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callsign-rogueone · 3 months

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our girl - d.a + x.r.

Dain Aetos x reader x Xaden Riorson You and Xaden have been hooking up for a while now, but Threshing throws a wrench (and another person) into your relationship. [request] words: 2.5k (went a little overboard lol, this dynamic was so fun to think about) 🏷: FOURTH WING AND IRON FLAME SPOILERS. NSFW at the end. she/her reader. I did this one a little differently; a full scene with dialogue, and then headcanons about what the relationship would be like (sfw, nsfw + angst; I apologize in advance…) banner made by user cafekitsune!

You dismount, managing to land on your feet. Maybe the gauntlet had been good practice after all, and not just a form of torture. The flight field is slowly filling in with dragons and their chosen riders. Dain is standing next to you with a massive red daggertail. Nice.

Your two dragons look at each other, and for a moment you’re worried they’re going to start a fight, but they just bump heads softly. They’re… friends?

Then Dain’s dragon turns toward you, looking you in the eye, and you freeze, holding completely still as it sniffs you. You must pass inspection, because he pulls back after a few seconds, satisfied, but you don’t dare move, your heart still pounding.

“Relax, girl. I will not hurt you.”

You startle at the second voice speaking to you, stumbling back in shock. A shimmering red string has appeared beside the soft blue one you share with Lann. You tug on it gently, and Dain’s eyes snap toward you, having felt the pull.

“They’re mated.”

“Smart boy,” Cath purrs.

You’re still trying to get used to having another being speaking in your head, hearing your every thought, but now you have two?

You don’t have time to complain about it before Xaden comes running toward you.

Both Lann and Cath stand taller, flaring their nostrils. Cath looks like he’s contemplating how Xaden would taste.

Xaden comes to a stop a few yards away, not wanting to provoke them. It’s easy enough for him to put it together, seeing Dain standing behind you with the mated pair. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Cath blows a puff of foul-smelling steam at Xaden in warning. “Tell him to watch his tone.”

You don’t.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Xaden says, a look in his eye you’ve never seen before; pure anger.

You take a step back, bumping into Lann’s foreleg. She curls her neck down, placing her head between your body and Xaden’s. You’ve only been bonded all of ten minutes, but she’s already willing to protect you with her life.

“It wasn’t her fault,” Dain challenges, crossing his arms. “Nor is it mine.”

Your stomach flips. You’d never expected that Dain would be the one defending you here.

“I should gut you before the bond gets any stronger,” Xaden threatens. What is he so mad for?

“You of all people should know that the consequences can be dire. You won’t risk her life in that way.”

“What the hell are the two of you talking about?” You ask, but they don’t answer, too busy threatening each other.

“Human males and their arguing,” Lann sighs. “Were they dragons, they’d fight to the death and the victor would keep you.”

“That remains a possibility,” you reply quietly, still watching the two of them. Xaden certainly looks like he’s contemplating murder right now.

“I could just incinerate him, but Sgaeyl would have my head if I did,” Cath muses, sounding bored. “And you seem attached.”

You turn to glare at him. “Not funny.”

“Threats from someone your size are only humorous,” Cath replies, still watching the two men argue.

“Like it or not, Riorson, she’s my responsibility now,” Dain says firmly. What is that supposed to mean? Why does Dain care all of a sudden if you live or die?

“Do not forget that you have a voice in this matter, too,” Lann adds.

She’s right.

“Quit it, both of you!” You interrupt before they can come to blows, and both boys turn toward you, quieting. “Stop talking about me like I’m not even here!”

Their eyes soften.

“Darling, I didn’t mean-“ Xaden begins.

You cross your arms over your chest, glaring up at the boy. “I’m not done,” you say, and he falls silent. “Dain’s right; neither of us asked for this, but it happened, and there’s no changing it now. I know you two hate each other, but I will not have you two fighting over me like I’m some kind of object. Neither of you have any claim to me. I’m not your girlfriend, and even if I was, you still don’t own me. I’m an adult, I can make my own decisions and keep myself safe.”

Neither of them respond, silent and guilty as your words settle in.

“And that is why I chose you,” Lann says proudly.

You ignore the compliment, stepping away from her and turning to leave, swiping the tears from your cheeks.

“I apologize, shrewd one.”

“It’s okay,” you say quietly. “You didn’t know.”

—————————————————

“Professor Kaori?” You ask quietly. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

He already knows why you’re here. “I heard about you and Aetos. Cath and Lann have been mated for nearly two centuries. Their bond is strong.”

“Have you known many other pairs like them?”

“A few,” he answers. “Dragons can live for millennia. Unlike us, they do not fall in love at age twenty, and they are quite selective with their partner. It is a lifelong commitment for them, and not one they take lightly.”

“And their riders?” You ask, holding your breath.

“A pair at Montserrat, who are now married, and another pair who regard each other like blood sisters.”

He doesn’t mention anyone like you and Dain, who hardly know each other and don’t really care to.

“I‘ll make this clear with you, cadet, as you need to know this and accept it; you and Aetos will be stuck together until the end of your days. The four of you must exist as a functional unit. The grief of one of your deaths may be enough to end you all.”

Your eyes widen. So that’s why Xaden had been so pissed.

“You are both excellent students who will undoubtedly become skilled riders,” Kaori says. “Get to know each other in the coming weeks, and settle your differences sooner than later. The health of your relationship, even if it remains strictly professional, is vital.”

You thank him quietly, heading back to your room. You don’t have time to stew over the news; you have assignments due tomorrow.

Two hours pass. You’ve just finished proofreading your essay when there’s a knock on the door.

Dain and Xaden. You motion for them to come in, knowing that the two of them together outside your door will look deeply suspicious to any passerby.

“What the fuck do you two want?”

Xaden nods at Dain, motioning for him to talk.

“We discussed it, and we realized you’re right. We’re just going to have to deal with this, and there’s no use in us fighting about it.”

Xaden speaks next. “You’ve proven that you can handle yourself, but we both still want to protect you. We care for you deeply, and that’s not going to change. We’re declaring a truce.”

“Whose idea was that?” You ask, wary.

“His,” Dain answers. Interesting.

You look to Xaden. “And you’re fine with this,” you say, motioning between you and Dain, “that we’ll be able to speak directly to each other, that we can’t be apart for more than a few days, that we’re going to be stationed together for life?”

“Yes. I trust him not to hurt you, if only because his life is now tied to yours.”

That’s high praise coming from Riorson, who doesn’t fully trust anyone. You don’t dare ask why he feels this way.

“As you said,” Xaden continues, the tone of his voice making your heart flutter, “I hold no claim to you. You remain your own person, no matter how strongly I feel for you or how many nights we have spent together. The decision lies with you.”

“Dain?” You ask.

He’s been silent, watching you with a softness in his eyes. He’d never taken a good look at you before, never appreciated how beautiful you are. “If he’s okay with it, and you are, then I am too.”

You’d never felt compassion for Dain, never cared if he lived or died, but now you’re overwhelmed with a sense that you need to protect him — to guard that little red string until your last breath. “I care for both of you as well. You’re both good men, who are important to me, and I’d like to have you remain in my life, if you promise to play nicely.”

You extend a pinky to each of them.

Dain looks confused.

“She doesn’t fuck around with pinky promises. This might as well be a blood oath for her,” Xaden explains, interlocking your fingers — this isn’t new to him.

Dain reaches forward, the warmth of his skin against yours sending a wave of soothing energy through you.

“Are you going to make us pinky promise each other too?” He asks playfully, the first joke you’ve ever heard him crack.

Xaden is unamused. “Don’t push it, Aetos.”

You giggle at his barely-restrained contempt. This is gonna be fun.

———————————————

sfw

Most of the quadrant know that yours and Dain’s dragons are mated, and that messing with one of the four of you means invoking the wrath of the other three. For the first time since conscription day, you can walk the halls alone without fearing for your life.

Nobody is aware of Xaden’s role in the relationship, and he prefers to keep it that way — it keeps the target off your back, and this way nobody can say that he’s giving you special treatment or shame you for having two partners. Garrick is the only person who knows about all of this, and he’s sworn to secrecy (that had certainly been an interesting conversation to have).

Xaden may not declare his feelings for you publicly, but he and Sgaeyl are always watching your back, ready to jump in should Dain not be there or should things get out of his control.

The two act generally indifferent to each other, but their love of you is enough for them to behave when you’re around.

They find a good balance between treating you like a princess and pushing you to be the best you can be, letting you do your own work and prepare yourself for what’s to come after graduation.

nsfw:

The first time you felt Lann and Cath going at it was... interesting.

Xaden knew that this would happen eventually, having felt the same feeling before from Tairn and Sgaeyl. He had warned you days prior that the overwhelming need could lead you astray easily, but that he wouldn’t be mad if you and Dain acted on it.

And act you did. You became addicted to Dain’s touch as soon as you felt it, not wanting it to be a one-time thing, and that’s when the three of you decided that the boys would share you.

We all know Xaden is possessive. He used to call you “my girl” when it was just the two of you hooking up, but now you’re their girl.

“Aww, is our pretty girl needy?”

“I think our girl deserves a reward for being so good.”

Dain is shy at first, but he works up the confidence to start teasing you through the bond. He loves to watch you squirm from across the room as his voice speaks directly into your mind, telling you how hot you looked sparring, what he’s going to do to you tonight…

Xaden does something similar, his shadows brushing your arms and neck, sometimes even slipping under your clothes to touch your body when he can’t, giving soft caresses to your back and waist, but he’ll never take it too far — just enough to make you want his hands on you instead.

They’re competitive as hell. They’ll tag team you, taking turns to see who can make you cum harder/faster. Your personal record is six times in one night, three apiece before you nearly passed out. They declared a tie, putting aside their egos to care for their sweet girl who had taken it all so well for them.

Sometimes you get both of them at once, and it’s a little overwhelming but so so good. Making out with one while the other is on his knees for you, or one holding your hand and telling you how pretty you look while the other pounds you into the mattress…

The two of them together are the ultimate brat taming combo, with Dain’s strictness and Xaden’s strength. If you give them attitude, get too cozy with another rider, purposely put yourself in danger, or neglect to take care of yourself (overworking, skipping meals, not getting enough sleep…), you’ll have some consequences to face when you’re back behind closed doors that night.

Xaden will tie your hands behind your back with his shadows, Dain edging you until you cry and apologize, promising that you’ll never break their rules again (but you inevitably do, and then they have to teach you your lesson all over again, hehe)

Despite how rough they can be with you, they always take incredibly good care of you afterward, staying to clean you up and hold you close, reminding you how much they love you.

You’re always in the middle when cuddling afterward, as they refuse to touch each other more than absolutely necessary, but you don’t complain, just happy to be held and fall asleep safe between your two strong men 🥰

and now some angst, because that’s what I do:

When you and Dain came back from RSC, bloody and limp, Xaden took care of both of you, finally showing some love to Dain and taking pity on him, helping bandage his wounds and wash the dried blood from his skin.

Eventually Xaden starts distancing himself from the two of you, worried that Dain will read his memories either on purpose or by accident, and find out about his dealings with the gryphon fliers, which you have no idea about.

He plays it off as being busy with third year / wingleader stuff, and you and Dain don’t think anything of it; Xaden has always been withdrawn, never the type to share his thoughts unprompted, and he likes to spend time alone.

When Violet bonds with Tairn at threshing, you realize how Xaden had felt when he realized you and Dain were tied together, only you were less angry and more sad.

You knew this would happen, that Tairn would have to choose a rider eventually, but it still hurt you deeply. Dain held you all night, whispering sweet things to you while you cried and promising that he would never ever leave you.

You decide to rip the bandage off first, finding Xaden alone a few days later and telling him that for the sake of all four of you and your dragons, this should end here.

He agreed quietly, giving you one last kiss and holding you for a few minutes before finally letting go.

When Basgiath found out about the revolution, about everything going on beyond the wards, the two of you didn’t hesitate to follow Xaden to Aretia — he may no longer be yours, but you still love him and would gladly fight by his side until the end of your days. 💔

#xaden riorson #dain aetos #xaden riorson x reader #dain aetos x reader #fourth wing #fourth wing x reader #reader insert #mine

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jaimeslanisters · 1 year

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the pawn in every lover's game (part ten)

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

When you’re ten, your father sends you to King's Landing to befriend a princess and woo a prince. A lioness growing up amongst dragons is a dangerous thing indeed.

crossposted on ao3 masterlist word count: 6.4k notes: late update which is 100% on me so my bad! but anyways, a lovely and beautiful anon made a playlist for this fic so give it a listen! here's a nice reprieve after the drama of the past chapters (:

Once, as children in your library, you had tried to convince Aemond to read the tale of Lady Jonquil and Florian the Fool. He had scoffed at you - it wasn’t the usual history or philosophy the two of you poured over together. It was a silly romance story, nothing to do with the important matters of state he was obsessed with understanding, but you had pressed it upon him to read.

You can still remember pushing your book of songs over his own book about the maesters of the Citadel, determined to present your case. ‘It’s not quite as serious as everything you like to read but it says something about men, I feel. Ser Florian may have been a fool but he was wise where it counted.’

‘Singers and bards are invested in us thinking that, my lady, but I don’t think it’s true,’ he had responded, rolling his eyes, but he had taken your book and read it. He had never once talked about it with you though, simply returning the book to you the next day and distracting you from asking him about it by dragging you into a debate over whether or not Lann the Clever was the bastard son of Floris the Fox or even Rowan Gold-Tree, a topic sure to rile any Westerlander, leaving you to completely forget about silly love songs as you had argued over your ancestor’s own ancestry.

‘I am as great a fool as ever lived, and as great a knight’ Ser Florian had told his lady when he had crowned her. ‘All men are fools and all men are knights where women are concerned.’

With as much love as you have for the songs, you never could quite believe that line, could never make it quite click in your head.

But now, with the screaming all around you, as Aemond stands at your side, arm in arm and having crowned you with a crown of bloodied roses, you wonder if he’s remembering the songs as well as you are, if he’s realizing that maybe the singers were right in some respect.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” You ask, pushing away your thoughts of the Lady Jonquil and her fool of a knight, in favor of looking over him anxiously. He’s bloodstained but you can’t tell how much of it is his and how much of it belongs to his opponent. His dark armor hides most of it, preventing you from picking out any clear wounds or injuries, and, out in the open like this, you can’t glide your hands over him to try and feel any out.

Aemond looks down at you, his eyes soft as he takes in your worry. “No, not hurt. Bruises here and there, some cuts and scrapes that my mother will drive herself insane worrying about, but nothing serious.”

You sigh in relief, leaning against him slightly, wishing you could wrap your arms around him and pull him close. You allow yourself a moment there, pressed against the hard armor, before you pull back, conscious of the eyes of all of King’s Landing watching the two of you. There’s a flicker of disapproval on Aemond’s face when he notices, his jaw tightening just a tick, and he shoots a baleful glare at the crowd.

It reminds you all too much of the way little Loren’s face would scrunch if anyone tried to pull his blanket away from him, right before he let out loud screams and wails that sent the entire household running to his side, and the odd comparison makes you laugh out loud.

Aemond’s brow furrows but his gaze softens once more as he watches your obvious glee.

“My father will be chomping at the bit to arrange a meeting with your mother,” you say after a while, smiling fondly as you look back toward the crowd. The royal box is emptying out and you know you only have moments before both of your families descend upon the two of you. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to secure an… understanding for right now. At least, until Cerelle’s marriage is public knowledge and Tyshara and Lord Tarly announce their own betrothal.”

Aemond huffs, showing a flash of impatience that makes you beam. “Hasn’t there always been an understanding? It’s been his and your goal ever since you came to the capitol.” You blink, confused for a moment, before shame and horror blossom on your face as you realize he knows. His eye watches you, openly amused, and he leans down, mouth by your ear, voice so low you can barely hear him over the still-roaring crowd. “You’re clever, my love, but it’s only in recent years that you’ve become skilled at deception and manipulation. I’m afraid that I was onto you right from the start.”

Heat explodes in your cheeks and you pull away, gaping up at him openly. He smirks at you, infuriatingly smug, and, suddenly uncaring of the eyes around you, you open your mouth. To say what - you’re not entirely sure. A denial? An explanation? An apology? No matter what you plan to say, you still want to say something but you’re cut off when Aegon all but slams into his brother, knocking him from your grasp, and sending the two of them skidding slightly in the dirt.

“I’m a rich, rich, rich man,” Aegon crows, arm flung around his younger brother as he gives him a firm shake, looking elated. Right behind him, Daeron is excitingly bouncing on his heels, looking like a little boy in all of his joy.

“Haven’t you always been a rich man?” Aemond snipes back, no real bite behind his words, and Aegon merely grins wider, looking impossibly pleased as if it was he himself who had fought and defeated all the opponents his brother had faced.

“Yes but now I’m a richer man,” he corrects, even as the rest of his family arrives to crowd around you all, forming a wall between you and the rest of the world. “That was family wealth, brother. This is personal wealth now - mine entirely.”

You watch them, torn between laughing at their interaction or panicking at the fact that Aemond knows, before Helaena tugs on your hand to call your attention. When you turn to her, you jerk back slightly as she reaches up to your face with a handkerchief, wiping at your chin gently. When she pulls it away, you blink at the blood staining the white fabric.

Aemond’s hand. When he grabbed me earlier.

It should horrify you but instead, something in you roars with satisfaction. In front of all of King’s Landing, he had claimed you and he had crowned you and he had marked you. It calms you but only barely.

He wouldn’t do this if he didn’t care for me too. If he didn’t think I was honest you try to reassure yourself but it’s still difficult to convince yourself of it. A part of you wants to be indignant at the idea he could judge you for seeking him out in marriage - the two of you had always agreed about the importance of marrying for your house rather than personal pleasure. You had just been lucky that for you, those two desires managed to be one and the same.

A larger part, however, is just scared. You can still remember, plain as day, the little boy who had seemed baffled that you wanted to spend time with him, that you even cared to speak to him. Aemond is grown now, more confident and sure of himself than he had ever been as a child, but you don’t want to hurt him. You never have.

You need him to know that. To know that you’ve always been honest in wanting him and only him.

Helaena knocks you with her shoulder and you startle, looking at her with wide eyes. She smiles, soft and gentle as always. “Don’t get lost in there,” she says, reaching up to tap at the side of your head.

You manage a smile. “I won’t, princess,” you promise, fingers itching for something to grab and squeeze in your nerves.

She eyes you and you know that she can see right through you.

You wonder who else can.

There’s a slight commotion and you look up in time to see the Queen descend upon Aemond. Unlike you, she’s well within her rights to brush her hands over him, searching for any wounds that he might be hiding. She looks equal parts relieved, exasperated, and proud as she crowds her middle son and, though you’re too far to perfectly hear her quiet voice over the still rowdy crowd, you can only imagine that she’s scolding and congratulating Aemond.

You only get a moment to watch their interaction when someone drags you into their chest in a facsimile of a hug and you let out a loud yelp. Aemond immediately turns at the sound, hand flying to his sword, only to have to force himself to relax when he catches sight of who it is.

“Your prince did well, sweetling,” Jason murmurs in your ear, giving you a tight squeeze, and you swat him away, fighting down a pleased smile. When you turn to face your father, he reaches up to touch the crowd on your head and, when he pulls his hand away, his fingers are tinged with red. “A Queen of Love and Beauty crowned twice in one tourney by two different men. You’re in rare company now, sweet girl. Not even Lady Jonquil can claim that honor.”

You laugh, feeling your cheeks go hot. Behind him, Tyland walks up, having been speaking with Lord Ormund. Even he looks victorious. “Are you talking about how our little lady and the Dragon Prince have ensured that the singers will be well-fed for the next few months?”

“Hardly,” you retort, knowing as you say it that it’s a lie. Victor and Aemond both crowning you, a Queen of Love and Beauty twice over, the Dragon killing the Fox. Individually, they were all things that would invite the singers to write their songs. Combined? You’d be lucky if it ever stopped. The bards must have been frothing at the mouth during the tourney and now that they’ve been given their perfect story, there is little doubt in your mind that they will take every advantage.

You wonder if centuries in the future if the songs would still mention you and Aemond like they mention Jonquil and Florian. You wonder what they would say.

I hope they’re beautiful songs, you think, feeling a girlish sense of joy spread throughout you, something you haven’t felt in quite some time.

“Now,” Jason says, grinning as he squeezes you again. “I have to speak to the Queen. See about arranging a meeting.”

“Not tomorrow,” you warn. “Helaena is to spend the day preparing for the wedding and I’m to assist her with it. It’ll have to be after the wedding.”

Your father laughs. “I doubt we’ll have a problem if we postpone a little, sweetling. Like Lord Tarly, Prince Aemond strikes me as an exceedingly patient man.”

You bite your lip as you think about the look in Aemond’s eye at the moment after he had crowned you - when he looked as if he wanted to devour you.

No, father, you think as you watch Jason walk to the Targaryen princes and their mother, his gait slow and confident like a predator that has finally cornered his prey. I don’t think Aemond is very patient at all.

“What did the court say?” You finally ask, tearing your eyes away from them to meet your uncle’s watchful gaze. “Positive? Negative? Will I be tarred and feathered during the feast tonight?”

He sighs, rubbing at his beard. “Excited, to say the least. There’s little the court loves more than scandals such as this one. This will sustain them for some time and I wouldn’t be surprised if some especially nosy ladies reach out to organize teas or take you out riding and hawking just to try and pry some gossip from you. I’d keep an eye out for it.”

You smile, shaking your head. You open your mouth to ask for more detail when there’s a screeching wail, loud enough to reach your ears but not quite loud enough to call the attention of the rest of the grounds. You look over and freeze, feeling as if someone has poured ice water over you, dowsing and chilling you completely.

Two servants stand awkwardly to the side as a woman sobs over Victor Florent’s body, her dress soaking in blood, staining its delicate blue beyond saving. A man is holding her, pulling her back, his own cheeks streaked with tears as he stares with despair down at the broken body of what once was a knight.

And Erren Florent stands, almost perfectly still, eyes boring into Aemond and his family.

His brother and good sister you realize as you watch their grief, your stomach twisting into knots. For all his faults, they must have loved him something fierce.

You want to look away, want to look and see anything else, but your body won’t let you. Is it penance? Is it a poor attempt at an apology?

You crush the thought as easily as it arises. Not an apology. Never an apology. This was a tourney. This was the melee. Men died as easily as flies and Aemond had been well within his rights to kill Victor. If it hadn’t been Victor, it would have been Aemond and his life is worth all of the lives of the entire Florent line. You’d rather have to personally rip their House out from their seat of power, root and stem and seed, than have to face what could have been today.

No. Not an apology.

Guilt.

If Victor Florent was the only victim, you would sleep easy. You would sleep happily. But he had a family. You didn’t care about Erren Florent - the man deserves to be knocked down like this, deserves to see his ambitions lying pitifully in the dirt - but his brother and good sister were innocent. Their only crime was loving their family.

You don’t even want to imagine the state you would be in if you lost one of your siblings. If Helaena or even Daeron or Aegon had paid the ultimate price.

If Aemond.

As much as you don’t want to think about it, the thought rises in your mind and you know what you would feel, what you would want, if you were in the position of Victor Florent’s loved ones.

Because of that, you turn back to your uncle, finally pulling yourself free from the Florents’ show of grief. “Send them our condolences,” you say, voice quiet but firm. Hardened. There can be no room for doubt. “But see if we can pay a servant in their party to loosen their tongue. If they decide they want more than our well wishes… We will move from there.”

Tyland watches you, careful and analytical. He’s looking into you, peering around as if he’s looking for something. You meet his gaze with determination, lifting your head up, and eventually, your uncle smiles. It’s a gentle smile even as his eyes flash with satisfaction and pride. “Of course, little one,” he replies, holding his arm out for you to take. You take it and he does you the favor of ignoring the slight tremor in your body. “Your will is my command.”

I am a Lion of the Rock and foxes cannot frighten me.

——————————–

Unlike the dinner before, you dress in your house colors tonight, shining in a gown of deep maroon with veins of an even darker red embroidered on the thick fabric. A corset forged out of gold, more decorative than serving any true purpose, cinches at your waist, a lion’s head embossed onto the delicate metal.

No one is looking at your dress, however. They hadn’t looked at your dress when you had entered or when you had bowed before the royal family. Even when you sit down to eat, your family all around you, your cousins and distant uncles don’t look at your dress or even your face.

Instead, they all stare up at your crown. You’d been near obsessively careful with it on the journey back from the grounds and, when your handmaids had been helping you dress and fix your hair, you had insisted on being the one to handle it. When one of them had suggested cleaning it, to ‘make the gold shine, m’lady’, you had had to bite your tongue to hold back from lashing out in anger.

Gold isn’t the only color of my House, you had said, firmly and without room for doubt or misinterpretation. I mean to do them both honor.

The crown of golden, bloodied flowers sits on your head, pristine and perfect. It’s a clear message. It’s a loud message.

When you had greeted the royal family and Aemond had seen that you were still wearing it, he had very nearly smiled, his face brightening up - not to the point that anyone else would recognize but so glaringly obvious to you. The Queen and the Lord Hand had personally congratulated you and Aegon and Daeron had even toasted you. Their acceptance of you as a Queen of Love and Beauty along with your clear preference for one crown over another has essentially tied you to Aemond publicly even if no betrothal has been announced.

An understanding, indeed You think to yourself.

It was truly no wonder that the eyes of the court stayed focused on your crown rather than you yourself.

There was one member of the court, however, who was not staring up at the red and gold flowers. Instead, Erren Florent was staring right at you.

There’s no expression on his face. Not grief, not rage, not even annoyance. His face is blank, an expressionless mask, and it was all focused on you. He sits alone. His son and good daughter must have sat out to mourn in peace but he had come.

He had come to watch you.

His gaze is heavy, oppressive, but you refuse to let him see you flinch. Instead, you straighten up in your seat, throwing your hair back, and meet his eyes coolly. His gaze sharpens, cold and cruel, and you know that if he could, he would leap across the throne room and slit your throat himself.

But he can’t. Not here, in a room where the most powerful people were allied to you. It must rankle his nerves, agitate his very soul.

How hateful, you think, to have to watch your son die while the world cheers around you.

You’d feel pity if you didn’t already dislike the man. You’d feel guilty about his pain if you weren’t cautious about the look in his eyes; the wild, crazed, desperate look.

You and Aemond have made your beds and burned down any chance for anything resembling friendliness with the Florents. Now you would have to lie in it, in the ashes of what the two of you had done.

Erren finally looks away, turning his gaze to some poor well-wisher that’s approached him to offer his condolences, and you join your cousins’ conversation. Still, you remain sitting straight, your posture so perfect that you’re sure that your old septa is somewhere beaming with pride, lest he turn his stare back on you.

Your cousins are predictably talking about the tourney - they’re gossiping about the melee and all of the handsome knights that, while unable to win the event, had proved themselves to be skilled and capable. A few of the more confident ones scheme about how to bump into the knights to see if they could manage to coax a dance or even a tea out of them. All of them keep cooing over your crown, most of them tactfully ignoring the blood staining the golden roses.

Surprisingly enough, however, Jocasta is the only one to bring it up. “Our House colors,” she quietly murmurs, still skittish under your gaze. “The Gods must have blessed Prince Aemond so he could be the one to give you this crown.”

She doesn’t meet your eyes but you smile warmly at her regardless. She’s a sweet girl, after all.

The actual feasting part of the feast wraps up fairly quickly and, when the dancing begins, you excuse yourself from your family and walk up to the royal table. This time, no one stops you and no one gets in your way and, soon enough, you’re sliding into the chair next to Helaena, smiling at her and Aemond both.

An awkward silence descends on the three of you - you’re not entirely sure on how to act now, not in this new reality where your and Aemond’s intentions have all been laid bare. Hours away from any Targaryen have calmed your anxieties - he’d never have crowned you if he hated you for the truth - but now you’re unsure how to approach talking to them, unsure if you should bring up the rather big elephant in the room.

“Are you ready to spend all of tomorrow in prayer?” You ask Helaena, grasping for a topic to talk about, and she sighs in response, her hands coming up to play with the ends of her hair.

“It should be a nice reprieve, to be honest,” she says after a moment. “It’ll be quiet. Relaxing.”

You nod, finding that you agree. “It will be nice to get away from the chaos of the rest of the wedding. Pity that we’ll miss the archery event though - Tygett seems pretty confident that he’ll win in that event.”

“Is he a skilled archer or are Lannisters naturally inclined to succeed when there’s gold on the line?” Aemond asks drolly and you shoot him a glare, ignoring how your cheeks warm when he chuckles at your dark look.

“I don’t say why we would be,” you say in your most haughty voice, tapping your fingers against the table. “We’re already richer than every other House in Westeros.”

“There is no limit to Lannister pride or ambition,” he quips back and you preen. You had heard the phrase lobbed at your House in the past, usually used to insult or scorn, but coming from Aemond, it feels more like a compliment than it ever has in the past.

A companionable silence falls over the three of you and you turn your attention back to the throne room, watching as the court mingles. This late into the night, people are slowly drowning deeper and deeper in their cups and you begin to wonder how anything ever gets done. It’d be easier to list everyone who isn’t drinking and it’s nothing short of a miracle that people are able to wake up in the morning in order to even attend the wedding festivities.

You’ve never particularly liked alcohol and usually could only tolerate a goblet or two of wine before begging off and asking for water. Aegon seemed to be somewhat invested in getting you drunk at least once but, as you watch your father flirt with a coquettish Lady Tyrell as her increasingly annoyed husband stands at her side and watches, you wonder why anyone bothered.

“If the feasts are already like this, I can hardly imagine how the actual wedding is going to go,” you grumble and Helaena laughs.

“Aegon will start drinking tonight and he won’t stop until after the wedding. I’ll thank the Seven if he manages to make it down the aisle.” She says, amusement evident, and you turn to smile at her even as your stomach squeezes at her response.

She’s fine with it, you remind yourself, wishing that the reminder would bring you any comfort. He’ll keep to his practices and she’ll keep to hers. It’s duty. There’s honor in doing your duty.

Aemond sighs. “Aegon will be there, Helaena. I’ll personally ensure it.”

“No choice,” she responds, almost chirping. “No choice at all.”

You watch her, heart beating fast in your chest, before she shakes her head firmly. She blinks hard before rising to her feet.

“I’m tired,” Helaena says, not sounding very tired at all. “Shall we leave?”

“So early?” You ask, looking over her carefully as you rise to your feet, suddenly anxious that she’s grown uncomfortable and you haven’t noticed. “Should I inform the Queen?”

Helaena shakes her head again, smiling. “No. I’m sure Mother will understand - getting an early jump on prayer and contemplation and all of that. Perhaps we should head to the gardens, actually. Enjoy the night air.”

After a moment, you nod, glancing over to see if you can spot the Queen regardless. She’s with her father, speaking to Lord Borros Baratheon, her emerald dress making her stand out even deep in the crowd like she is. “Of course, Helaena. I imagine the gardens are lovely right now.”

“Either way, I’ll inform Mother. I’ll also let Lord Lannister know as well, my lady,” Aemond says, glancing at you, and you quickly thank him, giving him a small smile as he nods his head at you.

“Join us after, brother,” Helaena calls out after Aemond has already made his way down to the ground, and, though her brother made no indication that he heard her words, she beams as if he’s already agreed. She turns to you, light entering her eyes and making her seem more like the little girl the two of you used to be rather than the women the two of you were. “Shall we go?” She asks, holding out her arm for you to take, and, after a moment, you loop your arm with her, grinning.

——————————–

The gardens are, predictably, empty with not even a token servant wandering its grounds. The moment you step into the cool night air, Helaena pulls free from you and, tugging at her skirts from the side to pull up her gown, darts into the maze-like hedges, her long silver hair streaming in the air behind her.

“Helaena!” You call out, immediately chasing after her, but the princess only laughs, delighted. For a few minutes, the only sounds in the garden are her giggles, punctuated by your cursing at your own gown as it snags and snares on every stray piece of foliage you pass. Mercifully, she finally slows to a stop, near the paved terrace that overlooks the rolling waters of Blackwater Bay.

Helaena sits, perched on the wall that separates the gardens from the rocky cliffs that jut out beneath it, face turned towards the waters. Slowing to a halt, you stop next to her, trying your best to calm your breathing from the sprint she had dragged you on.

“Look,” She says after a moment, pointing out towards the rocky outcrops in the middle of the bay, far in the distance. You follow her finger, eyes straining against the dark, until it lights up like day.

There’s a brilliant burst of flame, bright and hot enough that you can feel the heat crash against your body as if it was a physical wall ramming into you. A massive body, larger than anything could have the right to be, crashes into the water, sending up a massive wave that could swallow most ships you’ve seen whole.

Vhagar is hunting.

You watch, mesmerized with wonder and fear, as she rises up into the sky, clutching a whale in her claws. It’s a colossal thing, big enough to seemingly drag Vhagar down back to its home in the deep, but the Queen of All Dragons is stronger than that. The leviathan is writhing in her grasp, fighting with all its might to escape, but Vhagar’s claws are longer and sharper than any spear any man could ever hope to hold. She curls her talons in and you can hear the whale’s wail even from miles away, can see the rivers of blood that fall through the air like rain.

Vhagar flies up, up, and up into the sky where even her tremendous size can appear small, disappearing into cloud cover. Even in the dark, however, the moonlight casts her shadow and she looks monstrous, even hidden from view how she is. You watch until you can’t anymore until she finally disappears into the inky darkness of the night.

“Where does she feed?” You ask Helaena, hands coming down to the wall so you can lean, pressing deeper in the cool air as if you’ll be able to see her if you stretch.

“At an island deeper in,” Aemond’s voice answers and you nearly topple over in your shock, spinning around to see him smirking at your surprise. Next to him, Daeron is pinned under Aegon’s arm, both seemingly trapped by his older brother and also being the only thing keeping him from falling to the ground. Aegon, for his part, looks mighty pleased, a wine bottle clutched in his hand.

Aemond walks closer, standing by your side and looking out towards the Blackwater. His eyes are focused, narrowed, and you get the idea he knows exactly where he’s looking at. “It’s a small island, past the spears of the merling king. From what I can tell, it used to be covered with trees but she’s razed most of it down to make her roost.”

“She’s far too big for the Dragonpit I suppose,” you reply, curling your fingers against the stone.

“She was too big a hundred years ago,” he hums. “Vhagar could fit - if she had any desire to. Once Balerion the Black Dread passed, she never returned to it. The island is her home now.”

You smile sadly at the thought of Vhagar leaving the Dragonpit forever once her brother had passed. Perhaps it hadn’t been her size that had driven her out but rather her grief. It seemed strange that such a creature, as ancient and destructive as she was, could feel such emotion, such heartbreak, but somehow that little detail has warmed you up to her more than anything else ever had in the years since Aemond has claimed her.

After a moment, you glance up at her rider. “How do you summon her?” You ask, feeling slightly embarrassed that the simple question had never once occurred to you in the near decade since Driftmark. Vhagar had always been an abstract figure in your mind - the prize that Aemond had bought with his eye. You had never stopped to think about the simpler details of her bond with the prince.

Aemond, noticing your sudden curiosity, gives you a half smile. “She always knows. My lady Vhagar will come flying if she senses I have a need for her. She’s always in my mind like I’m always in hers.”

You frown, looking back over the bay. Vhagar is no doubt far from here now but you can still see her in your mind: a massive beast that took up the entire sky. You wonder if, even as deep in her meal as she surely must be, she can still feel Aemond’s presence in her mind. “How does that work? What if you’re chilly one night and offhandedly think that you’d fancy a fire to keep you warm? Would Vhagar come bearing down on us and crush the Red Keep beneath her?” You question jokingly, laughing slightly.

“A dragon is not something you can call accidentally. You can try to summon one but it’s not some dog that’ll come running at your beck and call. Dragons will only serve those they want to serve,” his words are heavy with intent and, sharply inhaling, you meet his ever-watchful eye.

I’m afraid that I was onto you right from the start.

“Was I really that obvious?” You breathe out, heart pounding in your chest. Your voice is low, quiet enough so that the other Targaryen siblings, lost in their own conversation, cannot hear you, but he can hear you perfectly. The look gleaming in his eye tells you all you need to know. “How long have you known?”

He smirks in response, looking rather like the cat that finally caught his prey. “Since you arrived. Lannisters notoriously stick together and daughters of the Rock are usually treasured rather than shipped off. If your uncle wanted company from his family, he would have sent for some distant cousin or another and not his ten-year-old niece. You only would have come to marry and, with your family pushing for you to be Helaena’s companion, there were really only two real targets.”

You sigh, feeling your cheeks flush in shame and embarrassment. “Are you angry?” Do I need to apologize? Do you want me to spill out my heart here?

“After I got over the fact that a pretty girl actually wanted to spend time with me, I wanted to ignore you, but Mother made me promise that I’d give you a chance,” he says easily and you openly wince, feeling a pang of regret shoot through you. “You were difficult to avoid, however, always showing up at the library when I was studying, always willing to talk to me about whatever book you were reading. It wasn’t hard for you to worm your way into being my friend.”

You ruefully smile, shaking your head. “It wasn’t as if it was a chore, my prince,” you respond, the truth coming to you easily. “If I didn’t like you for you rather than the prince my father wanted me to claim, I wouldn’t have read nearly as many books as I did. I certainly wouldn’t have given you the sapphire necklace. That… It was the first gift my father ever gave me himself. During all my earlier name day celebrations, his gift would be mixed in with the ones from everyone else and sometimes he’d look as surprised as I was at whatever it was he had given me. I’m sure his old steward was the one always picking it out for him. But that necklace… It’s tradition, you see, in House Lannister, to give a maiden jewelry when she begins her search for a husband.”

“And you gave it to me,” Aemond says, no question in his voice - only the absolute truth of it.

“And I gave it to you,” you echo. “At the time, it was the only thing of value I could think to give you. That and my word. A promise from a Lannister is as good as any jewel.”

Aemond laughs at that. “Your word is as good as any jewel, my lady. Better even.”

You grin, relief washing over you when you realize he isn’t upset. “Perhaps. Maybe Lannister words aren’t worth as much as I say but all of us take our debts very seriously and your debt is mine.”

“And yours is mine,” he replies, as steady as the Red Keep itself.

I am yours and you are mine.

Before you can say anything, however, the too-familiar call of your nickname calls your attention and you look over to see Aegon waving his bottle of wine in the air, narrowly missing smacking poor Daeron in the skull with it.

“Brother! My shining Lady of Lannister! Come join us for a drink!” He shouts as if you’re across the Blackwater Bay itself rather than standing only a few scant feet away.

You can practically hear Aemond’s frown in his voice. “‘Join us’? You’re the only one drinking.”

Aegon laughs gleefully. “Come now, Aemond, we should be celebrating your victory! You may not be able to claim the true prize yet without bringing an entire kingdom down on our heads for defiling a lady of the Rock but you can drink!”

“He just wants to congratulate you,” Daeron rushes to say, no doubt recognizing the stormy look on Aemond’s face after Aegon’s less-than-subtle insinuation. “You’ve won a great victory and brought yourself much honor.”

“The hand will hold the iron,” Helaena sings even as she kneels down on the ground to play with a passing millipede.

“If you do not want a drink, though, it'd make you much more enjoyable to be with,” Aegon continues, shaking his head as he moves closer to you and Aemond. “Then your Queen of Love and Beauty will drink for you.”

You huff, sidestepping the bottle stretched out in an offer and gamely holding yourself back from smacking him away when his free hand reaches for your crown. “I thank you, Prince Aegon, but I’d rather not enter a full day of prayer and contemplation tomorrow sick from drink. I’m supposed to be praying for a blessed marriage with your sister after all.”

Aegon scowls at the reminder and you instantly wish you had chosen a different word to call Helaena. She’s his sister and his betrothed. Both are true no matter how much we all wish they weren’t. “If you’re praying for children for us, there’s nothing prayer could accomplish than a cask of the finest Arbor Gold could not.”

“Enough of that,” Aemond snaps, no doubt displeased with his brother’s blasphemy. “No one else will be drinking.”

“Daeron had a drink,” Aegon replies mutinously and Daeron’s eyes go comically wide. You laugh at his almost bug-eyed stare as you sink to the ground next to Helaena, sensing that Aegon will not allow anyone to leave before his fun is finished. Helaena beams at you as she grabs the millipede, bringing it up uncomfortably close to your face to show you.

“I had one,” Daeron hotly protests, no doubt missing how his older brothers, despite their discord, exchange amused glances at his overly forceful defense. “And you made me do it.”

Aegon grins. “I don’t know, little brother… You did trip on a rock on our way here.”

“Because you tripped,” Daeron shoots back.

“Mother would be disappointed to see how her baby dragon’s turned out,” Aemond says, voice as serious as if he’s discussing policy with the Lord Hand. “She had such high hopes for you.”

“But I-”

“I saw him wobble a little just now,” Helaena volunteers from the ground, not even looking up from the millipede crawling all over her hands.

Daeron whines, sounding like a little boy rather than the near-grown man that he was. “I didn’t!”

You grin up at him, shaking your head. “It’s alright, my prince. As long as you can hold your drink better than Prince Aegon, the Queen would find no fault within you.”

“There’s not much hope of that if he’s like this after one,” Aemond replies, quick as a whip, and even he cracks a smile as Daeron loudly protests his innocence.

The five of you stay in the gardens long after Aegon finishes his wine, basking in the glow of the moonlight.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond x you #apologies for the longer read more i didn't know where to chop it!#but anyways i love the targtowers sm <3

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dujour13 · 3 months

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OC Kiss Week - day 5

A bittersweet epilogue, with Siavash as companion to my friend @spyridonya's Knight-Commander Kadira 💜

(PWOTR spoilers under the cut)

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

Siavash nods. Of course Kadira has him figured out. She spreads her wings for balance as she places her hooves cautiously on the sloping tiles and settles on the edge next to him, perched above the riot of celebration in the streets of Drezen, looking out over the rooftops and the hazy moonlit landscape beyond. “You won’t even stay for the Queen’s victory ball?”

“Not that I have anything against balls.” He says it deadpan but the light in his eye makes her laugh. “But I’ve lingered in Sarkoris long enough already.”

Sarkoris. The Worldwound’s been closed for three days and he’s already calling it that: the scarred wasteland that was once a verdant home for her people, and will be again when her work is done. Kadira appreciates that he shares her vision, but then since the day they first met he always seemed to believe in her, for no good reason she could see except his Desnan trust in the luck of the stars. There were times during the Crusade it seemed folly, and others when it gave her the one more reason to hold on she needed. She folds her hands in her lap and squeezes them tight to wring out the sadness. “You’ll be back to visit.”

“Sure. I have to come see what you do with the place.”

“I’ll miss you.”

He wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. “It’ll be fine. You have people now.”

She does. Daeran and Lann of course, and all the others with whom her friendship was forged in the fires of the Abyss, but she still presses her tearful eyes into his shoulder at the realization that he’s always understood what ached most deeply in her heart.

Her life was stolen from her; her family driven from a land laid to waste to scrape out a living as refugees, and then she was separated from them too and locked away while they aged and died and moved on. Isolated except for demons and the cold, analytical gaze of the witch who had taken everything from her and gave her a gift she didn’t want in exchange. Her wings whisper restlessly. “And you? You always seem to have people, but do you really?”

He takes a sharp breath. She understands a number of things herself.

“Don’t worry about me. Hey, listen to this.”

He releases her and pulls his guitar into his lap and begins to play a simple melody. It’s very pretty, but she's fairly sure he’s deflecting. It is some time before the realization dawns that she knows this song.

No wonder she didn’t recognize it at first. He sings in Hallit but his Andoren accent is making a nasal wreck of the pronunciation, and she hasn’t heard this song since…

…her soft, dimpled child’s hand pressing a cookie cutter into buttery dough to make little stars, dusted with sugar like frost, that she and her cousins would arrange into Pulura’s constellations on the tray they set out for travelers.

A childhood so distant it doesn’t feel like it belongs to her anymore. They sang this rhyme as they worked, but only now does Kadira realize the song had always been about Areelu Vorlesh—the witch who drove a knife into the heart of Sarkoris, just as she did to Kadira. But now both are healing, though not without a reminder. The Sarkoris Scar.

She sings along and he tries to imitate her Hallit and they laugh, until they hear scuffling and glance over their shoulders to see Lann hop up onto the roof. He stoops to help haul up a vigorously swearing Daeran, who cradles a wine bottle in his free arm.

“We’re crashing your going away party,” Lann announces, helping stabilize Daeran so his fancy shoes don’t slip down the tiles and land him in the street below.

“How did you know?” Kadira only spotted Siavash because she was up on the Citadel tower.

A shadow peeks out from behind Lann. It’s Woljif, a pack slung over his shoulder. “Hey chief.”

“You’re going too?”

“Got some investin’ to do down south in Andoran.”

When he plops down next to her it’s her turn to press a kiss onto the other tiefling’s forehead. Kadira hugs him, hugs Siavash, and the wine bottle is passed around as she teaches them the words to a new refrain.

#ockiss24 #friends' ocs #kadira #siavash #pwotr pals #my writing

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maggiec70 · 5 months

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what did Louise Lannes do then for you to have such a low opinion of her?

Why I Dislike/Disapprove of/Loathe/Condemn The Lovely Louise

!800 – 1809: Greed, Pettiness, and Bargain-Basement Bourgeois Mentality

She had the intellectual curiosity of a housefly and the education of the lowest of the bourgeoisie. Not surprising since her mother home-schooled her in the basics, and she had one year only with Madame Campan.

She was greedy and overly fond of collecting trinkets, ornaments, and similar items of no particular quality or style. She demanded, with some degree of shrill relentlessness, plenty of money to pay for all her crap.

She was often unrelenting in her demands for all sorts of things: that her brother be promoted to Lannes’ premier aide-de-camp; that her brother-in-law be promoted to head of V Corps’ engineers; that her father be given a higher-paying, more prestigious position in the imperial bureaucracy. She managed to give blatant nepotism a bad name.

She refused to be social. Ever. She hated the Imperial Court functions and refused to go, using the kinds as an excuse. She didn’t want Lannes to go either, and when he went because Napoleon expected him to, she engaged in monumental pouts. The myths that she was always so lovely, graceful, and sweet on these occasions were just that—myths.

She had two close—unhealthily close—friends, the slimy Dr. Corvisart, whom her equally slimy father introduced to Napoleon, and a second-rate perennially off-duty chevalier. No women friends of any rank. Just as well, because according to almost all the extant memoirs, no woman of any rank liked her, apparently able to see through the “I’m so sweet and demur” act.

She never went to Lectoure, Lannes’ hometown, and threw a real bitch fit when he wanted to go or went without her “approval” simply because he wanted to see his father and his siblings, and a lot of friends.

She insisted if they visited anyone, carting the kids with them, it was only and always to see her family. Full stop.

1809-1822: Treachery, Treason, Malfeasance, and Suspicious Death

She had to deal with claims from Lannes’ first wife, the much-maligned Polette Meric, on behalf of her son, Jean-Claude, until Naps ended that by a sharp letter to Cambaceres.

She actually went to the Tuileries to demand that Naps grant—posthumously, of course—the title “Prince of Seviers” so she could be a for-real princess just like Mesdames Massena, Berthier, and so forth and so on. She threw a significant shit-storm when Naps refused, and he reminded her that Lannes never applied for the letters patent because he didn’t care about the title, so she shouldn’t either.

No one—literally, no one other than Naps—thought she was a suitable choice for Marie-Louise. The historical record is replete with examples from the folks surrounding Marie-Louise, who was no winner herself.

She and her partner in crime, Dr. Corvisart, worked to insinuate themselves into M-L’s life so that when 1814 arrived, they could work to keep her away from Naps.

She made sure, as her letters show, that M-L and Naps II went back to Vienna, accompanied by her soon-to-be lover, Count Neipperg.

She offered her mansion that Lannes had bought and paid for to Wellesley for his headquarters. He refused, graciously, it is said.

Her parents immediately pledged their loyalty to Louis XVIII.

She lawyered up for the next legal battle with Polette, now that Naps was out of the picture.

She went into higher gear after Waterloo, now with nothing to stop her other than Jean-Claude’s attorney, who began to show that her marriage and Lannes’ divorce from Polette were riddled with illegal points.

Jean-Claude died in mysterious circumstances in November 1817. He had never been ill, and died three days after contracting an unknown illness. This has always been suspicious for obvious reasons.

She packed up the kids and went to Lectoure in 1818—she stayed in Auch, however, about 20 miles south—and, in a large PR event, donated Lannes’ house to the town. She never returned nor allowed any of the kids to return.

To be fair, which I always try to do regarding interpreting historical facts and figures, read Regis Bob-Crepy’s bio of Louise. His family married into hers back in the day before she married Lannes, and he is remarkably talented in glorifying his view of Louise. Besides the sheer comedic value for me, the best thing about his book is the letters he uses, which were/are maintained in the family’s hands and never before shared. Of course, we cannot know if others shed a different light on the subject. Given the family’s cavalier and almost criminal way they have treated anything to do with Lannes, his possessions, or his legacy, opting instead for celebrating their ties with the de Broglies and the Berthiers, I can almost guarantee that any shred of anything detrimental about Louise disappeared ages ago.

I have often sneered at the men who wrote biographies and articles about Lannes buying the Louise myth in its totality. But then, the poor dears simply can’t see things that are very clear to us.

Hope this answers your question.

#bad louise lannes #jean lannes

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rapports-de-combat · 14 days

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𝑼𝒏 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒖𝒓 𝒅𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒈𝒆.

-·-·-·-·-·-·-·-·-·-·-

Long before any contact was made with other afterlives or the living world...

"I'll go," he said. Both Soult and Lannes protested. "He is my problem," Soult said, firmly. Lannes' next words were of utter disbelief. "Your problem? He's all of our fucking problems! Just because you look-" He interrupted. "It makes sense for me to go. Soult is too fragile. Lannes is damaged- cracked. I'm only stopped and burnt. I'm more durable than you two and I can move faster." And I'm a hunter, he thinks. And I don't want to be here in my memories anymore, he thinks.

-·-·-·-·-·-·-·-·-·-·-

Now...

The chasseur weaves through the shifting blurring landscapes of the patchwork afterlives. His white horse gallops forth without complaint- a strange thing for an animal that would be worn out by such ceaseless riding, but the horse is not a thing of life and neither is the chasseur. His quarry will not be so easily caught. His quarry knows all of their tactics and secrets. A few times he made contact, and a few times he barely escaped with his existence. But he knows what he has to do. The landscape here is comfortable. Green, cozy even. Something nostalgic for a man trying to forsake nostalgia for duty. And then he sees- himself. Kneeling on the dirt. The chasseur is dressed in a dark travelling cloak, tied together with a curious golden chain from a certain pocketwatch, but his own powdered hair is unmistakable even under the recognisable hat he wears. To see yourself in the dream of the afterlife is not such an unexpected thing. The raptor had warned them of such things. But this could also be a trick of the enemy, and the enemy is very devious indeed. The enemy is a strategist, after all. Despite himself, the chasseur does approach. Closer than he should, a longing for familiarity or a detached curiosity beckoning him forth. From his steed, without saying anything, he watches himself plant saplings in the ground.

-·-·-·-·-·-·-·-·-·-·-

((@your-dandy-king))

#rapport d’action du duc d'Istrie #thread: a passing hunter

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armagnac-army · 3 months

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(@askgeneralduroc) Out of nowhere, among your merino sheep, an extra sheep would appear. This one would stare at you, while at the same time it would seem something... familiar.

-Baaaa!

Lannes stares at the sheep. He was not expecting this next submission to straight up just be a sheep.

In a much softer voice than he is usually known for, he says, "Where did you come from, you fucking adorable ball of fluff?"

(And in the meantime, Soult who is still here for some reason looks over, sees the sheep, and resolves to have absolutely nothing to do with whatever nonsense is going on now.)

#dispatches from the marshal #letters intercepted for the marshal's eyes #askgeraudduroc

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joachimnapoleon · 6 months

Note

Sending silly asks about marshals because I’m in the mood: do you think Murat would enjoy driving really, really fast cars. Also do you think he would read fanfic about himself

Oh absolutely no doubt about it whatsoever, Murat the certified adrenaline junkie would revel in driving fast cars, he would collect the most colorful, elaborate sports cars, and at some point he’d probably end up involved in a high-speed police chase and an irate Caroline would refuse to bail him out of jail again because this third time was the last straw, and Lannes would appear at the jail the next morning because Murat has already done the same for him (twice) and now an already burnt-out Ney has to drive them both to work every day because their wives and Napoleon insist on it and it’s Christmas season and if Ney has to hear them sing Last Christmas one more time…

…

Anyway. I could also see him reading fan fic about himself, if anything just out of curiosity. Whether he might appreciate our interpretations of him is another story. 😅

#asks #Joachim Murat

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yaggy031910 · 7 months

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A fun little ask: the Marshalate is informed there is cake in the break room. How do each of them react?

Who ever you are, thank you for this sweet little question and I apologise for my late response. 🙈💕

I have ideas for some of them, however I am **not** aware of the maréchals eating habits so any input is welcome here. Also, I don't know all of the marshals well enough but I will try to include as many as possible. Don’t expect any historical accuracy in this.

See this post as a very big headcanon and as one ongoing story where I am going to try to mimic the marshals characters and miserably fail.

Shall we begin? :D

Les Maréchals and cake

Berthier would hear about it and quietly get excited by the idea of having a nice little piece of cake, just for him to be too busy with everything so that he isn't able to leave his desk. Either this or someone (probably one of his adcs) would be nice enough to get for Berthier his piece of cake.

Murat: You bet he is one of the first ones to look at this cake. His reaction might depend on how the cake looks. If it's a huge cake with a lot of golden details, Murat will carry it around so everyone admires this phenomenal cake because it deserves to be looked at.

Augerau and Masséna wonder why there is such a fancy a cake in the break room in the first place and who might have put it there. Augerau asks Masséna with a low voice: “How much money do you want to bet on the cake being poisoned?” Before Masséna is able to answer, Lannes enters the scene.

Lannes runs after Murat with the cake knife demanding to finally get his damn piece of this cake while Murat can't make himself to cut it because this cake is “so damn beautiful that it would be a waste to eat it.” This little game goes on for a minute or two until the other marshals grow impatient, one of them being Ney.

Ney who is known for his hotheadedness tries to save this cake from a disaster aaaaand fails. :) The three of them dispute over who is the actual culprit of this mess.

L: Murat, what have you done? M: I have done nothing. You followed me with a knife. N: You let the cake fall. M: You intervened in my business with Lannes.

The cake has fallen to the ground as Davout, Suchet and Macdonald watched. “Aaand here goes the cake”, Macdonald says; “At least the floor was able to taste it.” Suchet asks: “What do you think was its flavour?” ”Chocolate vanilla.” Davout answers. After a moment of silence, he adds. “Soult has a good recipe.” Mortier walks in, seeing how Lannes, Murat and Ney are loudly disputing while Masséna and Augerau get themselves black coffee and Davout, Suchet and Macdonald talking. Lefebvre who was walking right behind Mortier gestures him to move away from the door so he can get into the break room: “What is going on?”

Suchet: “We found a cake-“ Davout interrupts him: “We found a chocolate vanilla cake which we don’t know how it got here or if it was poisoned and now it’s inedible because his royal highness, the King of Naples, made it fall.”

Murat shouts from the back: “I didn’t let it fall.” Lannes: “Oh, you did.”

Lefebvre offers a solution like the good fatherly figure he is: “Do you still want cake? We could bake a new cake, messieurs.” Davout replies: “This sounds like a smart idea, Monsieur. Maréchal Soult knows an excellent recipe.”

Lefebvre: “Ahh, excellent. Where is our maréchal?”

Mortier: “He is in his office.”

“Then this where our journey goes next.” Lefebvre slams the door open and accidentally hits Oudinot. “Ah, Monsieur, my apologies. If I had known you were there, I wouldn’t have slammed the door as hard as I did. Are you alright? Yes? Until the next time then.”

Davout walks up to his friend to make sure how Oudinot is doing and explains to him in the meanwhile what is going on and also promises Oudinot to bring him a piece of the cake they are going to bake.

Lefebvre takes the lead and walks straight to Soult’s office while Davout and Mortier follow him. Suchet decides to stay behind while Macdonald thinks about it. Lefebvre knocks on Soult’s office door: “Monsieur, le maréchal? Are you here?” *Lefebvre knocks again with his energetic manner.* “Monsieur, le maréchal, it’s me, Lefebvre. Open the door!*

Soult opens the door with his usual unimpressed demeaner: Hm? Lefebvre: “Excusez-moi, mon maréchal, I heard you have a recipe for a delicious cake?” Soult: Cake? What cake? Davout: The chocolate vanilla one… the one you baked for your daughter Hortense’s birthday. The delicious one. Soult: Ah, yeah. That one. What of it? Mortier: We would like to bake this cake, which is why we want to ask if you mind us borrowing the recipe? Soult stares at his co-maréchals for a second, he shuts the door, opens it again with a piece of paper in his hand which he gives to Lefebvre. “Here. Is there anything else you need?” Macdonald who decided to join the baking group walks up to them and asks Soult: “Would you mind to lend us your baking equipment?” - “No. Have a nice day.” Soult shuts his door while Lefebvre shouts: “Thank you for your help, Monsieur Soult.” Macdonald asks: “What are we going to do now?” “We are going to bake the cake now, my good friend”, Davout answers. Mac: “Where? Where do you want us to bake the cake? Do we have the right ingredients?” D: In the kitchen and I don’t see why we shouldn’t have the ingredients. Macdonald looks at Davout with suspicious eyes about the matter if they are going to manage to bake this cake… The group of maréchals appear in the imperial kitchen where they start to gather the right ingredients. While the group is busy with the preparations, les maréchals Pérignon and Sérurier appear, wondering what is going on. As Lefebvre is explaining these two their baking journey up until now, Pérignon and Sérurier decide to join them: “A cake made by maréchals for maréchals.”

What could possibly go wrong with two additional heads in the kitchen? As it turns out: Everything. Pérignon and Sérurier manage to overdo the cake by confusing salt with sugar. The cake tastes salty, the icing itself is fine because it was made by Davout who religiously followed Soult’s directions. In addition to that, monsieur Lefebvre manages to mix up usual paper with baking sheets.

Bernadotte walks into the kitchen as he sees his fellow maréchals working on their baking project. He comments on the scenery: “This is just pure chaos without any discipline, a chaos which can’t possibly create something edible.” Davout replies “Well, have you ever baked anything in your miserable existence which you so call your life?”; to which Bernadotte says: “wELL, no, BUT-“ Davout continues: “Then get out of this room and give me my peace back or shut up.” Bernadotte decides to leave.

As Bernadotte is leaving, Jourdan walks right into the scene with an apple in his hand. A fire starts to break out in the oven and Jourdan, like the team player he is, turns and leaves this mess to his co-maréchals without saying one word.

Nothing is going as Davout had it planned. He sits in a corner, mourning this beautiful chocolate vanilla cake he had in mind. Macdonald sits right next to him with a spoon, telling him: “Well, at least the frosting you made yourself is delicious.” Davout, completely shattered by the fact that he wasn’t able to make his desired chocolate vanilla cake, puts his face into his palms until a surprise visits the kitchen: It’s maréchal Soult. With a cake. A chocolate vanilla cake. A chocolate vanilla cake which is neither burnt nor oversalted. A chocolate vanilla cake according to the recipe. Next to Soult is Oudinot who cuts two pieces of the cake: one for himself and one for his good old friend, Louis Nicolas Davout.

After Soult, Ney and Lannes enter the kitchen. Ney silently takes a piece of Soult’s cake, saying nothing except a simple “thank you”. So do Macdonald and Mortier. Soult tolerates Ney’s presence. Lannes on the other hand goes straight to the oversalted and burnt cake which the older maréchals made and are also eating. Kellermann and Grouchy, as late to the party as ever, also go for Lefebvre’s bad cake while Soult’s good cake is still sitting there. Soult can’t hide his look of disgust.

At some point, Bessières and Murat join or rejoin retrospectively the scene, walking up to Soult’s cake. Bessières, as well mannered as he is, takes one piece of a cake to which Murat comments: “I know how much you like this lovely type of cake, Bessières, take a second piece.” - “No”, Soult replies: “That’s not your cake. Take your piece and leave.” Murat adds: “For whom are the other pieces then? I don’t see anybody who would possibly want to eat this gorgeous baked good. We want to eat your delicious creation of a fabulous cake.” - “One piece each. You can give him your piece if you like to.” Bessières interrupts the two: “I am content with my piece.” Murat doesn’t listen to what Bessières says and continues his conversation with Soult: “My fellow maréchal, I don’t understand, why do you struggle so much with allowing somebody to have one additional piece of cake than the other ones?”

While Murat and Soult continue their dispute which leads to nowhere, one adc enters slowly the kitchen. He looks at Soult who recognises this man as one of Berthier’s adcs. He came to get a piece of cake for his marshal. Soult lets him take one of the few pieces left. All of a sudden, Kellermann seems to be chocking on his salty cake piece. All the maréchals are gathering around him and in the chaos, the last few pieces of Soult’s cake fall to the ground. Soult looks at his cake or what’s left of it. One could argue that everyone who wanted to eat it was able to eat it. One could argue that these fallen pieces can be ignored and Soult could go on with his day never ever thinking about the pieces again. However, we are talking about maréchal Soult here who sees the art in baking. The love, the accuracy of it. Today he didn’t just bring cake to his fellow maréchals. Today he witnessed how some of them have no sense of dignity for what it means to be able to eat good food. Good cake. Soult is leaving the room, not bothered about Kellermann as he wouldn’t be able to help anyway. He is going to his wife, his Louise Berg, who asks him about his day. He tells her the whole of it. How he was surprised by his fellow maréchals who wanted to bake a cake. How he knew that they are going to mess up his recipe. How he baked that cake properly and how a part of it went to waste. “Some of them ate oversalted and burnt cake. Who eats bad cake? Who likes bad cake???”

Davout on the other hand was thankful for Soult. With a smile on his face, Davout enjoyed his so desired chocolate vanilla cake, unbothered by the event surrounding him. The end. :)

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josefavomjaaga · 8 months

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(Yes! A post about paintings that does not mention Soult … ooops.)

One impression I have got so far on reading up more on the medical service is that Dominique Larrey was an excellent self-promoter. (And no, that does not much endear him to me. But that's me.) In particular, he seems to have been very aware of the importance of (official, propagandistic) art in Napoleon’s Empire, and was keen on figuring in it. He was close friends with painter Anne-Louis Girodet, who after Larrey’s return from Egypt did a portrait of him:

After the battle of Eylau in 1807, when it became clear that the court would commission a painting of the battle, Larrey wrote to Girodet, who he believed would receive that job, in order to tell him that he wanted to be in that painting "in his function of chirurgien-inspecteur général". And just to be on the safe side, he added:

The advantage of being painted by you, my friend, will increase the satisfaction of my heart if I am fortunate enough to occupy a small corner of your canvas. If, against my expectations, you do not wish to treat this subject, please ask Monsieur Gros to grant me this satisfaction. It is a truth that he will place in his painting if he finds it worthy of being there.

Gros in the end did receive the commission – and added the guy to the painting who had actually been in charge of the surgeons during that campaign: Percy.

And then there’s the matter of Lannes’ death. Larrey on June 14 1809 writes a long letter to his wife (after, as he says, having been struck by deep melancholy ever since Lannes had died), and it ends with – yet another idea for how he could figure in a painting:

I wish someone had the idea of painting the moving scene in which the Emperor embraced his worthy friend carried on a stretcher, shortly after having undergone my operation. This is where I could appear with honour, if such a painting were ever done.

While trying to tell myself that a military surgeon who saw people dying every day must have felt very differently about the matter, I still can’t help but find this remark tasteless to the extreme. If he had said something about wanting to be remembered next to his friend or something, I would understand. But no. He wants to be in an official painting with Napoleon, and Lannes’ death is just a nice opportunity for that.

There is even a second letter regarding this matter. When Denon (on Larrey’s suggestion?) really commissioned a painting, the surgeon Ribes in Paris demanded some more details on the event. Larrey complied with this demand on 18 July 1809, adding:

At the request of M. Denon, military painter, who wants to depict the death of Lannes, Larrey sends this information to his friend, but expresses the formal wish that he not be named [as being involved in the matter]; he nevertheless takes the opportunity to ask to appear in this painting.

I do not know if there ever was an "official" painting done in the end. Part of me hopes no.

#napoleon's marshals #jean lannes #dominique larrey #battle of eylau #battle of aspern #prussia 1807 #austria 1809 #starting to wonder if anybody saw lannes as more than a stepping stone for one's one benefit

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murillo-enthusiast · 3 days

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There is a painting in the smaller room in your gallery. You don’t even remember putting it there, because why would you? It has no value to you, next to those two dozens of precious Murillo masterpieces. Those awake the feeling of reverence in the spectator, but this forgotten painting is just so very different.

It is a painting of a small chateau and a beautiful garden surrounding it. You can see the sun that is about to move towards the horizon, turning all the luminance into shades of gold. Three figures are running around - those are the three small boys playing their favourite games while the daylight still lasts.

Why is it here? For it has no value, but sentimental. Maybe it was a painting done by a wife dreaming of the life she could have if her husband returned from the war. Maybe she gifted it to Louise, who might cherish the peace hidden between the brush strokes.

But you never noticed.

Why would you?

Its only value is sentimental.

A short time after the chaos of earlier… In the shifting dreamlike realm of Soult's afterlife, taking the form of piecemeal memories of temporary headquarters and battlefields on campaign, there are a few constants. There is a fine Parisian door, often out of place, sometimes standing on its own in the middle of a tent or awkwardly appearing in a wall of a Spanish or German or Polish settlement. Step through it, and you will find yourself in a lovely Parisian room where the paintings that Soult treasures most are proudly displayed. The painting at the end of the hall is covered in a green curtain, and he does not lift it for just anyone. He- well, she, right now, though perhaps she would be far more comfortable being referred to otherwise had she known that was a choice- she comes to this place often. It is calming and invigorative in a way that soothes her soul. It is a gift. Lannes and Bessières have similar areas in their realms, though Bessières has abandoned his realm. Soult is in there now, a short time after the events of earlier. She leans against the wall, and even in this altered form, she retains her essential nature. From her perch, she gazes upon her treasures in contemplation… … That is not one of hers. And it is inconceivable that she would not have noticed such a thing in her collection, for her collection is hers. She abandons her place among her treasures and walks towards the interloper, hair on end. "Who are you?" she hisses. "Do not tell me that this is a trick of the enemy!" She shudders. The enemy has not come here, but why, knowing him, he would most certainly love to. But no, this is not the enemy's doing. This… is quieter and humbler than what the enemy is known for. Sentimental in a way the enemy can only hope to dream of. This is something else. And as she gazes upon the painting, something strikes her. The children have red hair. This chateau is someone's home. … "Ney..?"

next..?

#le-brave-des-braves #the duke of dalmatia’s action report #campaign: ney's painted paradise

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cadmusfly · 3 months

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Analysing the Quality of Napoleon's Marshals With Silly Data Science

Let's talk numbers and laugh at funny graphs with missing data!

Other people in this fandom do really lovely detailed information posts, I do weird fanfic, dragon shitposting, body pillow design shitposting and run a stupid Lannes ask rp blog. But! I'm also a programmer with an interest in Numbers, and today we're going to Analyse These Dead Frenchmen with a bunch of screenshots of graphs.

Ethan Arsht published a really interesting article called Napoleon was the Best General Ever, and the Math Proves it., where using data scraped off Wikipedia articles, he creates a statistical model drawing from multiple variables per battle to calculate How Good A General Is At Winning.

Give the article a read, it's great stuff, but if you don't feel like it, he basically applies WAR - "Wins Above Replacement" - which is a value from baseball that measures how many wins a player is worth when compared to a replacement.

So the general's WAR would be how well they compare to a completely average general who replaced them. Yes, as Arsht says, "in other words, I would find the generals’ WAR, in war."

But as he says, this is not a stringent historical analysis and is more of a fun thought experiment. Wikipedia is probably the most comprehensive dataset on this topic that he had access to, but it is Wikipedia the crowdsourced online encyclopedia, so it is going to have holes and inaccuracies. And this was written seven years ago, and the data was collected then, so any updates to these articles since then wouldn't be reflected.

And it's not a perfect model that takes into account everything - it's an approximation, a whole bunch of number crunching. I haven't looked too deeply into how the numbers work exactly, even though I could.

I think that 0 would be "completely and utterly average"? A positive WAR is good, a negative WAR is not. Napoleon is the best general ever at 16.679 WAR, the next highest is Caesar at 7.445 WAR.

(Link, you can hover over each battle and look at each datapoint!)

But I'm interested in Napoleon's marshals. The 26 men he raised up to military nobility! The dramatic assholes who kept arguing with each other. I'll post links for all of them at the end of this, but I won't be screenshotting each of their WAR graphs, just a few.

I'm not entirely sure how the scraper collected the information about what battles a commander is considered in "charge" of - I tried looking at the provided code repository but I am reminded that data science people bless them are not really good at structuring or publishing code and why are all the html pages just straight up saved in the root folder why are the jupyter notebook outputs just uncleared aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Oh yeah this was scraped from seven years ago so current wikipedia pages won't be reflective of what's on the graphs - so we can assume that this is just grabbing stuff from the "Commanders and leaders" part from each individual battle page and collating them into numbers

Anyway let's look at the iron man himself, Davout, considered to be the best of Napoleon's marshals.

(Link)

Heh, here we see the first hole in the dataset - Jena-Auerstedt is considered to be one battle, and Napoleon would like you to think that's the case.

Anyway, pretty good! Let's look at Jean Lannes, the lively Gascon

(Link)

Oooooh, even better than Davout! Helps he didn't go to Russia. Wait, why is Aspern-Essling dated to before Ratisbon, especially when Lannes died in the former?

Let's look at André Masséna, also known as being pretty cool:

(Link)

Damn, neat, though I think there's a lot of omissions here.

Here's Murat:

(Link)

Lol Tolentino, I do like how Murat Peaked there a little bit

But we're forgetting a certain redhead, aren't we?

(Link)

Ouch. But also Waterloo not appearing there, hmmm.

Anyway let's finish off the screenshots with Napoleon's greatest strategist, Jean-de-Dieu Soult, the man that Wellington called a master of the defensive!

(Link)

honestly this is the entire reason why i wanted to write this post

in soult's defense - as a soult defender - he had a pretty shitty army full of conscripts, was isolated, was occasionally pretty bad at adapting tactically to new surprises and had to deal with the english being stubborn fuckers, but he was brilliant in setting things up strategically and forcing the english to catch up through a fighting retreat with a demoralised army, stopping them from closing in on france too

but also the way this graph bullies soult so hard makes me laugh a lot

Anyway, yeah, these graphs are definitely inaccurate and I'm also posting these to see the Napoleonic community on tumblr's reaction to them, but they are a fun way to engage with history!

Just don't take them seriously, and feel free to argue in the tags/comments/reblogs

I could theoretically use this guy's code to rerun this just for the Marshals now - I know my way around some data science code - but I do have a lot on my plate, but it would be a fun experiment!

Marshal WAR Graph Links

Note: So these are under the Wikipedia article names at the time that the web scraper was run seven years ago so some of these names turned out to be different from what they are now and I had to do a bit of digging to fix some

you can definitely tell that the information is incomplete on a lot of these, again i repeat the information was scraped off wikipedia seven years ago

Louis-Nicolas Davout

Jean Lannes

Joachim Murat

Michel Ney

André Masséna

Jean-de-Dieu Soult

Bon-Adrien Jeannot de Moncey (one battle lol)

Jean-Baptiste Jourdan

Charles-Pierre Augereau

Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte aka Charles XIV John of Sweden (Two battles and only Swedish ones I think)

Guillaume Brune

Édouard Mortier (two battles)

Jean-Baptiste Bessières (two battles)

François Christophe de Kellermann (one battle, Valmy)

François Joseph Lefebvre (two battles)

Charles-Victor Perrin (ouch)

Étienne Macdonald

Nicolas Oudinot (lol)

Auguste de Marmont (loll)

Laurent de Gouvion Saint-Cyr

Józef Poniatowski (three battles but hmm. pretty bad but feel like there's too much missing info here)

Emmanuel de Grouchy (two battles, can't make a Where's Grouchy joke)

Marshals Without Graphs Not because they didn't command anything but I couldn't find their graphs on the website or in the code repo

Catherine-Dominique de Pérignon

Jean-Mathieu-Philibert Sérurier

Louis-Gabriel Suchet (wtf? maybe seven years ago the documentation on him was sad)

EDIT: wait i was looking at the notebook (the uh place where the code was being run, to see if i could run the code myself)

soult is one of the lowest ranked generals overall on this initial list pfftHAHAHhahahahahahahaha

#napoleon's marshals #napoleonic era #napoleonic wars #napoleonic shitpost #cadmus rambles #cad rambles about dead frenchmen on main #jean lannes #louis-nicolas davout #joachim murat #michel ney #andre massena #im not tagging all of them #jean-de-dieu soult

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cassynite · 3 months

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7 Snippets, 7 People

Tagged by both @knight-commander and @dragonologist-phd, thank you so much for thinking of me! My creative energy has been pretty low lately but this was very inspiring tbh!

Tagging (and im so sorry im nearly certain i will tag people already tagged by accident, and obv no pressure) @dmagedgoods @the-raging-tempest @undyingembers @spyridonya @rollofleaf @archduke-enver-gortash @thesolemnhour

Snips below the cut! Just from various things I am sloooooowly working on.

"The boats on the shore will take you anywhere, if you've got the coin for it," Eva says instead. "And you've got the right pass." She pins Evaethi down with a golden stare and then moves the map slightly, just enough to show a flash of the paper underneath, the grooves where a stamp had pressed into the paper.

Evaethi is still connecting the dots between Eva's words and the stamp when Eva places a careful hand on Evaethi's wrist. The skin is cool, slightly clammy and unpleasant. "Wouldn't it be nice," she whispers, "If we never had to see Master again? If we could go do whatever we wanted?"

"She was a child," Sparrow repeats. "One desperate for her father's love, and who never received it. Her greatest crime was thoughtlessness, not malice." She draws herself up and gives Daeran a smile she hopes looks genuine. "And if she hadn't run away, I likely never would have gone to Kenabres. So in a way, she is responsible for our meeting."

Daeran lets out a beleaguered sigh, but the frigid lines of anger have finally melted. "Yes, well. I don't enjoy this woman in our house, but it's certainly not my place to forgive her. I do hope she has grown up since your last meeting."

"It is my pleasure," he says, and turns his wizened gaze to Daeran. Daeran has to suppress a shiver from its intensity. His eyes are the clear blue of a cloudless day, shining ever so slightly with a light Daeran instinctively understands as divine--years channeling god-given power lingers even if he likely no longer wields a sword--and the gaze seems to peer right through him, to the rotten core infested with worms.

But he must not be using it, or he's attributing to the shadowy mass of hunger that watches Daeran to the shadows of grief: Sir Lant's expression holds nothing but cloying pity. "I never had the pleasure of meeting your mother," he tells Daeran, "but everyone in Mendev knew that a truer heart and a kinder soul didn't exist. Her contributions to the Crusade's cause and the church cannot be overstated. The world is poorer for her loss--but I hope I can help guide you to growing into the kind of man who would do her memory proud."

Sparrow's eyes widen and then--it's like watching a turtle retreat into its shell. The bright fury pulls back, closes down, her face smoothing into complete neutrality. If he hadn't just been watching her, Daeran would have sworn the emotion had never been there at all. It really is quite a feat; he can't think of anyone, noble or common born, who can seal away such passionate expressions so completely.

"I should go," Sparrow says, turning away and truncating the conversation. She directs her next words to the group as a whole. "We have a long day ahead of us, and we need our rest. Lann, I'll take second watch if you take first." And she walks away, stiff and lifeless once more, leaving Daeran with the fading electricity and the still-dirty pots.

Daeran sighs and returns his attention back to the dishes. The woman he was arguing with is gone--the emotionless, lackluster leader has made her unwelcome return.

He wonders what he can do to make her become that person again.

5. (very mildly nsfw)

The skin on Sparrow's stomach was deeply sensitive, and Daeran's hand pressed against it was a shock of sensation that flashed through her body, settling between her legs. She could barely breathe; she felt like a half-feral animal dragged into the light, skinless and exposed, flinching at every movement. It was so much already, overwhelming in a way she'd never experienced before. If this was how she was going to react something as simple as a palm under her ribcage, how was she going to handle anything when she finished undressing?

Daeran sensed it too, she could tell. The warmth at her back receded as Daeran pulled away, his touch lifting; before he could fully retreat, she grabbed his hand, pressing it back to her torso.

"I just need a moment." Her voice was low, raspy, intimate in the heavy half-dark of the room.

It worked for Isore's purposes in this case. Depending on how good the intel of the incoming Hellknights was, they would arrive anywhere from the next few hours to dusk, and Isore needed to not be present when they arrived. He dipped the encoded notice into the brazier, letting the smolders of last night's fires catch it alight before he dropped it among the coals. Then he grabbed a piece of scratch paper only half-full of equations that were useful days ago and penned a quick missive: Gone to market. Don't expect me until nightfall.

Silaena won, her queen grabbing the checkmate, but she could tell he had let her. When he finally placed his king sideways, he spoke again. "It will be difficult to convince your father."

"He never actually disowned me," Silaena pointed out, the statement sticking a little in her throat. It had been a nasty surprise, even if it had worked in her favor; like he had known she would come crawling back one way or the other. "And I think once he knows what I am bringing to the table, he will eventually back down. There's nothing he wants more than for his direct line to keep Heaven's Edge. I'll give him that even if I give him not one other thing as long as I live."

#cassy writes #cassy wips #this was actually. very fun. even if it took me a few days to actually do it lol #thanks again for the tag!

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faerune · 11 months

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but it’s golden like daylight

[read on ao3]

pairing: lann x f!commander [thea anaedius]

summary: Thea takes advantage of Lann being tied up to shower him with some well-deserved love.

warnings: self-esteem issues and porn what a combo

“You look good like this.”

If Lann’s brain had been working, he would have said the same about Thea.

“You look good like this.”

If Lann’s brain had been working, he would have said the same about Thea.

The woman was a goddess atop him, straddling his waist as she leaned back to appraise her work. Hazy candlelight set her hair aflame and made her tanned skin glow with warmth. A flush had already settled on her cheeks from anticipation; stolen kisses as her nimble fingers had worked ties around his wrists. Thea had opted for a thin shift that night too, offering the barest hint of her nipples beneath cream silken fabric. The heavy weight of her breasts, the outlined shadow of her hips against the candlelight…

The scarves were just tight enough that whenever Lann shifted, he was given a reminder of his vulnerability. Lann had made a joke earlier about being tied up with things tonight and Thea gifted him a roll of her eyes and a giggle, her smile lingering in a way that made his chest warm.

The knots weren’t half bad and she had been dutiful when it came to his instructions. Thea had more experience breaking bindings than tying them. In contrast, Lann had learned at a young age from a well-worn book on sailor’s knots.

Lann knew it would come in handy someday. Though, not in this fashion.

To say that handing over such control was out of his comfort zone was the understatement of the century but the concept of being at Thea’s mercy was thrilling in a way he hadn’t anticipated. His cock was already hard in his trousers, straining against the simple linen fabric. Just the careful, deft touches of Thea’s calloused fingers, her mischievous smiles and sweet kisses as she went about her work were enough to get his heart racing. Tying had taken longer than usual due to Thea’s inexperience but her eagerness to get it just right and the shifting atop him had made him dizzy and impatient.

“I always look good,” Lann replied, breathless and wry when he realized he’d gotten lost in thoughts of her. It happened too often.

“Yes, you do,” Thea purred in reply with a wanting smile and not a hint of pity. Gods, he loved this woman.

Thea melted atop him, laying her weight on him. Something slid into place for Lann, having this woman and the comfort of her. The soft silk of her nightgown was cool against his bare chest.

Thea kissed him, long and languid, leaving him shifting ever so slightly to try and find pressure from her core or one of her thighs to no avail. He was aching, throbbing and it was going to make him mad. She moaned softly into his lips, a soft breath shared between them.

And just as sudden as her warmth came it was gone and she had returned back to sitting on his stomach. Gods, he almost whimpered at the loss of her.

Thea grinned wickedly down at him.

Uh oh.

She trailed a nail down the center of his bare chest, scraping ever so slightly to leave a long pink trail next to his scales.

“What ever do I do with you now?” she asked with a playful coyness and Lann had to groan at that.

“You’re an evil, evil woman,” he sighed, though anticipation made his heart quiver.

Thea gasped in faux offense.

“You know I’m very nice to you,” Thea challenged with a darkness in her eye and want trailing on her words. Her fingers ever so slowly pulled up the hem of her gown, revealing she wasn’t wearing any underwear.

Lann’s brain went dull for a moment. Just the sight of her made him want to rip himself out of his binding and have her. But something stopped him, even if her knots would be easy to unbind himself.

“But since I’m so mean ,” Thea pouted as her hand trailed between her legs. She let out a breath that wasn’t entirely part of this little performance and Lann’s cock jumped at the sound. Was she as turned on as he was? Had she too resisted temptation as she tied him to her headboard? Lann’s eyes were torn between her beautiful face and the slight movement of her hand between her legs, obstructed by her wrist and the shadows cast by candlelight.

“Thea…,” he breathed, half in wonder and half pleading. Lann wanted to taste her, touch her himself or at the very least see .

“I love it when you say my name,” Thea told him, a soft moan hitching the end of her words.

“Thea-” Lann grunted eagerly again, pulling at his bindings. He wanted her, wanted to please her. Anything, he’d do anything for this woman. Lann had cheekily promised to behave but all willpower fluttered away like birds on a wind with Thea.

Her hips were ever so slightly moving now, her hand shifting and the broken gasp on her lips telling Lann just where those dexterous fingers of hers were. Lann shifted, desperate for her and half out of his mind. Thea’s pretty eyes fluttered once and then twice, never leaving Lann’s. In contrast, Lann desperately tried to drink in the whole of her. Her face, her breasts heaving with her labored breaths, her slender wrist, her thick thighs so smooth and muscled—

Lann had told her, bashful and lust-drunk, one of the first times they’d been together, how much he’d thought of her pleasuring herself. How he’d touched himself to the thought of her, just a few slips of canvas away at camp, with her fingers between her legs. She’d been so kind to give him a demonstration that night and neither had forgotten it. Thea loved a performance, loved the way his eyes clung to her. She had the smallest satisfied smile on her lips, so sweet it could make your teeth ache.

Thea’s full lips had parted, ragged breaths coming uneasy now. She was tightening, body tensing as she felt that pleasure curl in her belly. Lann was enraptured, their eyes never leaving each other’s now. Every sound she made, every expression that danced across her face Lann seared to memory. He’d almost forgotten himself, his body so used to burning it only added to the thrill of watching her. He was aching, dribbling for her inside his pants and all he wanted to see was her come.

“That’s it,” he breathed, eyes lidded and pleading. “Please, Thea, show me.”

Thea’s noises had been climbing in slow rapture and the sharp whine she gave him at his words sent a bolt of lightning down his spine. Her hand was moving frantically now, the wet sound of her grinding against her hand making Lann’s fingers feel numb. She was beautiful, flushed all the way down to her chest with pleasure. Her eyes struggled to stay on his, those pretty noises…

Thea arched, crying out and shuddering as she came. Lann tried to sit up instinctively, wanting to reach her and hold her, coax her through and press kisses to her throat. He’d completely forgotten and groaned in frustration when the ties held him back to the bed.

Thea’s chest heaved against her slip as she came down, desperately trying to catch her breath. She smiled at him, hazy eyes and little shivers. Thea laid her body atop of him, languid again and brushed her wet fingers over his lips. He took her fingers into his mouth greedily, tonguing off the taste of her. Lann groaned at her taste and she slipped her fingers from his mouth, brushing them over his bottom lip.

“You’re amazing,” he breathed clumsily in awe. “You’re gorgeous. You’re everything.”

Thea tenderly cupped his scaled jaw and rubbed her thumb over his cheekbone, a beaming smile warm as the sun gracing her face.

She gave him a soft kiss, then another to his chin, to his throat that bobbed with a dry swallow.

“Thea…” he warned as she started to trail down his bare chest, soft lips leaving trails of fire over every part of him.

“What?” she asked with a mischievous smirk, eyes lustful under heavy lashes. Her hair trailed along his skin as she moved down his body, a teasing silk touch.

“I’m not going to last if you do… that ,” Lann chuckled nervously because if Thea put her mouth on him…

“So?” she asked with a raised brow but she had stopped her descent down his body.

“Don’t you want me inside you?” Lann asked. Let me please you, let me fuck you, let me make you come, his lust-addled brain shouted.

“I want to make you feel good, Lann,” Thea told him, pressing a tender kiss to his hip. “Will you let me do that?”

The tightness in Lann’s throat had gotten worse and all he could do was nod. He wanted that. Very much.

Thea smiled sweetly and returned to peppering tender kisses to his skin. Even something as gentle as her loving at his hip made him feel like he was aflame. His skin burned, no doubt from the flush that had spread over the pale skin of his right half. Lann was suddenly very aware of just how bare and revealed to Thea he was. The realization settled in his belly, a curl of poisonous rot, and thundered in his chest.

Lann knew he wasn’t much to look at, half of himself was terrifying to some and grotesque to most others but when Thea was with him she made him feel like the most handsome man she had laid eyes on. When he called her gorgeous in his cheeky way, she beamed back and fluttered her eyelashes and called him handsome. Her hands never shied from the scales of his left side and her kisses slipped all the way up her pointed ear and made him shiver. Her hand around his curled horn, pulling him close as he worshipped between her legs was a particular favorite.

Hell, Thea even preferred to curl into his scaled side when she slept and the warmth of her skin against his cold hide made him sleep better.

Even still, Lann was always embarrassed when it came to Thea putting her mouth on him. It was stupid, he knew that and at the end of the day he shouldn’t question that Thea wanted to do it and instead just enjoy it…

It was easier said than done. Particularly when venomous degradations about his ineptitudes from long ago found the cracks in his thin veneer.

Thea’s fingers undid the ties of his trousers with practiced ease, slipping them down just so. The cool air on his cock made Lann hiss a little when it was freed. He was so terribly hard it sat at perfect attention for her, twitching just at the idea of being touched. Lann’s eyes fluttered shut but Thea kissed his thigh.

“Keep your eyes on me,” Thea breathed, hot and wet against skin so sensitive it almost made him whimper.

Lann opened his eyes and met hers. She bit her full lips, settling herself between his legs comfortably. It was easy to be overwhelmed by her beauty, his heart beating frantic in his ribs. She took him in hand. Lann was sure he was not like the other men Thea had been with throughout her life.

Lann’s cock was of a respectable length and a thicker girth that made Thea breathless. The same pale of his skin — though now flushed pink and angry red, shiny with drips of desire. But it still bore marks of who he was, a textured ridge traced up the underside of his length while concentric crests trailed from the longer, tapered tip of him down to the base interspersed with more ridges. The best he could do was make Thea squirm and squeal when he took her, raising her hips or taking her from behind. He had learned expertly how to make use of what he had. It was still unsightly. Lann was unsightly and disgusting and—

“ Oh fuck, ” Lann breathed as Thea began to pepper soft kisses up the side of him, rolled her tongue lightly over bumps and crests. Taking her time, cradling him gently in her hand to hold him while her tongue lavished along his length. Lann groaned, pulling desperately at his restraints, eyes rolling back despite her command. His hips did not buck if only for the stern hand she placed on his belly. Even if he had the forethought to try and untie his restraints, his brain surely would not allow it. He was putty in her hands. A useless lump of nerve endings as she ran her tongue over him.

Kisses, little laps of her tongue. Fuck, he had forgotten for a moment how good this felt, how much he wanted this. Her mouth was hot and talented, drawing out moans as she made her way to the other side of his cock to give it the same treatment. When Lann finally found it in himself to watch her again, her eyes were heavy with lust and concentration, her hot breath fanning against him even when she wasn’t licking or kissing.

Thea must have felt his eyes on her because her own flicked up, beautiful blue and she smiled. Fuck , she smiled at him so pleased and thrilled that he had allowed her this. All before she flattened her tongue to the underside of him and licked with a wide, dripping tongue up the bottom of him.

Lann whimpered. God, he whimpered so loud that later he would surely worry if someone had heard him. Now, it took all of his will not to come. He was spilling obscenities from his lips breathlessly on top of sweet things he couldn’t seem to get out of his mouth fast enough. Thea chuckled and slipped him into her mouth. All began and ended with that mouth.

Lann’s fingers were numb from his pulling and twisting against the straps but the rest of his body was lightning, jumping and bucking at the slightest touch. Thea wrapped her lips around him, a steadying hand at the base of him while she began to move her head in an even rhythm. She moaned around him and he could feel the vibration slide all the way up his spine.

Thea sucked softly at him, not enough yet to make him come but just enough to make his eyes cross and his toes curl. Each time she came up for a few hot breaths, she ran her tongue along him or swirled her tongue over him. Each time Lann watched, feverish in his lust. The sight of her lips around him, the mischievous twinkle in her eye, the little chuckles and heaving breaths before she slipped him back into her mouth.

At Lann’s wordless insistence, much of their sex had been about Thea. It was how he liked it, the satisfaction of pleasing her, making her curl and whimper. Lann knew it was what he was meant to do and Gods, did he love to make Thea come.

This shift, so slight and wordless, had peeled him open.

When Thea’s breath had escaped her once more, she returned to lavishing her tongue over all sides of him, lapping at each groove and bump. She licked away more of the clear glisten that leaked from him steadily now. Thea loved at his thighs as she pumped his spit-slicked cock with a steady hand, biting lightly at his skin just to hear him whine. She traced fingers over him, focused the loving licks of her tongue directly to his tip in a way that he thought he would cry, embarrassingly enough.

Then, he was back in her mouth again. Thea pulled more of him into her mouth each time, her rhythm quickening as his tightened body quivered. His thighs shook, he fought every muscle and instinct to thrust into her mouth. She took him entirely, swallowing him down her throat while she looked at him with pretty, glistening eyes. Her fingers scratched gently at his thighs, a grounding sting amidst a rocking wave of pleasure. She played with him, worshipped his cock in a familiar, pleased way.

It wasn’t long before her ministrations were about to send him over the edge. All rational thought had ceased since she put her mouth on him but he was able to fumble a quick stutter of her name in warning. Instead of pulling off him, letting him spill over her breasts or onto his belly, she slipped him deeper into his mouth and hummed.

Lann whined, whimpered and bucked his hips into the wet heat of her mouth. He couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t do much of anything but surrender to the white hot pleasure that blinded him. This was how he died, he was sure of it. All air was sucked from his lungs, his muscles ached as they tensed. His eyes had long since fluttered back into his skull again and he would surely be bruised from how hard he had slammed his wrists against those damned silk scarves. Pleasure blinded him to anything that wasn’t Thea as he spilled himself in her mouth.

By the time Lann came back into his body, Thea had already crawled up to the headboard and was working one of his hands free. Though his hand felt like limp jelly, just like the rest of his body, he mindlessly wrapped an arm around Thea and pulled her close. As close as he could, needing to feel her warmth and her presence. Dazedly, he pressed his face into her hair as she giggled.

“Lann, hold on—.”

Struggling in his grip, she managed to reach up and untie his other wrist which turned to the same mission as its twin — bundling Thea up against his body.

Thea settled against him, that solid, familiar weight of her. She kissed his cheek gently though it felt far off as he chased his breath around the room. Her fingers combed through his damp hair, pushing it from his face and soothing him.

After a moment, Lann made to get up, a single-minded action. He wanted to grab her water, some snacks from the kitchens, a warm cloth to wipe the sweat from her like he always did. Thea’s hands grabbed at him and pulled him back down.

“Hold on,” she laughed lightly and raised up on an elbow to look down at him as he collapsed back onto the bed.

Thea’s hand cupped his cheek as they gazed at each other. She rubbed her thumb over his lips before reaching and wiping something warm from his cheek.

“Stay here, okay?” she told him and before he could stop her, Thea’s warmth was gone. Gods, she had figured out how to render him speechless. People would surely throw — another — banquet in her honor.

Thea slipped from bed, still in her nightgown, and found her robes to tuck tightly around her. Lann must have dozed when she slipped out because just as soon as she had disappeared, she was back at his side. Thea wiped the sweat from his collarbone and chest, the mess from between his legs and did the same for herself. The pair of them sat in bed and ate the fruit and cheese she had stolen from the kitchens. Not only that but she kept insisting he drink from the water skin she had brought. Cocky girl, she kept smirking at him and teasing lightly.

Luckily, Lann had righted some of his brain back into place. He quipped back at her or occasionally tossed a grape at her head much to her indignation.

In all their glow, talking and teasing, Lann couldn’t stop looking at her. Thea was a miracle, it didn't matter if she was man-made, some happy accident, or the work of her heart but she was. Under her gaze, he felt righteous, good, …beautiful.

#pathfinder #wotr #lann #lann pathfinder #weeee #its done and i hate it #writing*#ship: if i betray my heart i have died

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