arianwyn’s little brown book of fairy tales from the First Men, and one of the few on which she and Aemond agreed: it was far too sad.

Bringing the silk to her face so she could once more breathe in her husband’s scent, Arianwyn let her mind wander to what he may be doing. He was nearly a thousand miles away, the furthest apart they had ever been.

Did he feel that distance as she did – as if it were a rope tied around her waist, growing tighter with every breath? Did he keep turning to his right expecting to find her there, as she kept looking up to her left? Had he dreamed of her that night, as she had dreamed of him?

Aemond had no doubt already been awake for hours – he had always risen early. Had he already secured Lord Borros’ support? At this very moment, were he and Vhagar on their way home?

The thought of him sitting alone in their rooms waiting for her brought a pang of guilt to Arianwyn’s chest.

Though perhaps that pain was only hunger. She had yet to break her fast, after all. The maid that dressed her had brought a tray of tea but no food. And though she had been awake for nearly an hour now, no one had come to fetch her.

She was about to give into her aching stomach and dig through one of her saddlebags for some dried meat when a knock sounded at her door.

“Come in,” she called, hastily shoving her bag beneath the table to hide what she had been about to do. But there was no need. It was Ser Gerold, along with two footmen bearing trays laden with all manner of food.

He smiled when he saw her, his arms immediately spreading to pull her into another tight embrace.

Arianwyn would never get tired of his hugs – so different from Aemond’s, yet just as wonderful. While Gerold was nearly the same height as her husband, he was so much softer. He had never been thin, even when he was a practicing, muscled knight of the Vale.

No, he was the very image of the Bronze Kings she had seen in paintings and tapestries – tall and barrel-chested. She would never understand how the Andals had not immediately turned back across the Narrow Sea when they beheld King Yorwyck VI, purported to be the largest man to ever wear the Runic Crown.

All she knew or cared about was that the Royce physique was perfect for giving the best hugs in all the world.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, brushing a tangled curl behind her ear. “Or did you miss your husband’s presence too dearly?”

Arianwyn laughed and surreptitiously snagged the periwinkle silk from the table and slipped it into her pocket. “It took me a while to fall asleep,” she admitted, “but I slept well after I did.”

“Good,” he said. Then, he patted her head once and moved to hold out her chair for her to sit. “I apologize for how late I am, but I am afraid I slept too long myself.”

“How do you know I slept too long?” she asked as he pushed her chair closer to the table. “I could have been waiting here for hours, starving.”

Gerold only gave her an incredulous look as he took the seat across from her – the only other seat set for the meal. “Because I know you, and I knew your mother. She savored her sleep as well. You are the only people I have ever known who can sleep as soundly and as long as a bear.”

She made a disgruntled noise as she poured herself a new cup of tea. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to do that while sharing a bed with Aemond. He not only stays up hours past when all normal people go to bed, but acts as though he is in an eternal race with the sun to see who can rise first.”

“You could always sleep in your own quarters,” he suggested half-heartedly as he began to fill his plate with food. “Most wives do, after all.”

“Do I have to?” she asked as she set down the teapot, avoiding meeting her cousin’s eyes. “I mean… will it be expected of me?”

Lifting the silver lid off a tray of cold honeyed ham, Gerold grimaced as he considered his answer. “It will be seen as unusual, perhaps, if you choose to go on sharing chambers. But there is nothing wrong with it. Most couples simply are not as fortunate as the pair of you to actually want to spend time with their spouse.”

He smiled proudly as he began loading his plate, his gaze momentarily drawn to the window by the shadow of Emrys flying past.

“Lady Jeyne isn’t joining us?” Arianwyn asked, not wanting to put anything on her own plate for fear of offending her host, despite her stomach growling.

Gerold only shook his head as he dropped a fourth slice of ham onto his plate. “Not this morning. I told Jeyne I wanted at least some time with you, alone. If she was here, I would scarcely have the chance to talk!”

He laughed heartily as he scooped buttered eggs on top of his ham. “So, I get you for this meal. Afterward, she will claim you for a tour of the castle or some other thing, and you will have your luncheon together.”

“What about the petition?”

He finished his plate with three thick slices of rye bread slathered with an obscene amount of butter. “That will be later, after the rest of the court finishes our business for the day.”

“But – ”

“Yes, I know you are in a hurry to return to Aemond,” he assuaged her. “But autumn is here, and no one knows how soon winter will follow, which means we will soon depart the Eyrie. We have our own business to finish before then, which takes precedence, I’m afraid.”

Arianwyn shrank into her chair and half-heartedly looked over the food she had yet to add to her plate. The hunger gnawing at her was replaced by a sense of disappointed dread.

“Don’t worry,” Gerold said, leaning across the table to fill her plate for her, “At least, by speaking at the end of the session, the court will be more likely to give you a swift answer?”

“The court?” she asked, looking up from the mountain of porridge now on her plate. “Not just Jeyne?”

He sighed and frowned, forgetting that she knew only the ways of the King’s court, not that of the Vale. At least, with winter approaching, he would have ample time to teach her their ways before she was called to the Eyrie as the representative of Runestone.

“Jeyne makes the final decision,” he explained, “but she carefully considers the opinion of every member of her court before she makes it. She is not a Queen. She is… do you know what her title is?”

Arianwyn sighed, not particularly in the mood for a lesson. “Jeyne Arryn, Lady of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East,” she answered before taking a sharp bite of her bread.

“Very good,” he said flatly, neither fazed nor amused by her tone. “She is not our Queen, but our Warden. She guides us. She does not rule us, at least not in the way you know. So, yes. It will be the entire court you must convince.”

“Will they listen to me? Or…” she pushed the small pieces of ham that Gerold had cut for her, as if she were still a child, around her plate. “You told me that rumors about me – about Aemond – have made their way here. Does the court believe them?”

He let his fork fall to the table as he thought about how to answer, the silence of the room echoing through Arianwyn’s mind. If those who had known Aemond when he was a sweet young boy could now believe Daemon’s outrageous lies, what hope was there in those who knew only his reputation believing in his innocence?

“No house which has provided a knight for your guard believes them,” he said carefully, giving her time to count how many allies that gave her. Only six, among the thirty-two houses – excluding Arryn and Royce – that would be present in the Throne Room. “The Lords Grafton, Hersy, and Hunter were with us in King’s Landing when we petitioned for your release. They saw how devoted he was to you then. Lord Hunter, in fact, commissioned a copy of your translations for his library. For years, he has asked that I send you his many questions along with my letters.”

That brought a small smile to her face, but it did not last. Not when she had to convince an entire court that Aegon was fit for the throne. She was not entirely certain of it herself. But like she had told Rhaenys, she was certain that Rhaenyra – and, by extension, Daemon – was even less fit.

“What about the others?” she asked, taking another slow sip of tea.

Gerold sighed. “They have their suspicions and their… hesitancies. But it is still only rumors, my dear.”

“It is because of those rumors that I am here,” she explained, “and alone. Otto Hightower thought that my coming here on Emrys, and showing that I am not a prisoner, would help dispel the worst of what is being said.”

Gerold nodded as he set down his tea. “A wise strategy. Though, I think I have something that may be even more effective.”

Arianwyn watched him curiously as he stood, briefly remembering that he had mentioned a present the night before. He had not brought anything with him beside the servants and the food they carried.

But then he drew his sword from his belt, resting the flat of the blade in his palm as he looked over the whirling patterns in the Valyrian Steel. One had to look very closely to see the Runes etched into its fuller. Those on the crossguard and pommel were much easier to read.

Lamentation.

The ancestral sword of their house, dating from just after the Andals had claimed victory over the Vale, and House Royce and House Arryn had been joined in marriage to end the years of conflict between them. The Arryns had commissioned the blade from a traveling Valyrian smith to be part of the bride price. The bride herself had not been a warrior, so the sword was instead wielded by her brother and passed down throughout the millennia.

Though Rhea had been a warrior, it had passed over her to Gerold after Lord Yorbert died.

And now he held it out to Arianwyn.

“I…” she stammered, unsure what to say. She was the Lady of Runestone, but certainly no warrior. The gesture was sweet, but unnecessary, and more than a little confusing.

Gerold lowered himself to a knee, his face tightening as his old muscles strained. “This blade has been wielded by our family for thousands of years, passing from father to son. Its rightful place is in the hands of the ruler of Runestone and the head of our house, whether that be its Lady or its Lord.”

He held his hands, and the sword, out further toward her. “That is you now, Aria. You and Aemond. So, I hereby relinquish my claim to Lamentation and present it to you. So that you may bestow it upon your husband, our new Lord of Runestone.”

Tears pricked her eyes as she wrapped a hand around the cool metal of its hilt, then the other. Though Valyrian steel was light, it was still far too large for her to lift with one hand. Even with both arms, she strained to hold it upright.

She had seen it so many times on Gerold’s hip but had never looked at it closely.

As a sign of respect to the long history of House Royce, the blade had been made in the style of the First Men. The crossguard and pommel were both made from the bone white heartwood of a Weirwood tree – a gesture of goodwill to the newly converted Royces. Thin bands of bronze emblazoned with “We Remember” in Runes held the ends of the leather-wrapped grip in place. The base of the pommel, too, was made of bronze and engraved with the full Runic words of their house:

The past is set in stone and cast in bronze. We remember.

It curved away from the blade, opposite the crossguard, forming the base on which five petals of Weirwood rested. Each rounded piece was bordered by more bronze, and each sigil and Rune carved into the wood was filled with hammered bronze wire.

A perfect embodiment of House Royce. Of their connection to the Old Gods and the Runes.

Or, it would have been had the blade, too, been made of bronze and not Valyrian steel.

And if not for the seven-pointed star at the base of the pommel, also filled with bronze. A reminder that the Andals had won. That the Runic Crown was stolen – some said it had been melted down to make this very sword –  and the Old Gods displaced by the Seven.

Although in the centuries and millennia that passed, the Royces had become devoted to the new gods, none more heartily than Arianwyn. She did not see that symbol as a mark of conquest, but a comforting presence, and one she was quite glad of.

For that reason, and for the Valyrian blood in her veins, perhaps the sword fit into her small hands more perfectly than any of her ancestors before her.

But when she raised the sword again, her arms quavered and buckled, and the blade tip clanged against the marble floor as her strength failed. If it hadn’t been Valyrian Steel, the point may very well have snapped.

Any faint ideas she had about her wielding the sword, rather than Aemond, disappeared after that.

Arianwyn carefully handed the sword back to Gerold, who slid it back into the hilt he had detached from his belt and set it gently on the table. She tried not to blush at dropping the most valuable possession her House had ever owned, but her cheeks burned despite herself.

“Aemond will be so honored,” she said to her cousin. “I just wish you could give it to him yourself.”

Gerold laughed. “I could wait until the two of you finally get to Runestone. It would be a wonderful centerpiece to the grand feast I plan to hold for you.”

“You may want to send a raven to Queen Alicent,” she mused with a sly smile. “She also has plans for a feast. The two of you may need to conspire on a single event, so Aemond does not have to endure too much socialization.”

-

Aemond was sure that Borros had ordered he be given the worst horse in all the Seven Kingdoms.

Its fucking name was ‘Barrel,’ gods be good.

Barrel was the ugliest shade of grey-beige Aemond had ever seen. Beyond the nauseating color, his hair was patchy and scraggly, giving the appearance of an overgrown, malformed mule rather than a horse. And overgrown, he certainly was. At the shoulder, he was taller than Aemond, and his chest was as wide as two barrels – obviously his namesake.

It was also the most temperamental beast Aemond had ever met. Compared to Barrel, even Vhagar seemed as docile as a newborn kitten. Every command was a battle, and each one put him further and further behind the rest of the hunting party, making him lose valuable time he needed to sway Borros to Aegon’s cause.

By the time he once again caught up to the Lord of Storm’s End, his fingers bore the marks of Barrel’s misshapen teeth even from beneath his gloves. However, Aemond got several sturdy kicks and thumps in – though he doubted the massive horse had felt any of them.

Worse than the snickers he heard as he maneuvered Barrel clumsily through the party was that nearly every man already had at least one squirrel, rabbit, or even a game bird of some kind strapped to his saddle.

Borros had two rabbits and a small pheasant.

Aemond had nothing.

“I thought surely you’d have caught something by now,” Borros snickered as he looked over the Prince’s saddle. “You’ve disappeared into the woods alone often enough. Out of practice?”

The urge to draw his dagger and show Borros how skilled he was nearly overwhelmed Aemond. Aegon needs him, he reminded himself. We need allies to protect ourselves. Protect Arianwyn.

So, he took a deep breath and forced out a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m afraid we have not hunted in many years. It did not seem right when my father could not join us. He was quite the avid hunter.”

“Yes, I remember,” Borros said as he turned away to focus on the path ahead. “I was a young man when my father took me to the Kingswood for the hunt in honor of your brother’s second nameday. It was quite the event.”

“So I have heard,” Aemond muttered.

Borros glanced at him again, a cruel grin flashing across his lips. “I was never invited to a similar event in your honor, or your younger brother’s. Why is that?”

Aemond knew the answer. And he hated it.

A hunt that grand had only been given once more after that. Not for Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, or Daeron. Viserys never found them worthy of such a celebration. No, the only other hunt of that scale was in honor of Rhaenyra when she birthed the first of her bastards.

It was always Rhaenyra.

But not now. Not anymore.

Viserys was gone. So too, was the Crown’s blindness to her sins – her unworthiness.

That was why Aemond was here.

“I believe it was my mother’s decision,” he lied smoothly. “She was quite disturbed by the sight of my eldest sister covered in boar’s blood and decided she would prefer more civilized celebrations for her own children.”

Borros didn’t even try to hide the roll of his eyes. “Yes, tourneys are quite civilized.”

“They are at least structured,” Aemond snapped, startling Barrel and forcing him to stop and soothe the stupid beast before catching up to Borros and taking on a more diplomatic tone. “I think we can agree that most knights are less savage than the average boar.”

At that, or perhaps at Barrel’s antics, Borros laughed. “‘Most,’ perhaps. Not all.” He looked back at one of his men and raised a brow. “We have heard rumor that the new King has his own… savage proclivities.”

Aemond bit his lip and tried to make himself look like Aegon’s nightly activities didn’t disgust him. “My brother is a man of strong desires. I dare say there are worse vices, wouldn’t you?”

“Like an overindulgence in wine, perhaps?” one of Borros’ men called out.

Turning around to try and identify the man that said it only upset Barrel even more. And, of course, the party did not stop to wait for him. So it was several minutes and three sharp bites later that Aemond caught up to his host once more.

“I hope any rumors you may have heard will not color your assessment of my brother too harshly,” he began, his voice more pleading than he had intended. “Aegon has his faults. I cannot deny that. But no King has ever been perfect, not even Jaehaerys. My brother will be a good King. He only needs the chance to prove himself.”

Borros’ face was impassive. “Most Kings prove themselves well before they take the throne, boy, during their time as heir. Your brother was only the heir for mere moments before King Viserys died, I am told. What was he doing in those moments, I wonder?”

A low chuckle rumbled through the hunting party, among the squires and servants, and even Barrel seemed to be enjoying himself for once. Aemond made a note to talk to Larys Strong when he returned to seek out any prying eyes in the Keep. There had to be many if word of Aegon’s habits had spread so far. Even if it was the truth, people could not be allowed to speak of their King in that way.  

But for now…

“I will not deny that he was in the arms of a woman,” he conceded. Though it was only his best guess – he had not asked Ser Arryk for much detail. But if Borros already knew Aegon’s habits, convincing him of the falsehood should not be hard.

The Baratheon chuckled. “I assume it was not his wife?”

If any of these men said a word against Helaena… Aemond shook his head. “I’m afraid not. It was one of his favorites – the daughter of a Pentosi trader, I believe. I do not know her name.” The lies came so easily. It unsettled him. “But I assure you, she is not misused.”

“She is… well compensated, then?” another of the men behind them asked with a barely stifled laugh. Each of them was vulgar and shameless. They would get on well with Aegon, actually.

Aemond once more swallowed his disgust, and his surprise that he was feeling so defensive of a fictional paramour. “She is not a whore. She is not paid. But Aegon does… spoil her. Gifts her jewels, silk, and other luxuries. It is in a man’s nature to want to provide for the woman he loves, is it not?”

“That it is,” Borros agreed, reaching over to clap Aemond’s shoulder, again startling Barrel. “Why else would my wife wear jewels as large as her tits!”

He led the party in another bout of rude, raucous laughter. Aemond thought he could vomit. He played his sour look off as further frustration with his mount.

When he finally stopped laughing at his own crudeness, Borros again turned to Aemond. “I suppose it is not what we usually expect of our heirs, but it at least proves he is a man.” Then, he scoffed, “Why your father waited so long to name him heir, I don’t understand.”

“I’m told being so close to death brings clarity of mind,” Aemond mused, though he did not entirely understand his father’s change of heart himself. Perhaps it was a final gift of apology to his wife, granting their son his birthright at last.

Pushing Aegon – and all of them – aside for so long deeply wounded his mother. But she never allowed it show. No, she let it strengthen her resolve.

As long as Aemond could remember, Alicent had often fulfilled the role of the heir in Rhaenyra’s place. Whenever his sister could not bring herself to care about her duties or was too busy holding her own private court in her tower with Harwin Strong as her consort, or later with Daemon on Dragonstone.

Many of the nobles who had flocked around her like a gaggle of simpering geese were the same who now whispered about him when they thought he could not hear – and sometimes when they knew he could. The battle lines between Green and Black were drawn well before Viserys’ death.

Borros considered him carefully. “And in this clarity… did he reveal anything to you?”

Aemond felt that same pestering shame in his chest as he did when his father begged peace for his family that night at dinner – the last time he had seen the King. A peace Aemond himself had shattered. He swallowed and pursed his lips, focusing on keeping his voice even and confident. “I confess I did not visit my father on his deathbed.”

“Given how long he was on his deathbed,” Borros half-laughed, “I find that hard to believe.”

The rest of the party laughed with him, and Aemond conceded a smile as he amended his statement, “I did not visit him in his final days.”

Or months. Or years…

For the first time, all of Borros’ men were silent. For the first time, their presence did not grate on Aemond.

One of them – one of the bastards – cleared his throat before speaking. “I did not visit my father, either. Even when he asked for me, specifically.”

Aemond turned to him slowly, ready to say something cruel, but the words escaped him. He was loathe to admit he empathized with a bastard, but the look on the man’s face was familiar. It was a look he had seen on Aegon’s face and felt on his own: that of a man who had never had his father’s love.

But this man – this bastard – had been summoned by his father in those precious final moments.

Aemond had not.

What was he, a trueborn son who was loved less than a bastard? What did you call a son whose father cared too little to even hate him? Was there even a word for something so wretched?

A sharp pain ran through his scar, and he hissed as he sucked in a breath and ducked his head.

“I’m sorry, my Prince,” the man whispered, bowing his head slightly.

Aemond did not reply. He hated the man for what he had. And though he was grateful for the sympathy, it did nothing to soothe his pain.

He needed to get this damn thing done so he could return home. Put that vulgar trophy room, these men and their depraved senses of humor, and the way they looked at him like one of the predators lining their floor – like he was to be both feared and hunted – behind him.

“My brother has sent me to…” he began.

Borros reared his horse, the sudden movement causing Barrel to nearly throw Aemond, and turned to him with a hard face. “Later, my Prince. There is a clearing just ahead where we will stop for a meal.”

He flicked his eyes to Aemond’s saddle. “Since you have not caught anything, I will give you one of my rabbits.”

As Aemond’s scar flared once more, Vhagar let out a grumbling roar in the distance.

-

Gerold and Arianwyn spent the remainder of their meal strategizing about what she could say to sway the Valish court. But when the tea had gone cold, and Lady Jeyne arrived to claim her time with her godsdaughter, they had made little progress.

Aegon’s character was well known, and many of the Lords of the Vale were more pious than anyone outside of Oldtown. So, convincing them that he was suited for leadership would be no easy feat. And while Rhaenyra’s own sins may have brought them to equal footing, the oaths the Houses had sworn to her more than twenty years ago gave her back the advantage.

Arianwyn had suggested revealing Daemon’s true nature to the court, but Gerold cautioned her against it. Rhea had refused to do so while she was still alive, fearing the devastation his wrath could bring. And since he had already threatened to kill Arianwyn, and nearly made good on that promise, Gerold did not want to provoke him further.

So, they were left with emphasizing that the King had changed his mind, reiterating the laws that demanded Aegon inherit, singing what praises she could of her good brother, and criticizing Rhaenyra as much as possible without also drawing any judgmental eyes toward Aegon.

Neither of them was very confident in the plan actually working.

But when Jeyne swept into the room, she brought an air of optimism that neither could resist. She flitted about the room as she sang Emrys’ praises, having watched him for most of the morning. And her playful jabs at Gerold for still eating like he trained daily sent all three of them laughing.

As she guided her godsdaughter through the Eyrie, she was much less voracious in her appetite to hear every detail about Arianwyn’s life than she had been the night before. Rather, she let the girl tell the stories at her own pace and let her lead the conversation. She even answered questions about her own life as a ruling Lady, the history of the Vale, and her experiences – though they were few – with sheep.

Arianwyn had never heard anyone laugh so loud as when she told her godsmother about the flock of sheep Aemond had procured for them. She was still laughing when they came to stand before a marble statue in the center of the gardens.

Though it was much less grand than the statues Arianwyn had seen in King’s Landing, it was breathtakingly beautiful. Carved entirely from white marble, like the rest of the Eyrie. And like the castle itself, it was carved with remarkable skill. It depicted a woman in a near-shapeless dress, the hood of her cloak drawn, and her hands held out in beseeching prayer as she wept.

Alyssa Arryn, the same mythical woman who gave her name to the waterfall next to the castle.

“I know her story is a sad one,” Arianwyn murmured as she examined the heartbreaking devastation the sculptor had captured in the statue’s face. “A warning that we should not hold back our tears, but…”

Jeyne said nothing, allowing her time to gather her thoughts. It was a rare and much-appreciated courtesy.

“But recently, I cannot help but wish I could be more like her, if just a little bit,” Arianwyn finally said. “The Seven know I have shed more than my share of tears in my lifetime.”

It was a truth she would only reveal to those she trusted most. Aemond, Gerold, maybe Alicent or Helaena. And though she had known her godsmother less than a day, she had a preternatural sense that she could also be trusted.

“Oh, my darling,” Jeyne sighed as she pulled the girl into an embrace so tight as to make up for all the time they spent apart. “I am so sorry for all you have suffered. I cannot help but feel I have failed you. That I should have prevented it somehow.”

Arianwyn shook her head as she pulled away and offered a shy smile. “You did not fail me, I promise. If you had intervened in any of it, I would not be who I am today.” Though her voice was thick with emotion, each word rang true in her heart. “I like who I am, and despite all I have been through, I would not want to be anyone else.”

Like Alyssa Arryn, Arianwyn did not shed a tear.

“Your grandfather, Lord Yorbert, was my regent in my minority. I would not be the woman I am today without him.” Lady Jeyne mused as she guided them to sit on a low stone bench facing the statue.

Arianwyn nodded. “Yes, I know. I am told he was wise and fair. And that he cared for you dearly.”

“As I did for him,” a dreamy look came over Jeyne’s face. “He was as much my father as Rhea’s.”

“I was only three when my father and brothers were killed,” she continued. “My memories of them are scarce and faint, but I miss them every day. But… I also like the woman I have become. If given the choice, I do not know whether I would change anything either. Perhaps that makes me a cruel, vain woman, but it is how I feel nevertheless.”

Arianwyn nodded, all the agreement she could muster.

After long minutes where neither woman said anything, the only sound the roaring of the mountain wind and the occasional joyful roar from Emrys, Jeyne finally spoke.

“I wanted to remain entirely neutral before your petition today,” she said, staring into the eyes of the statue. “But I cannot help but be curious as to why you are here.”

Arianwyn straightened against the cold marble of the bench. She had nearly forgotten her mission in the peace of the garden. “Did the Hand not tell you in his letter?”

“He did,” Jeyne answered. “Or at least, he hinted at it. I know why he sent someone here. I know what he wants from me.”

She looked at Arianwyn then, staring deeply into her silver eyes. For the first time, she did not look at her godsdaughter with awe and love, but with suspicion and apprehension. “What I don’t know – what I don’t understand – is why you came. Why you agreed to it.”

Arianwyn was taken aback by the almost accusatory tone. “I am a Royce. I am of the Vale, and I am your – ”

“That is why you were sent,” Jeyne clarified. “To try and counter my blood ties to Rhaenyra. But it does not explain why you decided to come and make this petition.”

“I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Surely, as the Lady of Runestone, you can sympathize with Rhaenyra’s plight?”

Oh.

Arianwyn had not considered how her petitioning for a son to inherit over his older sister would wound Jeyne – the only woman to rule one of the Great Houses, one of the Seven Kingdoms. There had been three rebellions to try and depose her in favor of some distant male relative. Thankfully, she had survived them all. But Aegon taking the Iron Throne would surely dredge up unsavory memories.

“Rhaenyra being a woman has nothing to do with it,” Arianwyn looked down at the scenery around them as she spoke, afraid that she would lose her nerve if she had to face Lady Jeyne’s cool, assessing gaze. “Viserys named Aegon his heir.”

“On his deathbed,” Jeyne added. “With only the Queen present to hear this momentous change of heart.”

Arianwyn faced Jeyne again, trying not to look too angry at the accusation. “I trust Alicent with my life. She is not lying.”

“If you trust her, then I do as well,” Jeyne said. “But you cannot deny the circumstances are suspicious, and many will be hesitant to believe her.” She waited until the girl nodded to continue. “None more than Rhaenyra. Would you not be doubtful yourself, were you in the same position?

“I suppose I would be.”

“And can you not see the injustice in the reported words of a confused, dying man overriding more than twenty years of insistence in Rhaenyra’s position?” Jeyne asked. “Were she a man, surely the matter would be thoroughly contested.”

“You may be right, but I cannot determine my allegiance only by my sex.”

“Why not?”

Arianwyn cleared her throat, taken aback by Jeyne’s intensity, and continued. “According to the precedent set by the Great Council, Aegon was the rightful heir from the moment he was born, no matter what Viserys declared.”

Jeyne raised an arched brow. “And you agree with this precedent?”

“No!” Arianwyn answered quickly, for fear of offending her godsmother further than she suspected she already had. “But the vote was twenty to one. The men of Westeros may be content to let someone’s women like me or my mother rule a small house, but – ”

“Runestone is no small House,” Jeyne cut in – not the interruption Arianwyn expected. “I apologize. Please go on.”

“Thank you. I… Your own inheritance was controversial,” Arianwyn continued. “It was only the ancient laws of the Vale and the support of Queen Alysanne that secured your position. If you had inherited after the Great Council, I don’t know you would have inherited at all.”

Jeyne looked away sadly, the crumpled look on her face breaking Arianwyn’s heart.

“I do not say this to be cruel,” she insisted, taking her godsmother’s hand. “I just… am trying to be realistic. If the ruling of the Great Council is to be overturned, it cannot be for someone who would only reinforce the worst fears of the men who think women are incapable of ruling. They would ensure women could never rule again.”

“You doubt Rhaenyra would be a good Queen?” Jeyne asked, her eyes narrowing in curiosity.

Arianwyn’s mouth fell open as her mind scrambled to cobble together how she could answer without revealing everything about Daemon.

“Before you answer,” Jeyne warned, her dark eyes hard as stone. “Consider that I am not looking for court gossip or the resentful comments of a stepdaughter spurned. I am asking for the objective assessment of a fellow ruler.”

Silence hung over them as Arianwyn considered her words.

“Grand Maester Orwyle once told us that a wise King is good, but a great King surrounds himself with advisors wiser than himself,” she said, finally. She felt somewhat ridiculous, quoting her tutor in such a serious conversation, but her mind kept returning to his lessons.

“Your grandfather told me the same,” Jeyne added with a sly smile before gesturing for the girl to continue.

“I will admit that Rhaenyra is wise,” Arianwyn said. “And reasonably fair. But her choice of advisors is… questionable at best.”

“To whom, specifically, do you refer?”

Arianwyn considered her answer, thinking back to all the people she had seen flock to Rhaenyra’s private court in King’s Landing and Dragonstone. “Lord Corlys Velaryon is the most ambitious man I know – to a dangerous fault. He abandoned his seat on the Small Council to pursue personal glory, and yet Rhaenyra has kept him close to her. Lord Celtigar does not approve of anything she does, yet he clings to her like a leech because he cannot resist the power she grants him. The Lords Bar Emmon and Massey are nothing more than toadies afraid to say a word against her.”

She took a deep breath and looked to the skies. While the men she had listed thus far were unlikeable, they were nothing that would endanger the realm. Not like…

“The one who troubles me the most is my father,” she blurted out, her lip trembling in fear of a man hundreds of miles away.

Jeyne’s face was as hard as granite. “Daemon?”

“Yes, my Lady.”

Something sparked in Jeyne’s dark eyes. “Why do you say that?”

Arianwyn wet her lips, which had become quite dry thanks to the cold mountain air or, more likely, her own nervousness. “Daemon has a brilliant mind for strategy and warfare. But he is equally masterful at using brute force and unnecessary cruelty to achieve his goals, which in themselves are often… less than honorable.”

There was a subtle twitch in Jeyne’s eyes, and her nostrils flared. “Is Rhaenyra aware of the circumstances of your birth?”

It seemed even the wind went silent.

For a moment, Arianwyn convinced herself that Jeyne only referred to Daemon’s absence during Rhea’s pregnancy and after her death in the birthing bed.

But then she recognized the glinting in those dark eyes – the primal, righteous rage.

“My lady, I was not aware that you knew,” she whispered.

Jeyne pressed her lips together. “Rhea was my best friend. And a Lady of the Vale. I went to Runestone the moment I heard what happened. I heard it from her own lips and swore to protect the secret. I have cursed myself every day since for taking that oath.”

“I…” Arianwyn stammered. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Give me an answer,” Jeyne commanded with the voice of a Great Lady, of the Warden of the Vale. “Does Rhaenyra know?”

Arianwyn remembered how her stepmother had looked at her only a week ago in the garden on Dragonstone. The pity and disgust in her eyes as she called what Daemon had done ‘regrettable.’ Her fear of what her husband was capable of. Fear that was apparently not enough to overcome her own desires – for the throne or for him, Arianwyn did not care. They were equally despicable.

“She does.”

Jeyne looked away, though she squeezed Arianwyn’s hand.

The Lady of the Vale spent many long minutes deep in thought, her eyes fixed on a window in the far wall of the garden.

What lay behind that window, Arianwyn did not know. She could not recall the tour she was given that morning, nor really care what lay behind the glass. All she could think about was what Jeyne would say next, what her answer to Aegon’s plea would be.

She had started to lose hope that she would get that answer when Jeyne finally spoke again.

“Tell them.”

“Tell who? Tell what?”

Jeyne turned back and cupped her godsdaughter’s chin in her hand. “Tell my court your story – your mother’s story. Tell them what Daemon did. There is no better proof that he and his wife would be worse than Maegor.”

Arianwyn shook her head slightly. “My mother did not want that. She did not want to risk his wrath.”

“Fuck his wrath!” Jeyne spat, her dark eyes blazing. “Show him yours.”

The words, and the ferocity with which they were spoken, fanned the flames of the cold fire within Arianwyn. She savored the chill that spread through her veins with every beat of her heart, letting it wash away any trace of fear she felt about what Daemon could do in retribution.

There was no need to fear for the safety of Runestone any longer. Not when it had two dragonriders to protect it – its Lady and its Lord.

And with Viserys gone, Daemon would not be able to escape punishment. Arianwyn was sure that when King Aegon learned what he had done, every army in the Seven Kingdoms would be called upon to bring him to justice.

Or rather, every army that was loyal to Aegon. However many that may be.

It was up to Arianwyn to deliver him the armies of the Vale.

“If I did tell them,” she said cautiously, “would they believe me? Would they declare for Aegon as the rightful King?”

“Tell them,” Jeyne insisted once more, the words affirmation enough.

Arianwyn smiled and nodded.

Today, the world would learn who Daemon Targaryen really was.

-

As Aemond expected, the midday meal in the cramped clearing consisted of under-seasoned, overcooked game meat and more crude conversation. Unfortunately, many of Borros’ men continued to act as though it was their sole mission to get the Prince to join them in their immoral musings – he was swiftly running out of excuses to not divulge the details of his marriage bed.

Just as scarce was his continuing resolve to not ram his fist into their sneering faces whenever they referred to Arianwyn.

Every time he could not reply to them without causing insult, he ignored them and tried to steer Borros toward his actual purpose in coming to the Stormlands. Every time, he was brushed aside.

‘Later’ was apparently the Baratheon’s favorite word.

And, of course, fucking Barrel seemed to delight in his rider’s every frustration.

The horse behaved perfectly well until the precise moment Aemond’s nerves were tested. Then, he did any number of infuriating things – rearing unexpectedly, pulling harshly to one side, or most commonly, just refusing to fucking move.

Aemond was beginning to think Barrel was not a horse at all, but some kind of demon.

He shouted as much when, after another not-so-subtle allusion to Arianwyn’s breasts, Barrel reared and bolted off the path and into the forest, making sure as many branches as possible hit his rider along the way.

The moment they came to a stop, Aemond leapt off the beast and stomped through the underbrush, unable to bear the creature’s presence for a single moment longer.

“You stupid, horrid, worthless godsdamned animal!” he roared, tearing sticks and leaves from his hair and straightening his eyepatch. Thank the gods it hadn’t come off; he did not want to imagine what Borros’ men would have said about what lay beneath.

Barrel whinnied and stared the Prince down with a challenge in his evil black eyes.

Yes, this was undoubtedly a demon.

Aemond drew his dagger, as his sword and bow were strapped to his saddle – the saddle still empty of any quarry. “I will fight you no longer,” he hissed, “I will simply send you back to the deepest of the Seven Hells where you belong.”

“And walk out of the forest on your own two feet?” Borros’ mocking voice echoed through the trees as he approached on his own, markedly well-behaved horse. “I dare say that is unbefitting behavior for a Prince of the Realm, though not nearly as much as murdering your host’s favorite horse.”

There was no self-control left in Aemond to try and hide his shock and disdain, nor the wave of relief that the Lord had left the rest of his entourage behind. With a huff, he sheathed his dagger.

“Please accept my apologies,” he said through gritted teeth. “I should not have lost my temper. If you give me a moment to collect myself, I will rejoin the party shorty.”

“No,” Borros sighed as he dismounted his steed and tied its reins loosely around the branch of a hazel tree. “You will not.”

Aemond’s scar was burning from both the branches that had whipped at his face and his rising anger. His nostrils flared as he looked at his host with undisguised contempt.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” he grumbled. “I meant no offense. I only – ”

“You have business with me,” Borros said, still unmannered and unfazed by the Prince’s fury. “Speak it now. Then, should you wish it, I will lend you my own horse to return you to your dragon. You can be back in your wife’s bed by nightfall.”

Even if he left this very moment, Aemond doubted Arianwyn would be waiting for him at the Red Keep when he returned. No, she would likely linger in the Vale with her cousin and godsmother until the three days were up.

But still, the offer was enticing. A night alone in his own rooms was more than preferable to spending even another hour here.

With one last look of pure loathing at Barrel, Aemond turned to face Lord Borros.

Though he could no longer hide the scorn swirling in his eye, he at least held himself as a properly mannered Prince, with his arms crossed behind him and his head held high. Even though he had just been seen threatening a fucking horse – albeit one he was still sure was somehow demonic – he maintained what dignity he could.

“The King has sent me to obtain your oath of allegiance,” he stated plainly, for pretense was no longer necessary. “In exchange, he offers a marriage pact between one of your daughters and my young brother, Prince Daeron. I have also been given some leave to promise the Crown’s support in other matters, within reason, should you feel the union insufficient.”

Borros smirked. “The bonds between our houses have always been strong. Pray tell, what has prompted such an overly generous offer now? Is my loyalty in doubt?”

“Of course not,” Aemond answered, far too quickly and harshly for a true diplomat. He sighed, regathering his composure. Away from the hunting party, their leering stares and boorish comments, he relaxed slightly – though the mere presence of Barrel still set him on edge. “King Aegon is eager to build his ties to the Great Houses, as he did not have the opportunity to do so in his short time as heir.”

“Pretty lies,” Borros hummed. “Perhaps you are more skilled a politician than I first assumed.”

Aemond’s jaw clenched. “My Lord, I remind you that I am a Prince of the Realm.”

“And you have come here to beg at my feet,” Borros spat back. “Because the mighty Prince and the profligate King fear that their bitch sister and her rogue husband will steal the crown, and you need my armies to put her down.”

“Watch yourself, Borros,” Aemond growled. “You tread dangerously close to treason.”

“Treason against whom? The King? Or the Queen?”

Aemond clenched his fists and slowly stepped forward, his right hand hovering near his dagger again. To his credit, Borros did not shy away.

“Treason against the true heir to the Iron Throne,” he answered, his words echoing those of his grandsire at the coronation. “Which by right of law and by my father’s dying wish is my brother. If Rhaenyra lays claim to the crown, she does so as a pretender and a usurper.”

“She will say the same of Aegon.”

“Then she will be wrong. And if she tries to fight us, she will be dead. As will anyone else who fights with her.”

Borros raised his brows, but his eyes were hard. “Are you threatening me, my Prince?”

Aemond scowled as the muscles in his cheek continued to spasm and ache. Perhaps if the scar didn’t cause him so much pain every time his temper rose even an inch, he could have handled this more diplomatically –like a Prince should.

But gods, it hurt.

He took a deep breath in, not smelling the dampness and decay of the autumn forest, but smoke and cold air – Arianwyn’s scent. A figment of his imagination, for she was nearly a thousand miles away. But still, it brought him comfort. Relief, if only for a moment.

The thought of her cleared his head enough for him to drop his hand from the hilt of the dagger and unclench his fists.

She would not have gotten so angry at Borros and his men. Yes, their jokes and lewd comments would have made her blush, but she would have played along. Perhaps she would even have enjoyed it. After all, she had grown quite fond of teasing him, even in the presence of others.

No, Arianwyn would have handled this with far more grace than he had. She would have Borros and his men wrapped around her precious little finger, ready to sail on Dragonstone the moment she asked it of them.

Seven Hells, even Barrel would have been smitten with her.

How someone so wonderful loved him, Aemond still did not understand. Would never understand.

All he could do was thank the gods that she did, and do everything he could to protect her.

Do this.

Because it wasn’t just Aegon who needed the allegiance of the Stormlands. Arianwyn needed it too.

If Rhaenyra gathered a sufficient army to truly fight Aegon for the throne, she would not only attack Aegon. She would come for everyone who posed a challenge to her claim.

Aegon. Helaena. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. Maelor. Daeron. And Aemond.

And if they did not bow to her, she would eliminate the threat.

Even if they did capitulate, Daemon might kill them anyways.

He had married Arianwyn to keep her out of danger. But now, being his wife was precisely what put her life at risk.

His sleep had been plagued by nightmares of what Daemon would do if he found them.

Arianwyn tortured in front of him. Or her being forced to watch as he was tortured. Or killed. What Daemon would subject her to when Aemond was gone. Horrible, awful things that he would not allow his mind to return to.

The only way to prevent it was to give his brother an army that would dissuade Daemon – and Rhaenyra – from raising a challenge for the throne. Or that would ensure they had no hope of success if they did.

That army would require the might of the Stormlands. And that would require Borros. 

Aemond looked at the wry grin on the Stormlord’s face, and something clicked into place.

Borros had already acknowledged Aegon as the King the day before. He had no son, but had yet to recognize one of his daughters as his heir. He had welcomed Aemond into his home rather than turning him away.

“I am not threatening you,” Aemond said, realization and embarrassment sweeping over him. “Because you are not a threat to my brother. And you have no intention of becoming one.”

The smugness with which Borros smiled was almost enough to make Aemond take out his dagger again.  

“You made your decision before I arrived, didn’t you?” Aemond asked. “As soon as you received my grandsire’s letter.”

“Not entirely,” Borros shrugged, walking past Aemond to Barrel. The demon horse did not so much as flinch as he reached up to stroke his crooked snout. He was an entirely different beast now that he was with his true master. “If Rhaenyra herself had come here, I may have considered her. But she is not here. You are.”

“What about Rhaenys, your kin? Your House supported her at the Great Council. What is different now?” Aemond could not believe he was asking such questions. He had already gotten what he wanted – he should stay silent and leave in peace. Yet he could not restrain his curiosity.

Borros scoffed at that. “Aye, Princess Rhaenys is kin to me and mine. Some great-aunt I never knew was married to her father, but the both of them are dead, and Rhaenyra… she’s not Rhaenys, is she? Your sister is not a Baratheon. Perhaps she had a ferocity to entice me once, but she is tame now.”

The Lord’s face grew hard, his voice steely. “She has taken me and my house for granted. Never once while she was heir did she beg our support or offer hers. She has done nothing to earn my loyalty.”

“I understand,” Aemond whispered. Indeed, perhaps no one in the entire realm understood what it was like to be taken for granted more than he did.

The sin of the father had become the sin of the daughter, and it would be that very sin that damned her.

But there was yet one more thing he did not understand.

Aemond gestured to Barrel. “What was the point of him? Of taking me on this hunt and antagonizing me?”

When Borros clapped his shoulder again, it did not stir annoyance or rage within Aemond. He still did not like it, finding the gesture brutish, but he was willing to endure it.

“Negotiation tactic,” he explained while unloading Aemond’s weapons from Barrel’s saddle and tossing them on the forest floor between them. “I wanted you so sick of me that you would give me whatever I wanted in exchange for my allegiance so you could leave. Although I admit, I did not anticipate you threatening to kill my poor Barrel. That forced me to give up the ruse before I really wanted to, but I am still relatively pleased with the outcome.”

Aemond took his things and began swapping them for the supplies on Borros’ horse, which had been quietly gnawing on the leaves of a low branch, and did not move to kick or bite him at all. When he handed Borros his sword and quarry, he flicked his good eye back to Barrel.

“Is that really your favorite horse?” he asked.

“Yes,” Borros replied without hesitation. “He amuses me.”

As he mounted his new steed, Aemond smiled at the Lord and laughed. Not nearly as honestly as he did with Arianwyn, but still. He laughed.

“Now,” Borros said as he mounted the demonic beast – which Aemond could swear was smiling at him, “which of my daughters would your brother like?”

-

Arianwyn’s legs were about to give out, aching from what felt like hours of simply standing in the High Hall while Jeyne and the other Lords of the Vale conducted their business. She tried to pay attention, hoping to glean some lesson in leadership from the proceedings.

But she could not focus on the tedious negotiations about whose lands would have the honor of stocking the larder at the Gates of the Moon for Lady Arryn while she resided there for the winter. Not when her mind kept drifting back to what she planned to say to the court the moment they were finished.

Crop reports and petty border squabbles were simply not enough of a distraction.

For a while, she had occupied herself with admiring the hall's beauty – the blue-veined marble of the walls, the lovely slender pillars, the Weirwood thrones, and the various artwork scattered throughout the room.

After that, she stared at the Moon Door. When the court business became particularly tiresome, she imagined running through it and calling for Emrys to catch her before she hit the valley floor below. With how high the castle was, he would have ample time to reach her. Then they could soar through the waterfall together.

But she could not do that. For many reasons.

For one, it was a truly idiotic thing to do. Second, Aemond would surely die of shock if he ever found out she even had the thought. Most of all, because she had to stay and make her case.

She had to reveal what Daemon had done. His crimes would prove that whether Viserys had named Aegon his heir or not, Rhaenyra could not be Queen.

Because Rhaenyra knew precisely what her husband was. That he had maimed, and murdered, and raped to get what he wanted. And he would do it all again. Happily.

She knew he was a monster.

And she loved him anyway. She married him and bore him children. She proudly called him her consort and would happily give him a crown – give him power.

That could not happen.

So, she stayed put, standing next to Gerold with her hand folded prettily in front of her. She pretended to look interested in the dispute between Lord Corbray and Lord Belmore about one of them building a dam that would negatively affect the other – she had long forgotten which was which, as the debate had devolved into personal insults.

And she was not the only one exhausted by the argument.

In the middle of Lord Belmore dredging up some minor conflict from several hundred years ago, Jeyne slammed her hand on the arm of her throne, the sound echoing throughout the marble chamber.

“I will quite literally go mad if I have to listen to this story again, Holbert,” she groaned, exasperation evident on her face.

The Lord looked as though he may argue for a moment, but then Jeyne raised her hand to silence him, and he obeyed. Though he did mutter something under his breath.

“You are both supposedly intelligent men. Squabbling so publicly is shameful and, quite frankly, beneath you,” she scolded. Both men were her senior, yet they both looked down at their feet like children reprimanded for playing in the mud by their mother.

Arianwyn was amused by the sight. It reminded her of when Alicent would scold her and Aemond when they were caught in the library past curfew. Honestly, it was hard to believe the Queen ever punished them when their misdeeds were so tame compared to Aegon’s.

Oh gods, Aegon. King Aegon.

Her traitorous mind had taken a happy memory and turned it into an unwelcome reminder of why she was here. Another blow to her growing impatience.

If she didn’t get to speak soon, she might simply shout her piece for everyone to hear just to get it over with.

“It is a pointless debate,” Jeyne said, slumping over with her head in her hands. “Nothing can be constructed until after winter has passed, so you will have ample time to sort this out between yourselves. You are not to bring this matter before me again until a compromise has been reached.”

Lord Belmore looked like he had won a victory, whereas Lord Corbray acted as though the words had literally wounded him. But neither said anything more. Instead, they slunk to opposite sides of the hall.

Arianwyn sighed and waited for Jeyne to call some other Lord to discuss harvests, livestock, or –

“Lady Arianwyn of Runestone, on behalf of Aegon Targaryen.”

Her heart stopped in her chest, then resumed beating as though she had been running for hours. She frantically looked toward Gerold for some kind of support.

He only gave her a not entirely confident smile, laid a hand on her back, and pushed gently to the center of the room.

“I…” she began.

Then the entire room fell silent as the light disappeared, the sun itself blotted out by a great shadow circling the tower.

Men and women shrieked and cowered in fear while others ran to the windows to get a closer look, and a few even fell to their knees in prayer. Guards ran to each entrance, swords drawn. Ten knights immediately surrounded Jeyne, others gathering around each Lord present.

Ser Gerold himself drew his weapon and strode protectively to Arianwyn.

But she did not cower. She did not shriek. And she did not pray.

Arianwyn stood tall, her spine rigid with anger as she watched the shadow descend to the garden.

She recognized those green scales, those flashes of orange, and that shrill, juvenile roar. She understood Emrys’ warning growl that echoed off the marble as recognition settled upon them both.

“Seven fucking hells,” she whispered, not caring when Gerold looked down on her in surprise – he had never heard her talk so crudely. Usually, she did not care to use such coarse language. But in this case, she felt it more than justified.

For only moments later, escorted by eight Arryn guards, Jacaerys Velaryon strode through the doors and into the High Hall.

His brown eyes immediately locked onto Arianwyn, and he gave a short bow. “My dear sister,” he crooned. “What a wonderful surprise to find you here.”

-

By the time they rejoined the hunting party, Borros had convinced Aemond to not return immediately to King’s Landing and the promise of his wife’s embrace. Not because either man particularly wanted to continue socializing, for they were reluctant acquaintances at best, but because there were specifics about the marriage pact and alliance between their houses that needed to be discussed.

Foremost among these was the matter of which daughter Daeron would wed.

As Borros had four daughters– the four storms, they were called – and all were of marrying age, Aemond found himself spoiled for choice. The Stormlanders spent the rest of the hunt singing each girl’s praises, only stopping when they entered the dining hall, where each young Lady sat at the table, awaiting the judgment of the Prince.

Aemond asked each about her interests and desires, carefully calculated questions to help him determine the best match for his brother. He had felt the joy a loving wife could bring, and while Daeron did not share the luxury of marrying for love, he should be given the best chance of finding it.

There was the eldest, Cassandra. She had beauty, though it was severe and marred by her near-constant sneer. Her intellect was impressive, but she seemed to have no desire to use it. While perhaps the most traditional match, Borros himself steered Aemond away from selecting her. For past her carefully crafted elegance lay a deadly ambition. She would never be happy as the wife of a third son, even if that son were a Prince.

The second, Maris, was the least beautiful of the sisters. But she was the cleverest of them all. Rumors of her desire to study in Oldtown had once spread throughout the realm, prompting Arianwyn to entertain the prospect herself. But, of course, both their hopes were swiftly crushed. Women were hardly allowed entrance to the Citadel, much less leave to join the Order of Maesters. Perhaps it was that rejection that had made Maris so bitter of her lot in life, her tongue dangerously sharp. She would need a man with a wit to match her. And though Daeron was intelligent, he was far too gentle to be suited for a woman like Maris.

Ellyn was next. She was pretty, but not remarkably so. Smart, but no more than average. She dabbled in art and embroidery, not excelling at either. Her singing voice was fair, as was her skill with the harp, but she was far from prodigious. Any man would be perfectly pleased to have her for his wife, but Aemond doubted she would ever be their first choice.

Floris, however, would be many men’s first choice. She possessed the beauty that inspired men to create art, start wars, and defy the gods themselves for a chance at her hand. But to Aemond, she held no more allure than any of the paintings in the Red Keep’s gallery.

Only Arianwyn could compel him to such lengths. And she did.

The longer Aemond conversed with Floris, the more he realized that her beauty had become a crutch. She held no grand ambitions like Cassandra, was nowhere near as clever as Maris, nor as accomplished as Ellyn. But though the questions she asked Aemond regarding the history of his house were simple – the kind he would expect from a young child who had yet to start their lessons with their Septa, not a woman grown – he was charmed by her curiosity.

Unlike her sisters, nothing she said to him was intended to woo him into choosing her. She truly wanted to know about the house that may one day become her own. It mattered to her whether Vhagar was comfortable out in the rain, if the temporary shelter the servants had built for her was adequate. Her praise for Aemond’s performance during the hunt – he had brought back a brace of seven rabbits and a buck, his skill miraculously returned once he was atop a proper horse – was genuine.

She was kind. Simple, perhaps, but kind.

And so it was decided.

The youngest son of King Viserys would marry the youngest daughter of Lord Borros Baratheon. Not the most traditional match, but Aemond was confident in it.

Cassandra and Ellyn were gracious in offering their congratulations to their sister. Maris, less so.

She scoffed whenever Floris asked about her new betrothed, downing her wine with as much skill and ardor as Aegon. When the subject of the dowry came up, she took to making snide comments under her breath.

Neither Lord nor Lady Baratheon scolded her. Though Cassandra did kick her under the table after a particularly nasty jibe, if Aemond was correctly interpreting their shuffling in their seats.

Not wanting to upset his host, Aemond said nothing of it and continued his negotiation. “Apartments will be furnished at the Red Keep, though we suspect Daeron would prefer to remain in Oldtown for the time being. As such, representatives of my mother’s family in the Reach have begun inquiries into procuring a suitable estate within the city.”

“I would live in Oldtown, not King’s Landing?” Floris asked, her blue eyes wide.

Maris rolled her eyes and muttered into her goblet, “That is what he just said, you stupid girl.”

Aemond frowned but did not acknowledge her. He knew from experience with his own tormentors and detractors that to do so would give her exactly what she wanted – his attention.

So, he turned to Floris and offered a small smile. “Should you wish it, I am sure Daeron would like to have you near to him. But the Red Keep will also be available to you if that is what you would prefer.”

Floris smiled back at him. “I don’t know what I would prefer. I have never been to a city before.”

“I think you would like Oldtown, my darling,” Lady Elenda said, her first contribution to the conversation in some time. “It is quite beautiful and full of art and culture. And the climate of the Reach would agree with you. You have always been summer’s child.”

“Could we get married there, then?” she asked of her father. “It is already autumn, and I should like flowers at my wedding. Real flowers, not ones grown in a hot house.”

Borros chuckled. “I think that depends on when you get married, dear. There is much to be decided before – ”

Vhagar’s roaring cut him off.

It was not the low grumbling she had done when she sensed her rider being tormented by Barrel, but a sharp roar of warning.

Something was coming.

Aemond immediately stood from his chair, hand grazing over the hilt of his sword as he scanned the exits to the room.

Borros was deathly still, though his eyes were wide. Elenda and Ellyn had grasped hands across the table, mother leading daughter in prayer. Cassandra was doing her best to not look afraid while Floris bore her fear plainly. Maris only stared up at Aemond, her lips slightly parted and brow furrowed as she assessed his reaction.

“My Prince?” she asked, the title coming out like a taunt. “Is something wrong?”

He glanced briefly at her before turning his eyes back to the window above them, searching amongst the dark, roiling clouds that had not yet loosed their rain for the shadow he knew would soon be approaching.

“I believe it may be,” he answered. “Another dragon is here.”

-

After a long moment, wherein Arianwyn felt every ounce of safety and happiness she had felt in this place disappear, Jace finally tore his eyes from hers and stepped around her towards the Weirwood throne.

“Lady Jeyne,” he said, bowing to the stern woman upon the throne. “I am Jacaerys Velaryon, the newly crowned Prince of Dragonstone and heir to my mother, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen – your dear cousin.”

Arianwyn clenched her fists at her sides and muttered a slew of curses under her breath. It was only Gerold’s firm hand on her arm that stopped her from leaping at Jace with her teeth bared.

“My mother has sent me here to personally bring you news of her accession,” Jace continued, entirely oblivious to the girl raging behind him. “As well as to ensure your support for her as your Queen and that you will defend her throne against the Usurper, Aegon Targaryen, should she call upon your aid.”

He wore a smug, pleased smile as he looked at Arianwyn over his shoulder. The same nauseating look he had whenever he said something he thought to be particularly witty, and she could not reply to him for fear of reprisal from Daemon.

Digging her nails into her palms, she clenched her teeth so hard she thought they would shatter. This couldn’t be happening.

The Vale was hers. By right of birth and blood.

How dare he try to claim it from her?

How dare he ruin this?

But Gerold held her back, whispering into her ear as the court – including Jeyne – began to glance suspiciously between the Prince and the Princess. “Calm yourself, Aria,” he commanded. “If you lose your temper now, you will lose your credibility with the court.”

“Lord Belmore turned as red as a beet and called Lord Corbray a ‘selfish cunt’ in this very room only minutes ago,” she hissed. “Did he lose credibility?”

Gerold grimaced. “You know it is not the same thing. Not for you.”

She could scream, but she understood the logic in his words. As a woman – a girl, really – even a small outburst from her would be interpreted more harshly than any tantrum a man could throw. Besides, her only credibility with these men came from the Royce blood within her veins.

And perhaps the large dragon she rode that now rested in the garden.

With a slight nod, she began to take slow, careful breaths to calm her racing heart.

“Good,” he said, loosening your grip on her. “Now greet your stepbrother – kindly. Tell him you are happy to see him and laugh that his dragon gave you a fright.”

Arianwyn took one more deep breath before she pressed her hand to her chest and plastered a wide, false smile on her face.

“Jace!” she exclaimed, channeling her anger into breathy laughs that she hoped conveyed surprise and delight. “I had not expected to see you so soon after you left King’s Landing, but it is a most welcome surprise. Though I admit, Vermax gave me quite the fright with how he circled the tower so menacingly!”

She laughed again to try and banish the hint of malice that had slipped into her words. But her disdain was evident in her cold silver eyes.

“And while I commend you for the eloquent delivery of what I have no doubt was a carefully rehearsed speech,” she said, the taunt only caught by Jace and Gerold, “I am afraid you have interrupted my own address to the court.”

Jace looked at her with uncertainty. He obviously couldn’t decide whether he should respond to her teasing – if he could find the words to. But his curiosity won out over his offense.

“My apologies, sister,” he said, only because he knew how much it bothered her when he used that word. “What, pray tell, are you speaking to the court about?”

She gave him the sweetest false smile he had ever seen and feigned bashfulness. “I am here to announce my marriage to my fellow Valeman, of course. And to introduce myself as the Lady of Runestone, now that the title is mine to claim.”

His jaw clenched, and Arianwyn straightened her back as she stepped toward the center of the room once more, commanding the attention of all gathered.

“And is Prince Aemond here?” Jace asked just before she opened her mouth to speak. He made a show of looking around the room for his uncle, then turned back to her. “I did not see Vhagar on my flight here, but I know how… protective he is of you. Surely, he would not allow you to make such a long journey on your own – and unsupervised?”

Whispers ran through the crowd. Wonderings about whether the One-Eyed Prince was hiding somewhere within the Eyrie, ready to strike. Expressions of pity for the poor Lady of Runestone, now forced to be the pet wife of such a cruel man.

Each word was like a blade in Arianwyn’s heart – no doubt precisely what Jace intended.

Perhaps he was cleverer than she gave him credit for. Either that, or he just enjoyed taunting her.

The literal bastard.

Arianwyn acted as though she didn’t hear the horrible things being said by the Lords of the Vale, and instead pretended to be shy as she fought against her pious sense of modesty. It wasn’t entirely a lie.

“Aemond and I were both hesitant to be so far apart only days after we were wed,” she admitted, making sure to blush and look away when she caught Jeyne’s eye. The perfect picture of a new bride. “And since Emrys and I have been confined to Dragonstone these past six years, he was concerned about our safety in making this journey alone. Especially since he was sent to Storm’s End.”

“I’m sure he’s grateful for the cold rain,” a Lord’s son in the crowd whispered, not as quietly as he surely meant to, and was quickly walloped by his father for his crudeness.

“But do not worry cousin,” Arianwyn said to Jace, even going so far as to set a comforting hand on his arm. “I have clearly arrived safely, thank in no small part to my husband. He spent more than an hour reviewing the maps with me and helped pack my saddlebags the morning of our departure. Why he even spoke to Emrys just before I took flight to give him words of encouragement.”

Jace scowled, his frown intensifying when she called him ‘cousin.’ But he did not respond.

Satisfied that she had once more forced him into flustered silence, Arianwyn released his arm and addressed the rest of the room.

“But while I am thrilled that I finally have the opportunity to meet all of you, and to be able to personally bring you the news of my marriage, I am also here on behalf of my good brother, King Aegon,” she added, as though it were an afterthought, not the true purpose of her visit.

Arianwyn ignored the widening of Jace’s eyes as she looked up at Jeyne on the Weirwood throne. “He has sent me with his fondest greetings to express his admiration for, and loyalty to, the Vale and its people. Although he was granted so little time as the heir to the throne, he swears that as your King, he will prove himself worthy of the same admiration and loyalty from all of you.”

“Prince Aegon had no time as heir to the throne,” Jace hissed, “because he never was the heir to the throne. My – ”

“Perhaps the news has not reached Dragonstone,” Arianwyn said, her animosity no longer hidden in her voice. “Or Rhaenys may have declined to mention it among the details of all the innocents she killed at the coronation, but Aegon was the heir. By law and by Viserys’ own proclamation, just before the Stranger took him.”

Jace stepped forward until he was nose to nose with her, entirely oblivious to the bewildered look of the crowd. “If you actually believe that…” he snarled, then bit back whatever he was going to say. “I thought you were smarter than that, sister.”

“I am not your fucking sister,” she growled, suddenly wishing she hadn’t left her dagger – or Lamentation – in her chambers.

Jeyne pounded the side of her throne, drawing the attention of the room back to her. She was silent momentarily, her breathing heavy and dark eyes full of rage. Then, she stood.

“That is enough!” she shouted. “Court is ended for the day. Prince Jacaerys, Princess Arianwyn, come with me. Now.”

They stared at each other, unsaid insults crackling between them like fire. Arianwyn was almost taken aback. With his dark eyes blazing like that, Jace looked more like a Targaryen than ever before – even when on dragonback.

After a long moment, they turned and followed Jeyne out of the throne room, Gerold and Jessamyn close behind them. As well as several on-edge guards.

Walking side by side through the halls of the Eyrie, they remained painfully silent, the only sound the howling of the mountain wind and the clanking of the guards’ armor.

As the minutes passed, Arianwyn felt a clawing sense of dread settle in her stomach. Despite Gerold’s warnings, she had lost her temper. Likely her credibility with the court as well.

But the opinion of the court almost didn’t matter. Not when the sight of Jeyne looking at her with such anger and disappointment haunted her every breath and flashed in her vision every time she closed her eyes.

Had she just ruined everything?

No, she reminded herself. It wasn’t her that frightened the court by flying her dragon dangerously close to the tower. She hadn’t interrupted her own petition. And between her and Jace, she had not been the first to antagonize the other.

Why was he so fucking obsessed with calling her ‘sister?’

Gerold coughing pointedly broke her from her thoughts and made her realize that she had been glaring at Jace. She quickly turned away, instead locking her eyes onto the wild dark curtain of Jeyne’s hair as the Lady of the Vale stomped angrily through the halls of her keep.

Arianwyn would have to apologize. She wanted to. And she would. Just… after Jace left.

Jeyne finally stopped before the dining hall and motioned for one of the servants flanking the pale wooden doors without turning to acknowledge any of those who followed her there.

“Set another place,” she informed the man. “Prince Jacaerys has paid us an unexpected visit and will join us for dinner.”

Every curse she ever learned blared in Arianwyn’s head like a dragon’s roar. But she let none of them spill over as she walked into the room and took the seat by Jeyne’s left, nor as Jace took the chair across from her.

Indeed, the entire room was silent until another setting had been assembled on the table in front of Jessamyn, who had been impressively gracious when protocol dictated she surrender her usual seat to the Prince.

But the servants did not move to lay the food on the table, stopped at the door by a gesture from Jeyne.”

“Before we eat,” she said, her voice ringing with barely concealed anger, “I feel I must, unfortunately, set some rules for how this meal will progress.”

Arianwyn tried not to think too much about how Jeyne only looked at her and Jace as she spoke, not Gerold or Jessamyn.

“There will be absolutely no discussion of why either of you is here,” she continued. “That is a matter for the court, not the dinner table. You will each have the chance to make your petitions tomorrow.”

When she noticed Arianwyn’s face fall for a moment, she took her godsdaughter’s hand. “I have sent word that the court will convene in the early morning, my dear. I promise you will be home before the three days are up.”

Jace raised an eyebrow as he sulked but remained silent.

“Our conversation will be pleasant and civil,” Jeyne instructed. “If either of you begins to act otherwise, I will not hesitate to call an end to this gathering and confine you to your quarters until the morning. Is this understood?”

The Prince and Princess both muttered their agreement, prompting Jeyne to signal for the servants to bring the food.

It was only after several minutes of awkward eating, wherein no one looked anywhere but at their own plates, that Jessamyn finally spoke.

She set down her fork and smiled at Arianwyn. “Gerold told me that you hope to return to Runestone before winter makes travel too difficult. Do you know exactly when you will be there? I – and Jeyne, I am sure – would love to be among your first visitors.”

“Brynna was planning to depart as soon as my people arrived back from Dragonstone,” Arianwyn explained. If she ignored Jace, perhaps she could fall into the same comfort she had the night before. “Aemond and I would fly there only after she sent word that everything was up to her standards.”

“Which could take half a year or more,” Gerold grumbled.

Arianwyn laughed, but the sound died when she noticed that Jace was laughing as well.

He also fell silent, staring at her expectantly with a wry grin.

“What?” she asked, her brow furrowed in anger and annoyance.

Jace had the gall to laugh again as he speared a piece of meat on his fork. “Nothing, I just…” he licked his lips. “I am not used to you actually talking at meals.”

She snarled back at him, wishing she could spear him with her fork. “I had nothing to say on Dragonstone. No one to really talk to.”

His smile faded into a sneer, his thick brow forming a hard line over his dark eyes. “You talked to me. Quite often, as I recall. Just never at dinner.”

A smirk passed over her lips as she remembered how often she had snapped back at him in those smooth stone halls, often leaving him gaping as his simple mind struggled to find a witty reply. More often than not, she had left him behind by the time he finally formed words.

But at dinners…

She could not respond to his taunts at dinner. Not with Daemon present. Not when she did not know what he would do if she did. Whatever momentary shame she felt for her childish fear vanished when she remembered what her father had done the first time she had risen to Jace’s baiting.

Beneath her nearly faded bruises, she could still feel Daemon’s fingers closing around her throat.

Arianwyn raised her chin, allowing Jace to see the greenish-yellow remnants of her father’s failed attempt on her life before she replied. “And you never wondered why that was?”

As his gaze flickered to her neck, she could swear she saw a flicker of regret. But it passed quickly, replaced by annoyance and anger.

“How is your new husband?” he asked before chewing on his meat like it had personally offended him.

“Prince Aemond is utterly perfect,” she answered with a wide, saccharine smile and a voice dripping with adoration. “He is every maiden’s dream. Kind. Gentle. And oh, so loving.”

She dropped her voice suggestively on the last word, recalling Jace’s anger when Aemond was accused of raping her. How he had raised his sword to defend her virtue. How he had called her his ‘sister.’

Biting her lip as she let herself remember the feeling of her husband’s glorious tongue on every inch of her skin, she did not try and hide the deep blush that crept over her cheeks. She wanted Jace to see how much she enjoyed being Aemond’s wife – how willing she was to share his bed.

And it worked brilliantly. Jace’s face flushed with anger, the redness spreading to his ears as he blazed with rage. Then, once again, he simply sat there steaming as his mind fumbled to come up with a response.

They were both so engrossed in their private battle of words that neither noticed Jeyne and Gerold staring wide-eyed at each other as they silently debated whether or not this counted against her earlier warning. Jessamyn kept her eyes locked on her plate, resolved to stay out of whatever odd Targaryen family drama this was.

The slight pursing of Jeyne’s lips was as good as a command, and Gerold set down his fork and steepled his hands as he cleared his throat to draw attention. “Yes,” he said. “We are overjoyed to welcome Prince Aemond into our family and our house. He will be a wonderful consort for our dear Arianwyn. Why, just today, I even ga – ”

Jace’s disbelieving laughter cut off the knight’s plea. He leaned back in his chair, his food entirely forgotten. “Aemond as a consort? He’ll go mad within a week.”

“He’s quite excited, actually!” Jessamyn cut in. Her bright green eyes were wide, desperate to steer the conversation towards something lighter – friendlier. “Prince Aemond just took on a flock of thirty-two sheep in King’s Landing. I assume he will bring them to Runestone with you, yes?”

Unfortunately for Arianwyn, Jace survived choking on his wine when he heard that news.

“Aemond got you sheep?” he asked incredulously, not bothering to conceal his gleeful grin. “That is by far the strangest wedding present I’ve ever heard of. And not at all what I’d expect of my grim uncle.”

Gerold slammed his hand on the table, ignoring the look of ire he received from Jeyne. “The sheep were no wedding present, my Prince,” he growled. “Their shepherd was killed at the Dragonpit and had no relatives to take them on. Aemond acted out of compassion and a desire to help his wife feel closer to the Vale – her homeland.”

“How noble of him,” Jessamyn mused, still trying to play the peacemaker.

Jace ignored her, looking only at Arianwyn. A hard glint had appeared in his eyes at the mention of the Dragonpit. Had Rhaenys told them the truth of what happened there – how many people she had killed?

“Is Vhagar going to be his sheepdog?” he asked mockingly, chuckling at his own joke. No one else laughed with him. “Will he carry a crook?”

“My Prince,” Jeyne warned.

But Jace had already completely slipped back into his dinnertime habit of baiting Arianwyn.

“The ‘one-eyed shepherd’ sounds like one of those silly little stories you’re so fond of,” he remarked. “Perhaps even more than the “One-Eyed Prince.”

Arianwyn shot up from her chair so quickly that the table shook. Every person in the room, servants included, froze.

The scene was familiar. Hauntingly so.

A meal that was little more than a futile attempt at peace. Ruined by a Strong bastard goading a trueborn Targaryen and igniting their fiery anger.

Jace’s taunting was as infuriating to Arianwyn as Luke’s laughter was to Aemond.

Yet only one of them would be blamed.

And it wouldn’t be Jace.

Aemond’s outburst had led to Daemon’s attempt to murder Arianwyn. To their hurried wedding. To Daemon’s assault on Brynna. To those vile accusations he hurled against Aemond that seemed to have already taken root throughout the realm.

What would be said about Arianwyn if she lost her temper here?

She took a deep, rasping breath and turned away from the table. Slowly, she pushed her chair back in and straightened her dress. At last, she faced Jeyne.

“Forgive me, godsmother,” she said. “I am afraid I have lost my appetite. With your permission, I should like to retire for the evening. I need a good rest before my flight back to King’s Landing tomorrow.”

Jeyne’s dark eyes were filled with both relief and pride. “Of course, my darling. I will have a maid wake you in time for court.”

“Thank you,” Arianwyn whispered. She nodded once to Jeyne. Then Gerold. Then Jessamyn. And without acknowledging Jace, she left the dining hall.

Tomorrow, she would make her case to the Valish court. And whether they accepted or rejected her petition, she reminded herself that while she would sleep alone this night, she would spend the next in her husband’s arms.

-

As he followed the procession into the Round Hall, the throne room of Storm’s End, Aemond was exceedingly glad he had kept his sword and dagger on him during dinner. The servant who alerted them that a dragon had indeed landed had not offered any detail about which dragon it was, not even the most basic description.

“Is it Daeron, my Prince?” Floris asked him. While the rest of her sisters had gone to stand at the side of their father’s throne, she was still next to him. She assumed that, as she was officially betrothed to his brother, her loyalty was now to him.

He gave her a reassuring smile, knowing he had chosen wisely. Daeron would be quite charmed by her. And he was sure Helaena and Arianwyn would take to her as well.

“I do not believe so, Lady,” he answered. “He remains in Oldtown, where he will stay until he is summoned to the capital to meet you on your arrival.”

She smiled and blushed slightly. “Then who is it?”

“I do not know,” Aemond sighed, biting the inside of his cheek as he considered the question.

It could be Meleys carrying Rhaenys to the keep of her cousin after leaving Dragonstone. Would she come seeking shelter from the coming conflict, or to sway Borros to Rhaenyra’s cause?

Or it could be Caraxes and Daemon coming to vie for the loyalty of the Stormlands himself. Aemond almost wished it to be true. Seeing the look on Daemon’s face when he learned that his new son-by-law had beaten him again may feel even better than killing him.

Though it was nigh on impossible, Aemond even considered that it could be Emrys bringing Arianwyn to him. Perhaps she had already won the Vale and was so desperate to see him again that she came here instead of returning to King’s Landing.

It was none of them.

Floris looked over his shoulder, a look of confusion on her face. “It is just a boy.”

Though his blind side faced the door, Aemond knew instantly who it was.

It was worse than Daemon, yet somehow almost better than Arianwyn.

As he turned away from Floris, ignoring her still questioning gaze, he saw the boy.

Lucerys Velaryon.

Aemond’s heart began to beat hard and slow, as it had been conditioned to do when he entered battle. To keep him calm and level-headed. To let him last until the fighting was done. To ensure he did not make any foolish mistakes.

That whelp had the gall to come here alone?

Aemond almost laughed, especially when Luke’s eyes – the muddy brown eyes of a bastard, not a true Valyrian – met his, and the boy looked afraid.

The face that was once twisted with rage and splattered with blood, that had not long ago laughed at his expense, was now slack with fear.

It was one of the most gratifying things Aemond had ever seen. He could not help the slight curling of his lips at the sight.

Still, a twinge of pain struck deep in his skull when the bastard was announced as “Prince.”

Surely the realm could now do away with that ridiculous pretense. No one was left to defend the bastards’ legitimacy – save their whore mother.

Lucerys was as much a Prince as that pig he had once led into the Dragonpit was a dragon.

At least the Baratheon page only referred to Rhaenyra as ‘Princess.’

The allegiance of Storm’s End was firm, then. If even the servants knew that they bowed not to a Queen, but a King.

With another clash of thunder, Lucerys looked away from his uncle and back to the Lord of the Stormlands. His voice was small and pitiful as he began his plea. “Lord Borros, I have brought you a message from my mother – the Queen.”

Aemond did not look to Borros. He did not want to miss the look on Lucerys’ face when he realized he would be returning to his usurper mother empty-handed.

“Yet only a day ago, I received an envoy from the King,” Borros said.

There was no hint of the man who, only the day before, had greeted Aemond so informally in his trophy room. Who drank and laughed with his men. Who adored a horse that was more demon than animal.

There was only the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, a man with lightning in his eyes and thunder in his blood.

“Which is it?” Borros asked. Lucerys looked again to Aemond, the lapse in attention not helping the Baratheon’s swiftly souring mood. “King? Or Queen? The House of the Dragon does not seem to know who rules it.”

Borros laughed, the lonely sound echoing throughout the chamber.

Had he not known better, the taunt may have grated at Aemond. But he knew the allegiance of Storm’s End was secure. And for the first time, he almost shared Borros’ sense of humor.

Lucerys retrieved a scroll from within his cape, handing it to one of the four guards flanking him. And as the guard walked forward, he turned back to his uncle.

Aemond’s heart jumped slightly, its pace quickening out of his control, and he looked down at his feet.

He told himself it was merely an amused reaction to the futility of Lucery’s tactic. That it was laughable that the boy was too afraid to relay the message himself and instead relied upon the words of the mother, like a child fearful of standing up to his own bully.

It certainly was not because Aemond feared what may be written in that message. That perhaps whatever leverage his half-sister and Rhaenys had over Borros may negate everything he had done for his brother this past day. That all his efforts were for naught.

Aemond turned his eye back to his nephew, telling himself over and over that he was not afraid.

Not anymore.

He couldn’t be.

He wouldn’t be.

The guard gave the note to Borros, who immediately called for the Maester. An advisor – a man who had not been on the hunt – ran to fetch one.

Lucerys looked back to Aemond and set his hand on his sword.

Aemond’s heart truly began to race then, his mind running away with it.

Run, it told him. Get away before he can hurt you again. Before he takes the other eye. Before he hurts her.

The steps of the approaching Maester sounded as far away as King’s Landing. As far from him as Arianwyn.

But Arianwyn was not here, he had to remind himself. Every instinct screamed that she was just behind him, struggling to breathe as she writhed helplessly in the sand. Lucerys could not hurt her. Just as he could not hurt Aemond.

He was still just a boy.

Aemond was a man.

A warrior strong enough to defeat the greatest knights in the realm. The rider of the largest dragon in the world – a dragon who sat just outside the castle. A true Prince, not a bastard pretending to be what he was not. What he could never be.

The sapphire in his eye felt like it had caught fire.  

“‘Remind’ me of my father’ oath….” Borros’ ire-filled voice snapped him back to reality. “King Aegon at least came with an offer. My swords and banners for a marriage pact.”

Fear sparked in Lucerys’ eyes as he balked at the rage now facing him.

Had he expected it to be that simple? That Storm’s End would be handed to him as easily as everything else?

A fool.

His mother was not here to lie for him. Daemon was not here to murder anyone who would oppose him.

He was helpless – just as Aemond had been when he was blinded by the sand Jacaerys had thrown, allowing Lucerys to strike with that stolen blade.

It was almost justice.

“If I do as your mother bids,” Borros growled, “which one of my daughters will you wed, boy?”

“My Lord,” Lucerys mewled. “I am not free to marry. I am already betrothed.” He glanced again at Aemond and the Baratheon girl standing next to him.

Yet another thing that had been so effortlessly given to him. A trueborn Valyrian bride. A daughter of Daemon – Arianwyn’s dear sister.

When he married Rhaena, would anyone accuse him of raping her?

Of course not. Lucerys was the noble son of Princess Rhaenyra. The gentle young heir to Driftmark could never do anything so vile.

How easily the world had forgotten the blood he had already shed. Aemond’s blood.

“So, you come with empty hands,” Borros grumbled. “Go home, pup. And tell your mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog that she can whistle up at need to set against her foes.”

“I shall take your answer to the Queen, my Lord,” he replied, with the same look of anger and defiance he wore when his face was spattered with Aemond’s blood.

Any satisfaction he may have felt at the boy being so soundly dismissed vanished when he beheld that expression. Aemond looked down at the stone floor and forced himself to breathe as a roiling wave of pain washed over him, his nostrils flaring and his lips pulling into a flat line to bite back a scream.

Then Lucerys turned to leave. To run back to his mother and Daemon, who would assure him he had done nothing wrong. Perhaps they would even raze the Stormlands for the insult of denying their sweet, perfect little bastard Prince.

Aemond could not allow it.

This was not justice.

The bastard had stolen his eye and faced no consequence.

It could not be the same now.

There was a new King.

There would be justice.

There would be punishment.

For taking Aemond’s eye, and for his current treason.

“Wait!” he called before he could think better of it. Not that he could if he wanted to.

His mind had abandoned him. It was not logic or any form of rational thinking that had him raising his eye again to Lucerys, the boy frozen in terror as he waited for his uncle’s next words. Instead, his every action was now dictated by the six years of fiery rage that burned in his heart.

“My Lord Strong,” Aemond drawled.

There was no one there who would contradict him. No one there to protect the boy’s fragile feelings.

Good.

Aemond cocked his head, the motion reminiscent of a dragon assessing its prey, and prowled forward. “Did you really think you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?”

He felt the weight of his dagger and sword like limbs itching for use. The sapphire still blazed, as though it would project white-hot fire if Aemond only lifted the patch covering it.

Lucerys stepped back toward him. “I will not fight you,” he declared. “I came as a messenger, not a warrior.

A messenger – an errand boy. A lowly role well suited for a bastard. Especially one whose blade sat so uncomfortably on his hip.

“A fight would be little challenge,” Aemond mused, his head once more twitching to the right as every nerve in his face seared.

No, he did not want a fight.

A fight was fair. A fight had rules. A fight implied an even match between opponents.

That was not what he was given in that tunnel so many years ago. It was not what he would give Lucerys now.

He wanted justice.

There was a pulse of something around his sapphire. Not pain, but a calling. A plea.

“No,” Aemond proclaimed, his arm raising as he closed his fingers around the leather of his eyepatch and tore it away. “I want you to put out your eye.”

The cool air on the ruined skin was nearly as soothing as Arianwyn’s touch, so much so that he did not care that every person in the room blanched and shied away from the sight of him – even kind Floris.

He knew all too well the horror of the scar that marred his face, of his missing eye. The sick fascination of the jewel that now lay in its place– its beauty entirely at odds with the viciousness of what surrounded it.

“I want you to put out your eye,” he demanded. “As payment for mine.”

Even the storm quieted.

Aemond brushed aside his coat and retrieved his dagger, his fingers grazing the marks Arianwyn had left on the hilt.

“One will serve,” he said plainly, before tossing the dagger to the floor between him and his prey. The sound of it clattering on the stones was sharper than any crack of thunder.

“I would not blind you,” he crooned with the cloying magnanimity of a power-drunk Septon.

It was a mercy, he thought, to only make him pay this long-standing debt as punishment for his treason. When it would be well within his right to take the boy’s head.

But he would be benevolent and only take his eye. The price Alicent had demanded and been denied on Driftmark.

Aemond smiled and hummed, his expression almost bashful. “Plan to make a gift of it to my mother,” he explained. “Or perhaps Arianwyn, as a wedding present.”

For she had been as distraught as Alicent. More so, even. It was Arianwyn who had pressed her hands to the fresh wound to staunch the bleeding. He so vividly remembered what she looked like in the throne room at Driftmark, nearly every inch of her stained with blood. Even then, red had not suited her.

He had not yet given her a ring, but he could give her this.

Lucerys looked up from the dagger, looking so like his father – Harwin Strong always had an air of righteousness , however false, about him.

“No,” the bastard said.

Pain radiated from Aemond’s eye to every inch of his body.

“Then you are craven as well as traitor,” he hissed.

The aching from the sapphire was now thrumming at the same pace as his heart.

“Not here!” Borros barked, suddenly aware that there was a dragon in his castle.

But Aemond was already moving.

“Give me your eye!” he bellowed as he surged forward, a beast advancing on its prey. His fingers wrapped around his dagger, so numbed by his rage that he could not feel Arianwyn’s mark in the leather or the gold. “Or I will take it, bastard!”

Lucerys drew his sword, holding it with little skill, as though it was the first time.

“Not in my hall!” Borros shouted as he finally rose from his throne.

It was not the Lord’s plea that stopped Aemond mere strides from Lucerys, his blade held level with the boy’s eyes. Instead, it was a tugging feeling in Aemond’s skull, as though the sapphire itself was pulling him back, reining him in like a rope around his waist.

“The boy came as an envoy,” Borros begged – not commanded. For though he bore the distant blood of House Targaryen in his veins, it was diluted by time and bastardy. He could not hope to control a dragon. “I’ll not have bloodshed beneath my roof. Take the boy back to his dragon. Now!”

Aemond did not lower his blade, but he moved no further. An indomitable cold had spread through his veins and frozen him in place. He could only watch as the pitiful boy clumsily sheathed his blade and ran from the hall.

But the fire in his heart, in his very soul, continued to grow. As Lucerys disappeared from sight, it burned bright and hot enough to melt the ice holding him back. He spun his dagger twice in his hand, flexing the tightened muscles as warmth slowly returned to him, and turned back to Borros.

For the first time, the Baratheon looked at Aemond with fear. As did his wife, daughters, and all his men. If he ever returned, he was sure they would never make a joke at his expense again.

“I thank you for your hospitality,” he said, not a trace of the diplomatic Prince left to be seen. “But I shall take my leave now.”

He said nothing more as he stalked out of the castle, not bothering to retrieve any of his belongings that remained in the guest chambers. All the cries, pleas, and orders for him to stop faded among the sounds of the storm that raged around him.

Thunder boomed, lightning cracked, rain poured – and Vhagar roared.

She knew exactly what had happened. And what needed to happen next.

By the time Aemond reached her side, already thoroughly drenched, she was practically purring with excitement.

“Issa jēda naejot arghugon, Vhagar!” he called to her over the din of the storm as he mounted the saddle and hastily strapped himself into place. “Konīr iksis iā nādrēsy naejot ūndegon, se iā gēlȳn naejot sagon addemmagon.” It is time to hunt. There is a bastard to catch, and a debt to be paid.

Next Chapter

#aemond #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond fanfic #aemond fluff #aemond imagine #aemond one eye #aemond the kinslayer #aemond x reader #aemond x you #hotd aemond #house of the dragon aemond #prince aemond #prince aemond targaryen #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd fanfic #hotd #ewan mitchell

[yuelun]

This will one day be a much larger post (I've already started working on it) as thoughts and details settle, but I wanted to make some quick notes (who am I kidding, this won't be a short post) here so that you guys know where my thoughts are. Just as I personally also ascribe (though I do not assume people to do the same, of course!) to the theory of ZL being a Sun-King (and potential brother to) alongside King Deshret and then Remus and/or Decarabian for numerous reasons after personally researching it myself, I also am being faced with too many coincidences when it comes to Guizhong possibly being one of the three moon sisters (or at the very least, a Seelie), who I believe to be part of a 'Seven' alongside the aforementioned four Sun-kings. Which, if the returning and reinforced leaks of Guizhong's likelihood of playability is to even be roughly taken as a possibility, then there needs to be reason for it. There's a popular theory that the Moon Sisters were shades of the Primordial One alongside Istaroth, if that is true, there may be reason in there to bring her back (even for the Tsaritsa), considering I feel like a big endgame next to the arc of Khaenri'ah, is/will be a faceoff with Celestia. Any way, this is a little incoherent, but let me put down a little list of things I want to touch on, but just can't write the full post of yet. These are just my little (ha!) thoughts.

Edit: Nevermind, it got long, it's very long, but if you like your lore and you're interested in knowing how looney deep I went with this, keep on reading! I will however, be making more parts to this as I continue on and gather lore bits. I also like documenting my journey of meta, so I can see what I thought six months prior, you know? Enjoy!

The Chasm. I'll forever stay stuck on how this part of the 'Stories of Remote Antiquity' OST plays during Guizhong's death scene. Our beloved Hoyoverse doesn't do anything by coincidence, they never once have. If they wanted to do something tragic, there are other Liyue OSTs out there that will punch you in the gut equally as much if not more. But this? This is oddly intentional. Ever since, I've been trying to figure out any potential ties to it, and with the Chenyu Vale theory out and about, claiming Guizhong to be the unnamed god (female and ever kind) that the three adepti served, another tie may be created through the fact that the people from Chenyu Vale originate from the Chasm (there's numerous tidbits as to why people tie her to Chenyu; I'd suggest the video, it's easier for now!). I also think, on some level, that if she is tied to the origins of the Chasm in some way, that it was her "descension" (or 'fall') that led to its unique creation. I don't know how the dots connect, but I've identified the dots, kind of, maybe.

The insane references to the night/moon. Her color scheme, the night sky in her sleeves, and the fact that she is inherently tied to the Glaze Lilies (which are known to bloom only at night). Furthermore, if you recognize and/or adhere to the fact that the Rite of Parting does not contain ingredients that befit Rex Lapis but instead seem to very much align with her, then there's also the Noctilucous Jade (I literally just realized that it's jade) which is known to glow at night. And then there's her inventions, which are all golden and sun-like in color scheme and I think of that line of lore about the Moon Sisters: "These three luminous moons shared but one love, the stars of daybreak." Daybreak, gold, golden, light, the sun. I'm losing my mind as I'm typing this. Any way, I digress, Noctilucous Jade is found underground, in caverns and more specifically, is rather abundant in the Chasm (my dearly detested). I've accepted that I just have an affinity to characters who seem to have either a direct or indirect tie to this place. I'll never escape it, I'll become one of its victims. /breathes, let me move onto the next point.

The Glaze Lilies. Now, while we know the Goddess of Flowers isn't a Moon Sister (this'll get tied in, I promise, please try to follow me here), the fact that she is a Seelie is important enough, for the three Moon Sisters were said to have lived alongside the race of the Seelies. This might mean some shared traits. Now even Seelies are noted to have an intricate tie to the moon, and a thing that the Goddess of Flowers was known for, was that when she danced, Padisarah flowers bloomed under her feet. 'But Sae, the Glaze Lilies didn't bloom when Guizhong danced', no no, I'll get there. It was specifically when she danced, or was around them. What I'm doing is tying these flowers to her more specifically, which is further enforced by the fact that after the Goddess of Flowers died, the Padisarahs dwindled in number until they became fully extinct. The ones you see today are not the real ones, they are replications created by Rukkhadevata herself in memory of her former friend. I note this, because a similar thing has occurred to the Glaze Lilies. In the aftermath of Guizhong's death, the Glaze Lilies that once populated the Guili Plains and Dihua Marsh have dwindled into extinction, and the only reason why they are found in Liyue today in some capacity, is because of Morax' direct influence (last few lines; and yes, I'm aware this is 'unreleased canon' at present, but none in this contradicts our current lore in any way, so I bear no qualms in making even loose use of it), but this seems to also insinuate that the Glaze Lilies that we see today, are not the real ones. So in essence, when the moment of the departure/death of the Goddess of Flowers came about, a specific flower associated with her came to perish as well. Is it a concept of, if the creator (one tied so intricately to the moon) is gone, do her creations wither away much in the same way? Now to mention one final thing, is the flower that most closely resembles the Glaze Lily: the Nilotpala Lotus. Not only do they share a color palette and very similar design, they share the peculiar behavior of blooming only at night, when subjected to the light of the moon itself. Now the most important thing to note here, is that the Nilotpala Lotuses were literally created and bloomed when the Moon Sisters stepped foot into Teyvat. One could, in essence, see the two flowers as 'lunar flowers'. Listen, I've never quite liked coincidences.

Dust. Now, this is a little more of a 'loose' connection and also me slightly rambling about something else that intrigues me to the moon and back (no pun intended), but it has my mind going insane nonetheless. Also, the very end is a reach, I'm aware, we know next to nothing about the Shades. Any way, Guizhong is inherently tied to two things: dust and alchemy. And these two become even more important when combined. Now, you'll have to strap in and wait for the little 'tie-in' at the end, because this can take a little bit. Her God name is 'Haagentus', which stems from Haagenti, one of the demons from the Ars Goetia. Within demonology, Haagenti is firmly tied to alchemy and transmutation, and while I'm not going to focus too much on specifics outside of the game, it is noted that 'he makes men wise by instructing them in every subject, transmutes all metals into gold, and changes wine into water and water into wine.' Sound fitting enough already, no? Now, outside of her name, let me hone in on some really clear alchemy references that you can find on and around her person. When you look at her design, Guizhong has numerous accessories that seem to be very closely resembling alchemy keys or symbols of some kind (this is not my area of expertise, but I will make it so if need be after this post, unless someone recognizes these symbols), primarily the 'pin' that holds the main portion of her hair back, a tattoo on her upper back, the 'petals' on her sleeves, and what has me most intrigued are the following two things: the symbols actively floating around her (and for clarity, see her cutscene, timestamped, shows them to be animated and coming from her and not the Cleansing Bell), and her anklet in a similar shape (which also seems to be a unique design in Genshin so far). Now, with alchemy established, let me hound on something that ties dust into alchemy, and what it means within Teyvat. Yes, I'm going to touch on its importance within the Art of Khemia, an advanced form of alchemy that is said to have been closely tied to Khaenri'ah (and might I note: Guizhong is noted to have numerous Ruin Guards, Khaenri'an technology, in her domain roughly 2000 years before they ever reached the surface of Teyvat's). Any way, this is where I need to touch on Albedo's character details, specifically the following:

"The universe is heaven reversed, and the earth is a dream lost to time. This is dust, the most basic form of complex life." As if to provide evidence for this claim, Albedo lifted the burnt ash of the flower that once grew atop a Dendro Slime's head. Seconds later, a Cecilia sprouted forth from the ash in his hand. "And this... is new birth."

And then from the caption in Collected Miscellany - "Albedo: Kreideprinz":

"Soil and chalk, the universe and earth, pure dust and the birth of human life... There is no mistaking it."

A little tie to the creation of life, interesting, indeed. Alright, now while it's not canon by any means, it is a popular enough theory that the Moon Sisters were three (out of four) of the Primordial One's Shades. And one of them is noted to have been in part responsible for the creation of life. Now I'm not tying this Shade into Guizhong, but I'm simply drawing the potential importance of her title of 'God of Dust' into the equation, or simply to reiterate the importance of dust within the existence of Teyvat as a whole as it stands today. And what it might mean if she was indeed, a Moon Sister (to tie into this, the 'Sun-Kings' are also firmly tied to the creation of life; I believe most of this 'generation' of gods would be). Anyway, continuing!

Now, there is a reference (which I do have to note is a legend and nothing more, but we'll take it to heart) that tells me that it's certain that at least two Moon Sisters are 'confirmed' dead, by account of there being only one moon left in Teyvat's sky, instead of three. The legend notes that two 'shattered into dust' (hello, dust) and subsequently disappeared which seems to be indicative of their death, and one secluded herself within the Lunar Palace and was never seen again. Now the tale of legends recounts that the moon we still see is tied to the corpse of a Moon Sister, but how has that one endured when the other two have not? There are no remains of the other two, why not? Unless the third Moon Sister didn't actually die, or 'fully' die. Bear with me, this is where it gets very hypothetical, but it makes enough sense in my head, I'm mostly just having issues putting all of this into proper words. The reference given above is from Moonpiercer, an Aranara weapon. These little green friends had seen the Moon Sisters descend into Teyvat multiple times (we know this, due to the much earlier referenced blooming of the Nilotpala Lotuses), and at one point no longer saw them come down. Whatever 'calamity' occurred during which the Moon Sisters were said to have died, the Aranara reference that they died, and noted the way in which they perished, but unless this information was given to them by the envoys between Teyvat and Celestia, the Seelies, this would have consisted of pure speculation and assumption. After all, everything returns to dust, even deities such as the Moon Sisters. What if that's exactly what happened with the third Moon Sister? What if her death never occurred, or, what if the death was more symbolical in a sense of, she strayed from that level of divinity, what if she fell from the Lunar Palace and landed in... the Chasm? The place that is said to have been created by a large impact to its region, and later on also was the location of the fall of the Solar Chariot?

In essence, yes, I'm making the argument that Haagentus might just be this specific Moon Sister. 'But Sae, she's dead now, isn't she?' Yes, but look at the condition that she's in upon her death: she is encased in stone, fully petrified (and who is the only one we know to wield such power?), and even the dust that abandoned her, is encased overhead (again, a power we see Zhongli wield during the final cutscene in Perilous Trail without barely lifting a finger). What if the only reason that the final moon has not gone out and dark over Teyvat, is because her remains have been tied to the lands by Zhongli himself, who if you ascribe to the theory of Sun-King Zhongli, has even more reason to not let her go?

/munches on a cookie as a little reward for myself for managing to finish all of this semi-coherently, and gives you a cookie for having gotten through all of this.

#[ meta. ] her manuscripts still lie unfinished in her abode. the blank pages give one cause for contemplation on what might have been. #[ /wipes sweat from brow. ] #[ the amount of times i distracted myself during this? crazy. '30 minutes' i said. I said that when i'd started on the 'dust' paragraph. ] #[ and that was the part where i kept doing more research and everything got so much more complicated-- but also not. ] #[ it's almost like; will any of this make me change my mind? the answer was nope. ]

[cosleia]

Hux Crisis #2

I remarked yesterday that I was having another Hux crisis. (The first Hux crisis is documented a little bit here.) Basically, my Hux crises are caused by my personal understanding of him coming into apparent conflict with canon depictions. This also happened to me with Carlos the Scientist from Welcome to Night Vale. The situation isn't great; historically it has caused me to stop writing for a long time while I recalibrated my headcanons.

Because I'm hoping that won't happen this time, I originally wasn't going to discuss it too much, but then this morning I saw this post:

When I saw this, I just felt like that it fit Hux so well. The idea that his family line might be cursed in some way, resulting in all his perceived failures, is narratively compelling to me. It made me want to write down my thoughts and feelings about Hux.

I didn't want to clutter up OP's notes with my nonsense, so I made a screenshot for this post. If you want to see/reblog the original, I reblogged it here.

Let's get into it.

We know JJ named Hux after a name he saw on a gravestone. He wanted Hux to be a tragic character from the beginning. And Hux was. We learned that he'd grown up being abused, and that it's likely he was stolen from his mother when he was taken/rescued from his home planet during the New Republic siege. And of course we saw the tragedy continue through the films:

The stormtrooper program wound up producing a Resistance general

Starkiller Base was destroyed

The Fulminatrix was destroyed

The Supremacy was destroyed

Kylo Ren became Supreme Leader

The First Order failed to wipe out the Resistance on Crait

And finally, Hux was found out as the spy and executed

It could be argued that many of these things were failures on Hux's part. The comics give us even more failures: in Journey to TLJ: Captain Phasma, he does not issue an official evacuation order when Starkiller Base begins to collapse, which enables Phasma to keep troopers who saw her from surviving to report it, and probably also resulted in unnecessary losses. He also seems not to question Phasma's version of how the shields were lowered on Starkiller. In Hyperspace Stories #8, which seems to be set pre-TFA, he loses control of a wild creature called a Bramalish that he set upon a non-cooperative colony.

I get chalking all of this up to incompetence, to thinking that Hux kept failing because he was stupid or prideful.

But we have evidence to the contrary.

Hyperspace Stories #8 also shows us Hux is quick to adapt to change. When Ren arrives to fight the Bramalish, Hux orders the stormtroopers to help him immediately. When Ren brings back the city leader whose cooperation will secure the First Order's power, Hux instantly adjusts to "negotiating with" (threatening) him. While I won't deny that setting a Bramalish loose believing the stormtroopers could contain it was a miscalculation, the strategy was to terrorize the populace, and it worked. That plus Ren's contributions scored the First Order a win.

In the comic Star Wars Adventures #30, set between TLJ and TROS, Hux's plan is to send stormtroopers to Vendaxa to follow a lead that the Resistance might be there. It's Supreme Leader Ren who insists on going personally. Hux goes with him because he sees an opportunity to ingratiate himself to Ren, and he actually manages to get Ren to say he has earned his trust, "for now." It turns out there was no need for the leader of the First Order to go to Vendaxa personally. The Resistance isn't even there, and Ren and Hux wind up in mortal danger. I think it can be safely argued that Hux was right, and circumstances (Kylo Ren) worked against him.

In that same comic, Hux tells Ren, "I put my stormtroopers in charge of reconnaissance because leadership is trusting the people you lead to do their jobs." The loss of the Fulminatrix seems ludicrous in light of these words. Canady stood around waiting to be micromanaged; Hux is not a micromanager. (I ranted about this separately here.)

And then, of course, we have Age of Resistance - General Hux, another pre-TFA story. This is not only where we see more of Hux's abusive childhood, but also where we see him at his craftiest. He uses Ren's identity to manipulate Bylsma, and then he uses the shuttle sabotage to justify killing one of his childhood abusers. From this, it's clear he's not an idiot.

Let's go through the other perceived failures with a more critical eye.

First, the stormtrooper program. Yes, it "failed" in that Finn resisted his conditioning, as did Jannah and her company. But what percentage of stormtroopers actually defected or deserted? How does it compare to other militaries' defection/desertion rates? Is it even possible to have 100% loyalty? While I don't think we know the answer to the first two questions, the answer to the third is absolutely no.

The destruction of Starkiller Base would not have been possible without the shield being lowered. Hux knew the oscillator was a weak point and had it protected, not just by shields but by squadrons of fighters. It took an extraordinary series of events for the Resistance to win.

Trusting Phasma is either a blind spot, or he's playing the long game, as fellow kyluxers pointed out on my original Hux crisis post. Phasma conspired with him to kill Brendol; this was in both their self-interests, not the First Order's. If anything, TLJ cemented their relationship as a partnership. It's not a stretch to think Hux knows Phasma's true loyalty is to herself, and that he considers having her as a partner more advantageous than not. It's a gamble, but she's a powerful ally. I've wondered if their conversation when she returns to the Finalizer is coded...if what Hux is really asking is how well she covered her tracks.

(The fact that he doesn't seem to dwell on the loss of Starkiller, either in the Captain Phasma comic or at the beginning of TLJ, and he just looks annoyed when it's brought up in TROS, implies that he is forward-thinking, which is a vital quality in a leader.)

Hux not managing to keep Ren from becoming Supreme Leader is understandable. He's ready to kill Ren, but Ren stirs. Hux knows he can't defeat Ren in a fight. And unfortunately, Hux has rarely been able to talk Ren into anything. This is the rare moment he breaks emotionally: he's lost Starkiller, he's lost the Supremacy, and now he's lost Snoke, the one thing that has been protecting him from Ren. I don't think his action or inaction here is indicative of his intelligence so much as his trauma.

The battle of Crait wasn't actually lost. It simply wasn't a total victory. And the reason wasn't Hux or his commands. It was Kylo Ren. Without Ren there, the First Order would have wiped the Resistance out.

Hux being found out as a spy was, I've always thought, at least partially because Finn shot him in the leg instead of the arm. You'd think an enemy would aim for the head or chest. The arm would have been a more believable miss location. But of course, it also happened because of Hux's choice to report the escape to Pryde himself instead of going to medbay and sending a subordinate. This one I can't find a good explanation for, except maybe that he thought he would seem more loyal if he went personally. (I like to think it was because he knew Pryde would shoot him, and he took advantage of that to fake his own death.)

I'm showing obvious bias here, but even I can admit Hux isn't flawless. He can make mistakes and succumb to emotions like any other human. I just believe, based on my understanding of canon, that not everything he did was a mistake. In fact, I'd argue that the majority of his failures were due to circumstances outside his control. It's tragic, like JJ intended.

Because of that, I think that cursed family line idea fits really well. Maybe Hux finds out about the curse just when he's on the verge of giving up, and it makes him try even harder out of spite. Could he break free of the curse? Or is he doomed, like every other Hux?

#star wars #general hux #armitage hux #meta #doomed by the narrative #my hux crisis

[sam-grey]

I’ve started listening to Welcome to Night Vale and I think I get it; this shit slaps

#cecil is wild #I may be in love #the sponsored bits my beloved #welcome to night vale #wtnv #cecil palmer #sam speaks #journey through night vale

[sednonamoris]

ghost story

known by law enforcement, civilians, and outlaws alike as ‘the ghost rider of new austin’, you join up with the van der linde gang in your youth. so begins a long and complicated history.

ch. 1 cloudburst

shot by a bounty hunter and left for dead, you’re saved by an unlikely pair in the dead of night.

ch. 2 gift horse

now healed, you plan out the job that will fulfill your life debt to these van der linde boys. what else would it be but stealing horses?

ch. 3 daddy’s got a gun

a job gone wrong, and a journey home gone worse.

ch. 4 drowning lessons

the hottest day of summer launches your friendship with john off the deep end.

ch. 5 raise a little hell

you, john, and arthur go out on the town after a successful score. of course you couldn’t leave it at just one drink.

ch. 6 american dreams

need, morality, and family are difficult to conceptualize in a life defined by crime, and your vision of the world has been shaped almost entirely by the van der linde gang.

ch. 7 stormchaser

abigail roberts joins the gang. your relationship with john is changed, maybe forever.

ch. 8 dear john

a year’s worth of letters, never sent.

ch. 9 hang ‘em high

a high stakes bank robbery forces you and john to confront exactly how close - and how far - you are from one another anymore.

ch. 10 a dark alley and a bad idea

after an argument with abigail, john goes into town to drink his worries away. as always you follow, and as always there's trouble - seems like you bring it with you wherever you go. 

ch. 11 sold down the river

the blackwater massacre, and the aftermath.

ch. 12 teeth

john never returns from his scouting trip. you, arthur, and javier seek him out through the snow.

ch. 13 through the valley and the vale

once dutch gets a train robbery out of his system and the snowmelt starts, the van der linde gang makes its way to horsehsoe overlook.

ch. 14 pony up

john and abigail continue to argue. you and jack are both stuck in the middle, so you make the best of it by teaching him to ride.

ch. 15 act the maggot

sean is rescued, and the gang celebrates his return the only way they know how - drinks all around.

ch. 16 life ain’t fair and the world is mean

arthur’s decision after meeting with mary linton again leaves you caught between a rock and a hard place.

ch. 17 once bitten

john and abigail’s relationship continues to deteriorate as arthur begins a clumsy courtship. you and john run off hunting to get away from it all, but things don’t exactly go to plan.

ch. 18 come all ye sinners

driven from camp in the aftershocks of an earth-shattering shift in john and abigail’s relationship, you find yourself in an unlikely situation with and even more unlikely friend. is there a way forward?

ch. 19 oil on troubled water

tensions are high between john and arthur. will collaborating on a train robbery bring them closer or tear them farther apart?

ch. 20 blood of the covenant

arthur and abigail make a promise. you and john have a chance to find out what that means for you, if you’re brave enough.

ch. 21 good, honest thieves

a fight with micah leads to a lecture from dutch. loyalty is exactly what you've been raised on, but to what? to whom? the answer seems to be john every time.

ch. 22 unbridled

a theft gone right and a deal gone wrong.

ch. 23 thunderstruck

a storm brews over your journey with john to meet an old friend and make a profit on the braithwaite horses. what will happen when lightning strikes?

ch. 24 working for the knife

you and john return to camp, where an unexpected crisis awaits.

ch. 25 arsonist’s lullaby

with sean dead and the confederate gold nowhere to be found, the braithwaites learn exactly why boys are off limits.

ch. 26 water of the womb

[coming soon]

#masterlist #ghost story #john marston x reader #rdr2 x reader #rdr x reader #fran writes

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Paradise

I was tagged *checks calendar* a month ago (yikes! sorry it took so long!) by @prolix-yuy (thank you!!) in @boliv-jenta's Seven Minutes in Heaven tag game - and had a lovely little time daydreaming up this situation. This is set way after anything I've written yet for the Angelfish Universe, but you don't have to have read those to read this one.

WC: 866

Warning: brief mention of illness and injury, Ezra's blinding beauty in the sunlight

“You know something? I do believe the tales are true, Angelfish.” 

He let out a sigh as he adjusted his arm, tucking it beneath his head. You turned to face him, blades of the long, soft grass you were laying in tickling your cheek as you moved. When you did, you sucked in a small breath at what you saw. 

Oh, look at him. 

Ezra’s eyes were shut, but just barely, the lids smooth, uncreased, his upper lashes resting atop the lower ones. A smile tugged gently at his lips and you saw them part as he took another deep breath of crisp mountain air. Despite the fact that it was nearly twenty degrees cooler at elevation, the sun’s warmth felt stronger up in Sola’s Vale because you were closer to it. You watched the way the light made the shock of silver in his hair seem golden, the rays picking up the scattered grays throughout his curls to make them shine, too. 

He’s so damn beautiful. 

He was. But you’d known that for more than a decade now. What made your heart swell inside your chest was how peaceful he looked. How healthy and happy he was. It had been a long year and a half since he’d come home from his last expedition down a limb and dust-sick. The damned Green Moon had all but destroyed him, leaving his body ravaged by injury and infection. By the time he made it back to you on Lao, he’d been swallowed up by his once-snug clothes, his worn waffle-knit pullover hanging loosely from his diminished frame. He came home looking nothing like your Ezra. 

Fear had never gripped you more tightly than it did in the weeks following his return to the Dunes. There were nights when his fever spiked, days when he struggled to take a breath without collapsing into a wheezing heap, and your were terrified that his recovery had taken a reverse turn. Terrified that after everything you might still lose him. That you and Cee would be left to drown in the wake of his loss. 

But he was so strong. Fought so hard. 

You swallowed, still silently soaking in the sunlight and the way it bathed his skin, and thought of the small steps he started to make when the worst of the sickness was over. Even with medical treatment, his rehabilitation was slow going, minor setbacks here and there trying Ezra’s patience and stoking his frustration. 

But he never gave up. And now we’re here. 

A trip like the one you were on now would have been impossible even six months ago. The interplanetary travel to Cardovan alone would have taken a hefty toll on him. The heavily wooded planet was located near the center of the Heart, but Lao was all the way out where the Seam met the Fringe, making it a six cycle journey through space. Pair that with all the trekking through old growth pine forests and up into the Solaluna Mountains where the air was markedly thinner, and it just would have been too much. 

The fact that you were there together now proved that he truly had healed. That he was going to be okay. That he’d finally gotten through it. And that made you happier than you’d been since before he left for the Bahkroma sector. 

A light breeze swept through the valley to ripple the glassy surface of the lake your campsite was on, ruffling the dark curls near the crown of Ezra’s head. You rolled onto your side and reached over to rake your fingers through them, the contact making his grin stretch wide enough to reveal a flash of white teeth.

I love this man so much. 

Finally responding to his statement with a sun-drunk smile of your own, you inched closer to him. “What tales are those, Ezra?” 

Keeping his eyes closed, he turned his face to kiss the base of your wrist. You sighed at the sensation, shifting so that you could rest your head on his shoulder. His left arm dropped down to curve around your waist. 

“Those that claim that Kevva’s Paradise can be found right here in Sola’s Vale.” 

You felt his words rumbling through his chest and against your cheek, and you let his voice lull your eyes shut, too. “Oh, yeah?” His fingers traced absent minded designs over your hip, drawing a hum from the back of your throat. 

“Well I for one cannot recall a time in my adventurous life when I have witnessed a more beautiful place than this.” He nuzzled the tip of his nose against your temple and inhaled deeply. “And there’s certainly no one besides you, save Birdy of course, who I would want to share it with.”

You hummed again. “Cee would love it here. We’ll have to come back when she’s on semester break.” 

“Agreed.” He pressed his lips to the side of your head again, curling his fingers around your hip at the same time. When he spoke again it was low and directly into your ear. “But while it’s still just the two of us-“ His teeth grazed the upper edge of your ear, your body responding by slinking even closer to him, a pleasant shiver running down your spine. “Let’s share paradise, Angelfish.”

---

tagging: anyone who sees this and wants to share their ideal seven minute daydream <3

#seven minutes in heaven #thanks for the tag!! #paradise #ezra (prospect) #ezra (prospect) x female reader #angelfish au #ezra (prospect) fic #prospect fic #ezra (prospect) x reader #ezra x angelfish

[ervona]

Day 3: Starlit / Teeth for @tes-summer-fest

It did not take a keen eye to look up at the star-woven tapestry and see its centerpieces missing for months on end. One retired barrister who had lived through an assortment of so-termed crises found it hard to lose sleep over. Yet whenever he looked out the window at night, he couldn’t help but readjust his spectacles, expecting to catch sight of what was not there. 

His daughter found it rather agreeable. Moon-born since he’d known her, she shone with such ardor, regaling her parents with a tale of her latest travels. With word of her return reaching them by letter over the seas, it had come as a slight surprise—but a much welcome one—how sooner than usual her arrival had followed it.

They set out a special dinner of apple and parsnip soup, homemade rye bread, horker loaf in cameline sauce and to her most dear, honey pudding. Under his guidance through the years, his husband had become a capable cook, far from frivolous noble stock. As the night went on, their daughter excused herself to settle back into the room they’d kept tidy for her, as in their hearts she always lived there.

After such a hearty meal was simply the perfect time to rest. His husband took to his favored rocking chair by the fireside, where his forehead lay just at the right level to kiss, and his lips not far off.

“Don’t you worry about me, Llether. I won’t fall asleep here.” he murmured, eyes scrunched forcefully, but opening them for a moment to smile up at him. Llether kissed him again, doubtful.

Both of their daughters, his not by blood but by bond, had their rooms here. The younger one's he approached was empty, with odds and ends from all across the land strewn across the floor and bed. Where she intended to sleep he knew not, but he let it be for the moment. A youth like her also had no idea of the draft she’d consigned the room to; she assumed that she was immune to the cold far too lightly.

The open window gave a lovely view of the woods under starlit skies, and it was no surprise that she’d used it as her exit. Though he saw many a problem in following her through there, it wasn’t enough to discourage him. With his short stature doing him no favor, he still managed to lay one foot down on the grass, and the rest was easy enough. She was nowhere to be seen, but there were quite a few of her favored nooks to check in the surroundings.

Heartland-born and raised, he’d stayed in many lands before settling down in a most unlikely one, far-flung but not much different from his dear Bruma until he stood by the northern sea. For a good part of the year the thick Haafingar woods shimmered blinding white as far as the eye could see, the sort of landscape where one would not look twice at a white bear. All so that his daughter, a bearling who’d been an armful at the time, could grow up in peace.

The Oblivion crisis had given way to wayward knights, set on rooting out anything unworthy of their Divines. By the time their winds had come to blow northward, his daughter had the wit of them all put together. Not that their cause was for ill, he understood, having litigated the daedra in his own time—it had simply twisted at a remarkable pace, like harrada.

As if by fortune’s favor, no one had bedeviled them, only coming close on a few occasions. His daughter had grown restless, towering over him and even some of the locals, moonrise or not. She’d always been meant to travel across the land, his little Investigator Vale, to appease her curious head but to rest it at their hearth when each journey came to a close.

Oft he would have found her in the shade of a tree, or up in its crown, this night she was sat on the hillside facing east, a sprig of tundra cotton in the night breeze. He stepped forth with care, in part for a perhaps silly fear that he would roll all the way down if he lost his balance. Swaying ever so slightly, she looked back in silence, and the closer he got the more worried he grew. By her side, it was difficult not to notice her puffy eyes and melting composure.

She clutched a forthwith recognizable painted box and spoke first, as if accused. “It’s nothing, pa. It’s just… I may not have been sincere with you. About the moons.”

“That’s what I’d learned to discern for a better part of my life. Not the better, mind you.”

At that she sniffed and looked away, shuffling the box into his own hands as she did so. It was corkbulb make, housing a bundle of her letters, a knit nix-hound with dangling limbs, tufts of white hair, milk teeth and marbles in small alchemical sacks, all sorts of oddments they’d each added to as her memory box. Missing yet unnoticed from the site of her room.

“I figured you’d see through it, so I felt horrible.”

“What for, dear heart? You’ve done no harm.” That he knew of.

“At first I was relieved, you know, I of all people should be. Then it got worse.” She stopped to sniff, and thankfully a gentleman always carried a cloth that she could wipe her face with. “Each fortnight or so. My blood would burn, my heart would cinch as if I were to turn, but I didn’t.”

“Did you try to get enraged? That too could work, right?”

“Tried not to,” she gurgled, still unable to stop sniffing.

“Would you like to turn in the first place?”

“No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“A fair answer as any.” He pulled her closer, head resting on his shoulder. “I cannot imagine… I cannot speak for what it’s brought you, curse or comfort.”

“The pain I could weather, but I can’t help but think, how much of me is even left?”

“All of it.” Scrutinized by her gaze, he brought out the first thing before him. “Merry, look at this again. Each tooth here, and each strand of hair, no matter the loss, you remain yourself.”

She hiccuped, and more than ever looked a mirror image of the bearling he found in the snow so long ago as if yesterday. A century could pass and she remained his baby, and he remained sworn to all ancestors and itinerant spirits to care for her. And she was shaking with worry, each tear reflecting a star. He wanted to cry with her too, even if it stained his spectacles.

“Suppose if… I also fear what I’ll become if it returns.”

“I don’t. People who love you, we fear not.”

“Easy for you to say, and then I’ll-” She motioned to bite his hand, and he could only think of the little one that chewed with reckless abandon whenever he’d picked her up. Then, even she couldn’t help but laugh when he did. Though mired in bitterness, her laugh was sweet as ever.

For a moment a gut-churning feeling took him, in wonderment of just how much she felt the need to hide. Had she done something so monstrous and feared the judgment he could never give her? Why do you fear yourself? Did you... The question he had cast down many times didn’t feel right for his daughter. The kindest soul he knew, for that would be all the more guilt-ridden. He could not entertain it.

“More importantly, are you in pain now? You needn’t hide that, ever.”

“No, and I know. Simply didn’t want you to worry.”

Kissing her cheek, he held her close, ever grateful no matter what she may or may not have done. “And for that I worried more. No matter. The least I could give you is my own draughts, and we’ll go to the city at first light and stock up at the alchemist’s, and-”

“It’s fine, pa. I’ll tell you when it’s not. Right now, I could run a stade!”

“Well then, if you could help me move your da…” 

“Did he fall asleep in his chair again?”

“He most certainly did.”

#tesfest23 #tes #the elder scrolls #elder scrolls #skyrim #merris tag #llether tag #and he's an oblivion hero who married a morrowind character. lmao #if you know his husband then you do. i'm not tagging him here it would be kind of false advertising #scrawling tag

[docholligay]

The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your Home

The pitch: There is a Faceless Old Woman who secretly lives in your home. She's always there. But now, it's time to learn where she came from and how she ended up in the strange little desert community of Night Vale. It's a story of swashbuckling adventure, queer romance, thievery, skullduggery, betrayal, and, most importantly, revenge. For the Faceless Old Woman has been around for a very long time and she never forgets... or forgives.

While this book is set in the world of the podcast Welcome to Night Vale, it is absolutely NOT necessary to have ever listened to the podcast to enjoy it. The authors have gone out of their way to ensure this book is accessible to anyone, whether they're a Night Vale fan or not.

I’m shocked I took this pitch, rereading it ahahaha. I think it was a repitch and the original pitch was better? (hold on, I’m about to compliment the shit out of the book) If a pitch goes through, you can repitch and be automatically let through the next year if it doesn’t get drawn. Please Hold.

YEP THAT WAS IT HERE’S THE ORIGINAL PITCH

There is a faceless old woman who secretly lives in your home and for the first time, she's going to tell you where she came from and how she wound up in your home. It is a long globe-trotting journey involving swashbuckling, heroism, romance, and slow, but inevitable revenge.

I know you love the Count of Monte Cristo and this book is very much in that vein, as well as featuring some unique and intriguing characters throughout. There is mystery, double crosses, and some truly endearing and heartbreaking moments. Best of all, while the book is related to the "Welcome to Night Vale" podcast, it is absolutely NOT necessary to have listened to a single episode to enjoy the book. This is the story of a woman who has had an amazing and adventurous life and how her quest for revenge led her not only to Night Vale, but to the loss of her face and maybe even more than that.

I fucking L O V E CoMC and the pitcher knew that and this is a great example of how to use the things I love to help me find other things I might love. This is actually a great example of how you can pitch a book to me, that, I’m gonna tell you up front I had a fucking FABULOUS TIME READING--I finished it in one night, just gobbled it up--I would have taken in one way and not the other.

Non-spoilery review is just the pitch because truthfully it is VERY VERY hard to explain this book without spoiling it. That second pitch SLAPS and is all you need know (There’s a Jewish lesbian in the book but those of you looking for ‘queer romance’ are going to be disappointed, as it’s very much a side note to a character whose Jewishness is honestly more central and interesting. I loved it! It is the kind of thing *I* love, but if you are reading a book FOR that, you will come away disappointed)

Spoilers:

Fuck me running, okay, I expected to dislike this book. When i picked it up, I was like, “why, in the fuck, did I okay this? was I high?” mind you this is before I ever started reading just “From the authors of WELCOME TO NIGHTVALE” (a podcast I did not like at all) and “ALICE ISN’T DEAD” (A book I thought was blunt and hamfisted to the point of seeming to be written by talented teenager still learning about subtlety) comes A NEW STORY” I thought I had fucked myself over for reasons that I could not possibly understand, but I had bought the book and even used it was spendier than my usual and so I was like “FINE I GUESS UGH”

About 20 pages into it, I was super happy with my decision to read it. About 100 pages in, I was actually GLAD the storm had made my stream impossible because I knew I was going to finish this book out in one night.

This book hits on things I really love, and one of those things is revenge, and the nature of revenge, and what it does to a person, and what it makes us do to others. It has kind of a light touch, it wants to be kind of goofy about it sometimes, and those were actually the moments I thought it tripped, was when it was trying to be cutesy-comic-quirky about these very real things it was saying. Interestingly, when it was trying to be an arm of Welcome to Night Vale is when it failed for me, personally, basically.

She is so hellbent on her revenge that she refuses to pay attention to anything around her. There were so many times I screamed that she should be suspicious, that she should do a small amount of her own research, and the ending tells you that yes, the book WANTED you to be thinking that, though it was fine with you treating this like a stock fantasy/swashbuckle and believing everything the Substitute Father Figure said, only to be slapped by a mackerel in the face later. It all becomes about destroying the person who hurt her, and she’s swallowing poison the whole time hoping Edmond will eat her raw and die. It’s WILD.

I loved the scene with Albert where she literally cannot let herself let it go and be happy. The book is very very clear that this is not nobility, this is foolish stubbornness, this is continuing to cut open and reinfect a wound because healing feels like a betrayal. And not only does she ruin her own happiness, she ruins the happiness of her friends. She kills Andre, and Lora, and in fairness mostly inconveniences Rebekah deeply (who I loved and thought was a very very interesting character but I have already taken way more time on this review than I’m supposed to, so) because of her need for revenge, and she is outmaneuvered at every point, even to the end where Edmond dies peacefully surrounded by his family, while she’s a vengeful ghost of some kind.

And she continues to ruin her own fucking life. Death. Whatever. She continues to cut open the wound, loving every son, helping them, and then destroying them, and for what? It doesn’t seem to make her feel any better, it’s just a way of never letting her forgive herself for her father’s death but MORE IMPORTANTLY for the destruction she wrought on her friends and her own blind stupidity.

I fucking loved it. It buckled swash, it was about the power and idiocy of revenge, it was about what anger and hatred can meld us into and how it can destroy the beautiful things we ever were. This book sounds silly as shit when you look at the blurb and in fairness, yeah, I DO slightly wish it were in different hands that were not bound to a style of a podcast I find pretty eyerolling. But the themes are so fucking up my alley, the execution was largely solid, and I had a great time. Ate it the fuck up.

Will this get a rec asterisk? I don’t know! I think I liked it more than I think it is one of the highest quality things I read this year. Which isn’t to say I thought it was trash, I know trash and love trash, and I don’t think this was trash, but it wasn’t Great Circle. But it was a super fun example of the kind of thing *I* am looking for when I want a fun romp of a book.

thanks @notesfromtheidiotbox you hit it out of the park!

#doc reads

[certifiedskywalker]

Claiming Of Mine - Daemon Targaryen

Yet another banquet at the Vale hosted by House Royce presents you with yet another night with Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

“I fear you have caught the eye of a certain, silver-haired guest.”

“If I am correct in which guest you’re speaking of, he looks at everyone like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like he wants to devor you.”

Your pure-circumstance companion scowled at your words. “You paint him with a broad brush.”

“No,” you murmured, averting your eyes from the visiting Lady Evealyn Celtigar of the Claw Isle and her embossed crab-covered dress. Even with the crowd swirling about the hall, it took you but a mere moment to find the piercing eyes of the guest in question. Daemon smirked at you. “I draw him with a fine point quill.”

Grey Lady Evealyn’s eyes widened and her face flushed seashell pink. As her lips pursed and puckered in search for a proper response, you left the Old Crab alone to the quiet corner you had attempted to carve out for yourself. Such solitude was mythic at these banquets, as it seemed the most ill-informed gossip in the Realm always sought to flush you out. Lady Evealyn was simply the most recent in a long line of older Ladies looking to sow rumors for the mill. They were everywhere, peppered throughout the crowd, adding to the number of shining, irksome eyes. There was no shadowy solace in a room gleaming with heedful faces and glittering gems. The grandiose light of nobles danced around the hall, blinding and horribly cajoling. 

You had no choice but to fight your way through; but when it came to the beacon that was Daemon Targaryen, you willingly surrendered.

Careful not to take an improper step, you wove through the crowd and towards his brightness. You dipped and bowed whenever a handsome Lord or Lady took pause of you. After a pleasant greeting, you fed them a sorry excuse for your early leave and continued on your journey across the room. At each mannerly stop, you could feel Daemon’s sly smirk spreading across his lips, burning as the source of his light. By the time you reached him on the other end of the hall, he was grinning like a child promised a sweet.

“I see everyone and the Old Crab has taken note of your presence at this vile affair.” His words were ribbing, slanted, and laced with the sweet-sour twinge of the wine he sipped at.

“You sound envious, dear Prince.”

Daemon’s grin pressed itself into a closed-lip smile, one that did not dare reach his narrowed, crystaline eyes. This look you knew as his thin guard against your teasing, not that he would ever admit to needing a guard. No, Daemon was offensive in all manners, your banter included.

“If they knew who the heir to House Grafton bedded, they would sound so very envious,” he leaned down to you, close enough to prompt quick, gossip-starved glances from passersby. “You know how I so enjoy being the talk of these banquets. Shall we spill your secret?”

“Our secret,” you corrected, tipping your chin up to situate your lips daringly close to Daemon’s. His pale brows rose in surprise at your boldness before he put on his airs again.

“Oh, you see, pet,” he drawled, unyielding to your closing proximity, “I hold no secrets. None of my ladies and loves are hidden so. Lest you forget, I am Lord Flea Bottom.”

You fought the wild, burning urge to brush back the stray strands of silver hair that fell across the side of his face as he spoke. Daemon, eyes flicking down along your figure saw the urge in the itch that twitched in your fingers. His grin returned at the sight and you cursed yourself for so revealing your shattering resolve, your own offense dwindling like a dying fire. In an attempt to recover, you straightened your posture to the peak of proprietary.

“Yet none know of me. What does that make me, if not your lady or your love?”

You saw it then, again, what Lady Evealyn Celtigar had refused to see in the Prince’s pointed gaze: hunger. If not for the wine he held and the hoard of Valemen about, Daemon would have shed his skin into red scales akin to Caraxes’ and sunk his claws into your softest flesh. How futile it would be to try to dodge the maw of a keen Dragon. Though, to be devoured by Daemon would be, and was, worth the bite.

“You,” he said, eyes razing over the features of your face, “are simply mine.”

The last words slipped from his lips in a wine-scented whisper before he leaned back. You held eye contact as he brought his chalice up to his mouth. Before he sipped, Daemon tipped the golden rim of it towards you in the smallest of toasts. As if swallowed by flame, heat bloomed across your body at the gesture, the weight of it only for you and he to bear. Your secret.

Before you could collect yourself, Daemon quickly emptied the chalice of wine in one slug and leaned back over towards you. Mellow fruit from the Arbor Red soaked into his lips and you ached to kiss the color from his skin. Rich, woody scents and the smell of cinders distracted you from that cloying want. As did the warmth that burned out from Daemon’s limbs so near you. It was an attack on your resolve, offensive, in the best manner.

“When my lady wife sleeps, I’ll show you what that title means.”

You heard the clinking of the chalice bottom being placed at rest against the table behind you before Daemon pulled back. There was no blush on the high peaks of his cheeks, no starlit glint of mischief in his hawk eyes. Nor was there a smile, of any sort, playing on his lips. The man, no…the Dragon before you was staid, a hunter with his prey marked.

Only at your prolonged silence did Daemon’s lips slightly quirk up at the corners. He had you, and you both knew it, felt it. Granted, you were certain he had always had you. As Daemon wordlessly stalked away, you felt that he was certain in that too.

And that certainty bled into the night, licked at your wounds of waiting. You endured the pestering of fellow banquet guests, including the re-emergence of Lady Evealyn Celtigar from where you left her. She was tipsy and therefore more resigned. Though even resigned, she was talkative, rampant in her chittering about the other Lords and Ladies. The ignorance of the elder head of House Celtigar regarding the culture of the Vale, of King’s Landing, was clear in her romantic optimism.

It took every drop of desire for self-preservation to not search for Daemon while the Old Crab scuddled in and out of conversation. What a relief a simple look from him would deliver to you.

Though, a far greater relief was given when Rhea Royce bid those still assembled in the great hall a farewell. Daemon stood near his wife’s side, his sharp features dark in the torch light. His presence was symbolic only, the shadow of a crowned Dragon looming over this gathering of lesser men. For, if he were truly present, Daemon would be all gnashing teeth and laughter. That was how you met him, so many Vale banquets ago.

The Lady of Runestone made her early escape, Daemon trailing a few paces behind. You watched him go, watched how his hair washed like silver waves over his shoulders. He looked like a dark tide being shrunk by the setting moon as he washed out of the great hall. Further like a tide, you knew Daemon would return eager to sweep you away. 

Until then, you had to stay afloat within the less savory political talk that erupted in the hall to fill his absence. Pretense shed, male heirs to the Vale’s great Houses chastised their host for her hapless marriage to the Prince that had yielded no children, no sons for them to ward. For them to groom for their game. At the thought, your stomach twisted.

“Oi! No sons we know of,” shouted one lord.

“Half the bastards of Flea Bottom are of his line,” cried another. “Dirty dragonseed!”

The epithets soared like Dragon fire across the room and burned just the same. Even the mildly drunken, chronically chatty Lady Evealyn felt the scorch of their words and seemed stalled in her merriment. The Old Crab sunk in her seat at what she likely deemed slander, dress of crustaceans crumpling with her. At such a rate, she too would be able to pen a far more accurate picture of Daemon Targaryen. Though, still nowhere near as accurate as yours.

You knew him, his rarest forms and his most base. That was why, when the large, wooden doors to the great hall opened as if to welcome a new arrival, you were not surprised to see Daemon instead of another noble stranger. The crowd about you, however, was shocked silent. 

His arms were spread like wings holding the twin, grand doors open. There, centered in the strip of light, he stood, listening to the new quiet that swelled in his presence. After a tense enough pause, he let his arms fall to his side and he started down the main thorofare of the great hall. Daemon’s path was bordered by full tables and the wide, worried eyes of nobles realizing their mistakes.

“Do not settle on my account,” he boomed as he stepped. Dark, shining eyes surveyed the faces around him, marking prey. When you met his gaze, Daemon lingered, but only for a moment. “Talk of your future King, please. Give my bastards life with your words and be tried for treason when I sit on the Iron Throne.”

He stopped in the middle of the great hall as he spoke, chest rising and falling with all the presence you knew him for. A different hunger hung around him. Daemon would hunt every soul sat around him for the sport of it. Every soul save for yours, which he had other plans for.

“I am the blood of the Dragon, and we burn our enemies. I do so hope you will not find yourselves amoungst the pillars of ash.”

Stillness eeked through the crowd, with lords and ladies watching Daemon watch them. As he drank in the fear, the harsh glare he wore morphed into a lizard’s smile. He was enjoying this, just as he said he would.

Before he could bask further in the silence he wrought, a sharp, singular bloom of applause sprouted. You turned your head and saw Lady Evealyn, eyes wide and thin arms quaking as she clapped for Prince Daemon. Following the lead of their matriarch, the remaining House Celtigar envoys joined the chorus. Before long, and looking to buy themselves even a modicum of safety, the rest of the captive audience applauded. Even those of House Royce, under the thumb of Daemon’s wife Rhea clapped, though notably less committed.

The Prince threw his arms up and out as if soaking up the sound. His head threw back and his hair spilled over his shoulders. He looked glorious, kingly, and arrogant. Eventually, he gave a wave of his hands and the crowd fizzled its noise back into its rumbling chatter. Though, the name of Daemon Targaryen fell only then with niceties from noble lips.

“He could conquer Dorne with a mouth like that!”

“Fire and Blood!”

It was a wonder, how swiftly the minds of men could change with the right motivation.

“Perhaps the Vale can be redeemed after all.” At the sound of his voice growing nearer, you looked from the manic men about you and to Daemon. He approached you, shoulders back and face tilted up. He looked as he did on the back of Caraxes. Natural and wild.

Daemon kept walking, forcing you into the alcove carved out behind you. Shadows hugged you both as the noise of the hall was lessened by stone walls. You hummed at the dimmed sight of him, how he peered down at you through slightly hooded eyes that glinted still, despite the dark. 

“The Vale is in need of redeeming in your opinion?”

Daemon lifted his right hand and you caught the glimmer of his rings in the far off torch light. The back of his fingers brushed against your cheek with a startling tenderness. His skin was warm against yours, a stark contast to the cool masonry that dug into your back.

“Some parts, yes,” he murmured, taking one last step towards you. His heat enveloped you, with his chest pressed to yours. Each breath he took, you felt as your own. “Not you.”

“I’m honored,” you said, a smile spilling over your lips as you tipped your chin up towards Daemon’s. “On the behalf of House Grafton, of course.”

“Of course,” Daemon replied, leaning down to capture your lips with his. At last.

His touch was a fervor. The kiss was a mess, wet, and wine-tasting. Steadiness came only when Daemon’s hand lifted to grip your chin, holding it still. Your hands rose up along his chest, grazing the red-thread, embroidered dragon bodies sown into the black fabric. Fingertips curled into the collar of his tunic and held him close.

“Mine,” one of you mumbled, voices melding in the dimness.

“Yours,” the other replied before you moved through the shadows and out of the great hall, becoming one within the dark.

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