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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year

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Hello how are you?

you could write Aemond offending Y/n in a moment of rage but he regrets it and asks for forgiveness

HELLO, I AM WELL, THANK YOU FOR ASKING.

YOU GOT IT, DUDE.

Warnings: Angst, eventual fluff. Word count: ~1700

She breathes a withering sigh as her hand strokes the cold, empty space in the bed next to her. It is now the eighth night in a row that Aemond has not come to bed when she has. Sad as it is to admit, she is becoming used to falling asleep alone.

She knows that Aemond always joins her eventually; even in sleep her subconscious mind registers the dip in the mattress as he climbs in beside her at whatever godforsaken hour he has finally finished his crown duties. But then when she wakes in the morning he is gone again, rising before her to get a head start on the day. All that lingers of him is his scent and the subtle warmth of his body on the sheets. Both are long gone by the time night falls again. She misses her husband.

Deciding that she can take no more of her and Aemond being passing ships in the night, she slips out of bed and pads barefoot to the library, the space she knows he is now spending all of his evenings, evenings he used to spend with her. Her hair is loose and she is dressed only in her nightgown but she doesn't care; the hour is late and there is no one around to see her.

She pushes the heavy wooden doors open - not all the way - just enough for her to slip through the gap without causing too much of a draught or a disturbance. There he sits, her husband Aemond. His eyepatch is discarded on the table next to him, his hair though still in its usual half up, half down style is disheveled - the likely result of how many times he has run his hand over it in exasperation. He is hunched over a table littered with scrolls, furiously scribbling notes as his good eye occasionally flickers towards the papers spread out around him. He does not even register her presence.

“Aemond…” she whispers, causing his head to finally rise from his note taking as he looks towards her, his brow furrowing with concern.

“What is the matter, my love?” He asks. “You ought to be asleep by now.”

“I am missing my husband.” She purrs, stepping behind him to rub his shoulders.

“Mmm. And the realm will miss its Prince Regent and Protector, while Aegon recovers, if I neglect my duties.” He says matter of factly.

“What about your husbandly duties?” She asks, rounding his chair to face him. “I have barely seen you in over a week. You are neglecting me.”

She can sense the irritation in the flare of his nostrils and the furrow of his brow as he looks upon her, but she hopes that she can win him around. She has always managed to in the past.

She moves to sit in Aemond’s lap, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and leaning in to whisper to him. “Can your wife not provide a welcome distraction, even for a moment?”

The force with which Aemond shoves her off of his lap plants her bottom firmly onto the cold flagstone floor. She stares up at him wide-eyed. If she had thought that action cruel then the words that tumble from her husband’s lips next are a death blow.

“I have no taste for your depravity.” His voice is cool, but his tone is spiteful. “If you wish to parade around the Keep like a common whore, and believe yourself more important than the Crown, then I believe you’ve married the wrong brother.”

She flinches, her heart constricting painfully as she scrambles to her feet.

Aemond’s face immediately softens, rising from his seat to reach for her but she backs away, a soft whimper escaping her with the force of which she is holding back her tears. She runs from him, throwing open the library doors and hurrying down the hallway.

She does not return to their shared marital bedchamber, choosing instead to retreat to her own. It is a room she has not entered since her and Aemond were wed. Neither of them ever felt the need to make use of their separate rooms following their wedding night, preferring to sleep together.

There is a coldness and an overbearing sense of emptiness in the air that serves only to deepen the ache in her chest. As she lays upon the now unfamiliar feeling bed the tears finally come; hot, salty and relentless.

There is a rational part of her that knows that Aemond does not mean what he said. He is under immense pressure at the moment and is struggling to juggle the responsibilities of being both a husband and a Prince Regent. His reaction was one of frustration at feeling backed into a corner. Duty has always weighed heavily upon his shoulders.

However, knowing all of this does little to remove the sting from his words or the pain in her heart. Perhaps she should have gotten dressed before seeking him out. Maybe he really doesn’t think they are suited for each other.

The thoughts swirl continuously around in her mind as her cries turn to sniffles, before she falls into a fitful, dreamless sleep.

For a few brief moments upon awakening the next day, she forgets, and all feels right in the world. Then the room swims into focus as she drifts fully into consciousness and she takes in her foreign surroundings. It is as though a large weight has suddenly been placed upon her chest and she groans, pulling the blankets up over her head as she curls in on herself. She cannot face the day today.

When her handmaidens enter her bedchamber, offering to help ready her for the day, she dismisses them. She claims she is not hungry when she is told that breakfast is being served. She remains curled in a ball, miserable thoughts consuming her mind and breaking her own heart. She wonders if Aemond feels as broken as she does. Somehow she doubts it.

As morning bleeds into afternoon, she finally rouses herself from her bed. The ceaseless rumbles of hunger in her stomach making it impossible for her to wallow any longer.

Taking in the lack of possessions in the room - she has moved almost everything to her marital chambers - she silently curses herself and wishes she hadn’t spent all morning sending away the various servants that had attempted to tend to her.

In only her nightgown, she makes the inelegant, but thankfully short, walk from her own rooms back to the ones she shares with Aemond, seeking clothing and perhaps a bath.

She freezes at the sight that meets her as she opens the door, her heart feels as though it has leapt into her throat. Aemond sits on the bed in a sorry state. His hair is untied and he is wearing only his undershirt and breeches.

He looks up as she enters. It looks as though he has been crying. They stare at each other in silence for a few moments, neither one of them knowing quite what to say. Usually he is in council meetings at this hour of the day, she was not expecting to see him.

“I- I didn’t think you’d be here…” She finally confesses.

Aemond gives a small nod. “I have asked Grandsire to lead in my stead today. I said I was unwell.”

She has never felt so awkward or uncomfortable in her own husband’s presence before. She shifts from one foot to the other, keeping her hands clasped in front of her. “I…um…just came back to get something to wear. All of my clothes are here…at the moment.”

Aemond’s face twists in anguish at the last part of her statement. He rises from the bed, taking her hands in his. “Here is where they should stay. I am so very sorry, my love.”

Considering the heartache she has felt since leaving the library the previous night, she surprises herself when she doesn’t melt at Aemond’s words, instead she bristles with anger, yanking her hands away. “What you said, what you did to me, was terrible.”

Aemond bows his head slightly. “I know…I should never have said it. I did not mean it.”

“Then why did you say it?” She folds her arms across her chest, looking at him defiantly.

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It has not been easy for me these past few weeks. There is so much pressure on me, acting as Protector of the Realm. My duties pull me away from you. I am only able to hold you when you are sleeping. I feel like I am failing as a husband and when you confirmed that I am…I lost my temper. I am sorry, my love.”

“You aren’t failing as a husband, Aemond, you are just busy. All I wanted was a little of your attention.”

“I am trying. Everything I do is to make you proud. The thought of holding you when I return each night is what gets me through every tedious Council meeting.”

“You hold me?” She asks, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips.

“Every night. Except last night. When I returned you weren’t here...” She glances over his shoulder to see that her pillows have been heaped onto Aemond’s side of the bed.

He follows her line of sight before turning back to her sheepishly. “They smelled like you…”

She huffs a small laugh and he looks at her hopefully.

“Do you forgive me?”

“I will work on it.” She says honestly. “You really hurt me, Aemond. I need you to remember I am your wife. Don’t treat me like an enemy. I am on your side.”

“I know. I never meant to make you feel like I thought otherwise. And I will spend every day proving to you that I am worthy of having you on my side.”

He steps forward cupping her cheeks and gently pressing his forehead to hers.

“We should get dressed, people will be wondering where we are.” she whispers.

“No”, Aemond murmurs, “The realm has all of me every day, but today they will not have us.”

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fireismine · 7 months

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DAENERYS TARGARYEN APPRECIATION WEEK 2023

Day 4: Character Parallels → Rhaena the Black Bride and Daenerys Stormborn

The Queen in the West:

In the Red Keep of King’s Landing sat the Queen Regent Alyssa, widow of the late King Aenys, mother to his son Jaehaerys, and wife to the King’s Hand, Rogar Baratheon. Just across Blackwater Bay on Dragonstone, a younger queen had arisen when Alyssa’s daughter Alysanne, a maid of thirteen years, had pledged her troth to her brother King Jaehaerys, against the wishes of her mother and her mother’s lord husband. And far to the west on Fair Isle, with the whole width of Westeros separating her from both mother and sister, was Alyssa’s eldest daughter, the dragonrider Rhaena Targaryen, widow of Prince Aegon the Uncrowned. In the westerlands, riverlands, and parts of the Reach, men were already calling her the Queen in the West. - A Surfeit of Rulers, Fire and Blood

Dany knew she would take more than a hundred, if she took any at all. "Remind your Good Master of who I am. Remind him that I am Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, trueborn queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. My blood is the blood of Aegon the Conqueror, and of old Valyria before him." - Daenerys II, A Storm of Swords

Three Husbands:

Rhaena was married to Aegon the Uncrowned, Maegor the Cruel and Androw Farman.

Her silver was trotting through the grass, to a darkling stream beneath a sea of stars. A corpse stood at the prow of a ship, eyes bright in his dead face, grey lips smiling sadly. A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness. . . . mother of dragons, bride of fire . . . – Daenerys IV, A Clash of Kings

The Queen in the East:

“Done,” the king said…mayhaps too hastily, for it must be remembered that Aerea Targaryen, a girl of eight, was his own acknowledged successor, heir apparent to the Iron Throne. The consequences of this decision would not be known for years to come, however. For the nonce it was done, and the Queen in the West at a stroke became the Queen in the East. - A Time of Testing: The Realm Remade, Fire and Blood

"The best calumnies are spiced with truth," suggested Qavo, "but the girl's true sin cannot be denied. This arrogant child has taken it upon herself to smash the slave trade, but that traffic was never confined to Slaver's Bay. It was part of the sea of trade that spanned the world, and the dragon queen has clouded the water. Behind the Black Wall, lords of ancient blood sleep poorly, listening as their kitchen slaves sharpen their long knives. Slaves grow our food, clean our streets, teach our young. They guard our walls, row our galleys, fight our battles. And now when they look east, they see this young queen shining from afar, this breaker of chains. The Old Blood cannot suffer that. Poor men hate her too. Even the vilest beggar stands higher than a slave. This dragon queen would rob him of that consolation." - Tyrion VI, A Dance with Dragons

Refusing to Cry

When word of the battle reached the west and Princess Rhaena learned that both her husband and her friend Lady Melony had fallen, it is said she heard the news in a stony silence. “Will you not weep?” she was asked, to which she replied, “I do not have the time for tears.” - The Sons of the Dragon, Fire and Blood

His business done, the captain of the Indigo Star bowed and took his leave. Dany shifted uncomfortably on the ebony bench. She dreaded what must come next, yet she knew she had put it off too long already. Yunkai and Astapor, threats of war, marriage proposals, the march west looming over all . . . I need my knights. I need their swords, and I need their counsel. Yet the thought of seeing Jorah Mormont again made her feel as if she'd swallowed a spoonful of flies; angry, agitated, sick. She could almost feel them buzzing round her belly. I am the blood of the dragon. I must be strong. I must have fire in my eyes when I face them, not tears. "Tell Belwas to bring my knights," Dany commanded, before she could change her mind. "My good knights." - Daenerys VI, A Storm of Swords

Gains Confidence After Bonding with a Dragon:

At the age of nine, however, Rhaena was presented with a hatchling from the pits of Dragonstone, and she and the young dragon she named Dreamfyre bonded instantly. With her dragon beside her, the princess slowly began to grow out of her shyness; at the age of twelve she took to the skies for the first time, and thereafter, though she remained a quiet girl, no one dared to call her timid. - The Sons of the Dragon, Fire and Blood

Day followed day, and night followed night, until Dany knew she could not endure a moment longer. She would kill herself rather than go on, she decided one night … Yet when she slept that night, she dreamt the dragon dream again. Viserys was not in it this time. There was only her and the dragon. Its scales were black as night, wet and slick with blood. Her blood, Dany sensed. Its eyes were pools of molten magma, and when it opened its mouth, the flame came roaring out in a hot jet. She could hear it singing to her. She opened her arms to the fire, embraced it, let it swallow her whole, let it cleanse her and temper her and scour her clean. She could feel her flesh sear and blacken and slough away, could feel her blood boil and turn to steam, and yet there was no pain. She felt strong and new and fierce. And the next day, strangely, she did not seem to hurt quite so much. It was as if the gods had heard her and taken pity. Even her handmaids noticed the change. "Khaleesi," Jhiqui said, "what is wrong? Are you sick?" "I was," she answered, standing over the dragon's eggs that Illyrio had given her when she wed. She touched one, the largest of the three, running her hand lightly over the shell. Black-and-scarlet, she thought, like the dragon in my dream. The stone felt strangely warm beneath her fingers … or was she still dreaming? She pulled her hand back nervously. - Daenerys III, A Game of Thrones

#danyweek2023 #daenerys targaryen #asoiaf #canondany

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philliam-writes · 1 year

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you are in the earth of me [03]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: no warnings apply

Summary: A hand catches your wrist. Warm fingers brush against the slip of skin where your glove ends, sending an electrifying shock up your arm. You start. Lockwood lets go and pulls back. “Like it or not, we are in this together,” he says quietly. His voice drops to a low tremble, gaining a quality that feels like a solid caress on your skin. Heat crawls up your neck. “And as with any proper team, there are no secrets, and no holding back valuable information. Deal?”

Notes: [01] || [02] | [04]

Words: 4.3k

A/N: A shorter chapter, but I still hope you'll enjoy it! Thank you so much again for all the support! ♥ If anyone new wants to join the taglist, just lemme know!

03: wring those embers

back then, i was dauntless and dawn could never know and my weakness made me weep less than i would ever show you — The Amazing Devil: The Calling

Indeed, at Rotwell everyone works hard to solve the Problem. It is quite impressive how immaculate they look while doing it—as though in addition to the highly sensitive Psychic Talents every Rotwell agent possesses, they secretly train to perform under stress with no fold in their jackets, no holes in their pants, no grime smudges on their faces. Seems as though your invitation to those seminars got lost on the mailing route.

You slither by the countless other agents in their splendid burgundy jackets, aware you stick out like a sore thumb with your torn coat and muddy steel-capped boots. After the night you had, it is hard to plaster on the charming smile that is Rotwell’s USP. Every winning smile sent your way by your colleagues is too bright, too clean. They look very new and fresh and shiny, like someone has popped them out of a plastic case this morning.

The glittering glass building rises on Regent Street with its smooth-fronted edifice of glass and marble. Snarling lions, holding rapiers in their forepaws, have been inscribed into the glass of its sliding double doors. Outside, a line of the desperate and ghost-haunted stands, waiting to get inside and petition the company for help. You squeeze past them inside the spacey foyer, a wide room with gold-fringed red carpets leading to the different departments laid out before a row of neat receptionists sitting at their tidy desks. Right at the room’s centre, in front of the white-marbled wide stairs leading to the upper floor, stands Tom Rotwell’s marble bust with its forever-frozen, blank expression passing judgement over his legacy. You feel very small under his scrutinising gaze, and duck along the marble pillars towards the maintenance apartment on ground floor.

Someone barks your name. There goes your plan to head in unnoticed and get cleaned up before any of the adult supervisors catches you. But when you turn, you recognise the scrawny boy heading your way: Aleck Gorobec, an agent from the Domestic Hauntings Division. He’s always had this habit of chewing on something—right now, he’s working a toothpick between his front teeth as though he’s trying to make a gap as wide as the Grand Canyon. “Hey, Crawford wants you in his office.”

The relief vanishes in an instant. If you had to chose between spending the afternoon in Daniel Crawford’s office or doing a tango with a Wraith, you’d be already on your way to put on your best Sunday dress.

“Like, right now? ‘Cause I really need to get a new jacket—”

“NOW now,” he says. “Better not keep him waiting, he seemed prety pissed. I think he got into a fight with his wife. Again.”

Even better. He’ll chew you, spit you out and feed your remains to that little rat of a dog he owns.

You will find no support in Aleck; now that he has relayed the message, he turns and saunters back to his little group of half-sized lackeys with identical hair cuts, leaving you to your fate.

So you make your way towards the staff elevators and think about faking a heart attack so you could skip seeing Crawford. They wouldn’t let someone with a weak heart deal with something as harsh as work regulations, would they?

The lift brings you up two more floors to the deputy sector. Each floor is lined with heavy crimson carpets you know for a fact are steam-cleaned every night when the majority of agents set out for cases. Employees on this floor have their own canteen and coffee shop regular agents aren’t allowed to use—you have a feeling a cup of coffee or tea they serve up here costs half of your rent compared to the one they sell downstairs that is delivered by the local Starbucks.

Muffled voices drift through the rows of closed oak doors. Somehow, the smell always reminds you of a teacher‘s room; stuffy but comforting in a way, the sleek couches and spartan cabinets in the small waiting areas and lounges have absorbed the coffee smell over the years.

Crawford’s office is at the end of the long hall. You were hoping he would be caught up in a phone call as well, but when you knock, there’s an immediate “Come in!”

Andrew Crawford is a small, stocky man with little to no neck depending on his mood for the day. Apart from making it his life ambition to harass every even slightly successful agent under the age of 25, his other hobbies include collecting every type of Little Trees Car Air Fresheners on the market. As far as you know, he doesn’t even own a car.

“Took you long enough,” Crawford grumbles. His little hairy moustache twitches in annoyance. “Take a seat.”

You prefer to stand. Somehow you don’t think that’s what Crawford wants to hear. So you make your way across the office, slowly sinking into the hard plastic chair. Deputies’ rooms are all furnished equally: marble-topped desks, chairs, bins, filing cabinets and a few plants. You count ten, eleven, twelve of those air fresheners hanging from a single yucca plant.

Crawford finishes abusing his plastic keyboard, throws a glance at a large-scale street map of the Strands, his area he’s responsible for, takes a swig of cold tea and turns to you for the first time.

“Wait, where’s your damn jack—” Crawford stops, takes you fully in: the tears and holes, the grime and ectoplasm smudges on the once-splendid red. He grunts, and leans so far back in his swivel chair it creaks loudly in protest. “Almost didn’t recognise it. Say, Rotwell is one of the best employers anyone with Psychic talents could ask for, don’t you agree?”

You hate questions like this. “I, er—yes?”

Crawford looks at you. Then looks some more, as though he’s just waiting for you to realise what this is all about. He clears his throat and leans forward, puts his massive arms on the table as though he’s just having a chat with a close pal in a pub after work. “See, thing is, I was informed you were seen with unknown operatives from other agencies. And last time I checked—” He turns to the monitor to his left, slams his thick fingers on a few keys—“you were not on a job that required assistance from external agents.”

You start fidgeting with the hem of your gloves. “Well, no, but sir, I was attacked—”

“I heard that happens from time to time when engaging ghosts.”

“No, I mean by a man. Someone alive.”

Crawford eyes you suspiciously with his tiny, dark eyes. “When did that happen?”

“In the early morning hours. Three, four a.m.”

“And what do you want me to do about it now?”

You open your mouth, and close it. One of Crawfords few talents is successfully making you feel as though you are the problem. What if you were? What if you’re overreacting? An agent’s life tends to be dangerous, what of it? “Well, the culprit is still out—”

“Do you have a name? Did you see his face?”

“No, and I didn’t, but—”

“Then what exactly do you expect from me? Clearly, nothing serious happened to you, you got off with just a few scratches. The real issue is that due to what recently transpired, further employment might be a problem.”

You grit your teeth against a groan of frustration, feeling your body burning with anger, your blood boiling with rage that threatens to spill over. “I have worked here for five years, without any complaints, no breaches of contract.” You ball your hands into tight fists. “I am an exceptional agent, you know that. And you’re letting me go just like that?”

Crawford sighs wearily. “Trust me, this isn’t easy for me either. I am aware you are one of our more lucrative agents. But lucky for you, we are not letting you go. I merely suspend you for conducting unauthorised work with an external agency. Until your suspension is lifted, all benefits are revoked. That includes using certain facilities and access to equipment for field work. You can leave your jacket here.” Crawford reaches forward and taps a spot on his desk with two fingers, before returning to the paperwork in front of him.

It takes a moment to stir from the ice-cold grip that has taken hold of your body and heart. Your mouth is dry and a fist-big chunk of anxiety is lodged tightly in your throat. “I was not working with anyone. This is all a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding or not,” Crawford replies calmly; something has caught his attention on the monitor, he isn’t even looking at you, “we’re just taking safety measures to ensure the confidentiality agreement wasn’t breached on your end.”

“But I—”

He looks up at you then, and blinks as though wondering why you are still wasting his time. “And where is your rapier?”

“Still at ho—the dormitory.”

“All right. No need to bother. We’ll send someone later to clear out the room. If you need help finding new accommodates, there are a few establishments offering lodge for little money in Lambeth I heard.”

The aggressive typing resumes. You are clearly dismissed.

Wrenching out of the jacket, you make no effort to hide your anger and frustration. Crawford gets a balled-up knot of dirty fabric thrown on his desk, but he seems to care little for your tantrum safe for raising a single bushy eyebrow at the flickering screen.

You stomp outside the room, slamming the door shut behind you hard enough it rattles the golden-framed paintings of rolling hills and slithering lakes on the wall.

You’ll show him. You’ll show them all.

When you catch a glimpse of yourself in the polished glass window on your way out—no wine-red jacket, nothing to identify who your employer, no former employer was; just your tired face yet eyes bright with determination, for the first time since a long while, you look like yourself again.

At the Lions Den, it isn’t just the cleaning crew mingling near the entrance. DEPRAC vans park in front of the main doors. A few officers are lost in a deep conversation about the intricately interwoven iron railings decorating the windows on the first floor. Two very tall, very sturdy Rotwell agents stand guard, self-important and with their chests puffed out as though they are guarding Buckingham Palace itself.

There is no way you’ll be able to get inside through the main entrance—even if you did, you have a gnawing suspicion security has been tripled inside since yesterday. They must have figured out someone has broken in, otherwise why would DEPRAC be here?

You duck behind naked rhododendron bushes and sneak towards the iron door leading to the back garden. Many residences in Chelsea have garden terraces; this one is a courtyard between several buildings. Slim paths wind through the back and disappear behind shoulder-high hedges. The trees, their leaves turned gold and russet with the late fall, are strung with chains of white lights, and stylish ghost lamps scattered between them that give off the familiar green glow at night. A small fountain plashes musically in the centre of the yard.

Minding the pebbles crunching under your boots, you gingerly make your way across the lounging area, past the small tables and cushioned three-piece suites—until you catch the swish of a black coat disappearing around a corner.

Just great.

You hurry after it, hearing the crunch of stone under heavy work boots somewhere behind you. DEPRAC, or worse, Rotwell agents.

The two are hiding behind a bench facing the back entrance. Before whoever strolls behind you can round the corner, you grab Lockwood by the end of his coat, and Lucy by the back of her collar, and yank them behind the trunk of an elm casting long, dark shadows on the building.

“What are you doing here?” you hiss; all three of you are cowering so close together your knees almost touch.

Lucy looks as though she is still recovering from being grabbed like that—by considering if she should swing at you or not. Lockwood on the contrary has already collected himself and put on a diplomatic smile. Yet you can see the steady, fast hammering of his pulse against his throat.

“Why, Lucy has never seen the infamous Lions Den, that’s why I took her up on a little sightseeing—” Lockwood begins.

“We need to get inside,” Lucy hisses back. Straightforward, to the point, like an arrow aiming true. You can work with that.

“Not sure if you noticed, but Rotwell dormitories have a strict jacket-only policy,” you say. You feel their eyes on you like a pair of red-hot coals.

“Where’s your jacket then?” Lucy asks.

You draw your shoulders back. “I quit. This morning. Afternoon. So, no jacket for me.” What’s a little lie if they will never find out the truth. Whatever shrapnel of self-respect you can hold, you will staple it on you as though it is the last leaf whipping on a barren branch during a cold winter storm—the last remnant of the previous season where everything was warmer and cosier.

There is silence. You can hear the soft electrical hum of the lights and ghost lamps turning on above your heads as dawn sets in, the water plashing in the stone fountain in the centre of the courtyard.

Lockwood and Lucy exchange looks—it seems like a glance, but you recognise a full blown conversation governed by face muscles and eye narrowing; it is the same whenever you and Kipps argue about something without wanting a third person to understand the topic. Kipps’s teams calls it your ‘sibling conversation.’ Lockwood and Lucy look a lot like that right now, conjuring full volumes with shared glances only.

“Just follow me,” you mumble, and duck behind a juniper tree before they can reach the conclusion of their argument. “And keep your heads down.”

You lead them away from the agents strolling down the path you’ve been on just a minute ago. Lockwood and Lucy immediately stick to your heels, careful their heads don’t poke over the hedges.

The three of you sneak around the east wing, through another iron gate and pause to listen for voices. Only a couple House Sparrows chirp in the trees above your heads. This could be a graveyard for how frequent visitors stroll by.

Finding your apartment isn’t hard. Bright, neon-yellow DEPRAC tape marks an X where the full-height window, smashed and gaping, leads inside the rooms. Glass lies strewn across the grass. The entrance to your apartment is like a dark mouth, the broken glass still sticking to its frames standing out like jagged teeth.

Again, you listen for voices. Again, only silence answers. You look back at Lockwood and Lucy. “I’ll go check things out. You stay here and keep watch. If anyone comes, let me know.”

Not interested in any disagreement or otherwise unsolicited opinions, you turn to slip inside. A hand catches your wrist. Warm fingers brush against the slip of skin where your glove ends, sending an electrifying shock up your arm. You start.

Lockwood lets go and pulls back. “Like it or not, we are in this together,” he says quietly. His voice drops to a low tremble, gaining a quality that feels like a solid caress on your skin. Heat crawls up your neck. “And as with any proper team, there are no secrets, and no holding back valuable information. Deal?”

You wrestle with what you should say. You have never been skilled at putting things delicately. Frankly, you’re better off on your own than having to worry about those two—and yet. If Lockwood and his agents had not let you stay and patched you up, what use would have your confidence now?

Not trusting your voice, you nod.

Glass shards crunch under your boots when you step inside. The whole room is demolished: furniture overturned, the cupboards have been completely and methodically emptied. All the drawers are missing. What remains of your desk is splinters and broken leftovers. Your clothes have been ripped off the hangers and thrown on the ground, some even torn. You don’t want to think about how you would have met the same end if he had gotten you into his hands.

The wardrobe’s door barely hanging on its hinges squeals when you carefully pull it open. You find your duffel bag at the bottom, and meticulously start throwing whatever intact clothes you can find inside. A few shirts, something you can wear to sleep, underwear, a few jeans, your favourite turtlenecks, sweaters. A package of unopened gloves. Your library pass that grants you access to every Archive in London—the one you thought you’d lost a week ago and technically should return to Rotwell.

An old, outdated kit with a few zip fasteners missing hangs from a hook. Whatever leftover equipment from missions you’ve hoarded over the years—salt bombs, iron fillings, hands-sized lavender packages, one canister of Greek fire, a slightly rusty iron chain—you pull out from the back corner and cram inside the kit. There’s also the last model of a layered leather harness with small pockets and buckles to hold equipment that you prefer to the standard agent belt around the waist.

It should be enough to manage simple cases as a freelance psychic operative until you find your bearings and build a reputation. Type Ones should be no problem, and most non-agents can’t tell the difference between grocery-bought salt and the extra grainy and purified salt from Sunrise Corp. You’ll have to drop by at the Thames Embankment at some point, where a lot of the cheaper merchants ply their trade under the brick arches of Hungerford Bridge.

But your first job will be making sure no one will get hurt over that stupid key ever again.

There is one more thing. On the door, tapped against the wood, is an old photograph. Matthew, Kipps, you. Age eighteen and thirteen, the boys crowd you and pull grimaces behind your beaming face as you proudly present your shining new rapier and the Fittes Manual to the camera. Seven years, but it feels like a lifetime.

People always used to say that you two have the same eyes—everything else is different like night and day. His blonde curls shine like a halo in the setting sun stealing through the curtained window in the back. He has a half-smile on his face, and his head tilted towards Kipps as though he is just on the verge of turning and telling him something. You see the same dimple on his cheek that you have when you smile, and when you squint you can make out the small smudge of pasta on the corner of his mouth you guys had earlier to celebrate you achieving third grade.

You fight the urge to touch his face on the picture—the only comfort during the first months without him. Even though you know he won’t come back, sometimes you wished an echo would reverberate, something that connects you to him apart from the memory of the last day spent together before he died. You take the picture and fold it neatly before putting it into your back. Grief can try and catch up later when you’re too busy to give it more thought.

As you get your stuff ready, something glinting on the ground catches your eye. It is a small, polished coin, flat on one side and engraved on the other. Depicted on the bottom is an infinity sign, and above is a double cross. You brush your thumb against it, but of course there is no psychic echo attached to this item. Because it belongs to a living person—that living person who must have lost it when he destroyed the interior.

Beneath your gloves your palms are slick with sweat. You stare at the symbol for some time, unblinking. The bitter taste of a certain word spreads on your tongue, closing your throat.

Unwrapping this revelation will have to wait. You move swiftly to the hallway and stand before the umbrella rack that holds your rapiers. Most of them are a little too fancy not to link them back to one of the bigger agents with their jewelled handles, but there are two with simple designs, so you decide on the 17th Century Italian Rapier.

“Take the Solinger Rapier,” comes Lockwood’s voice from behind you, startling you. You shouldn’t be surprised he doesn’t listen to orders, still you throw a glare at him over your shoulder which he promptly ignores by giving you a bright grin. “More balanced.”

“So much for being a team. Scared I’ll just run off with the evidence?”

“Ah, so you did find something. Well, we at Lockwood and Co. hold teamwork to the highest account. It is only polite I help.”

Any reply gets stuck in your throat when loud steps thump on the other side of the apartment’s door. Lockwood and you look at each other, eyes wide.

You throw your kit at him without a second thought so you can go after your other bag, and to his credit, he catches it effortlessly and bolts for the smashed window. Before you follow, you quickly snatch the Solinger Rapier and fasten it to your belt.

With your duffel bag in hand, you join Lockwood and Lucy outside. The sun is already behind the horizon, the sky a pale grey-blue, the colour of tempered steel. You take your kit back from Lockwood, ignoring his satisfied grin like a cat in the sun when he notices which rapier model dangles from your hip, and lead them back through the gardens out on Dovehouse Street.

Everything is going so smoothly. Too smoothly. Since the universe can’t have that, just as you close the iron gate behind you and set out down the street to where you guys can call a cab, a familiar voice calls out your name—a voice that always has your fight-flight-response kicking in, tending towards fight the moment you turn around and see Sebastian Vernon’s self-satisfied, arrogant grin.

Sebastian Vernon, a fellow Rotwell operative at the height of his career: he’s recently turned 19, he managed to luck out a Jack of all Trades regarding Psychic Talents and sports an impressive, sharp jawline many girls you know swoon over. The Golden Boy, The Pride of Rotwell. Of course he developed an ego as big as an inflated balloon with nicknames like that.

“Did you get my note this morning?” His voice jolts you from your thoughts. “Great drawing, isn’t it?”

“So it was you. I almost couldn’t tell; it looked like a five year old drew that.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw, his smile cools down to freezing point. “I heard they kicked you out,” he continues. “What was it this time? Botched a job? Set a customer’s house on fire?” He strides towards you with his hands behind his back, his cologne trailing like a cloak. His hair is pinned up fashionably, expression arch. He has always possessed a regal bearing. You can’t understand how he manages to look down his nose at you, even though you are one head taller.

You have crewed with him sometimes during the years, and neither have warmed to the other. You try to chalk it up to personality conflict, but deep down, you know that it is mutual dislike. Sebastian always finds ways to make you feel less-than with the barest twist of inflection or a carefully chosen word slipped like a knife between the ribs, so sharp you don’t notice the wound until you look up from a lapful of blood. And you aren’t above a blunt riposte, even if it often comes far too late.

When he’s close enough to stand in front of you, he whistles. “Like what you did with your face. Gotta compliment whoever gave you that shiner.”

“Jealous they managed that within a day when you couldn’t do it in the last five years?”

His smile turns arctic. At least that’s something you can always hold against him: kicking his ass in every in-house rapier duel since joining Rotwell.

“Always with that big mouth,” Sebastian seethes. “Whoever rearranged your face should have done us all a favour and shut you up for good.”

“I would appreciate,” Lockwood says in a conversational tone, making you startle—you have completely forgotten him and Lucy, “if you do not threaten my agency’s associate.”

He holds himself leisurely, relaxed. His long, slender fingers curl around his belt—not outright resting on his rapier handle, but close enough that he could reach it with one swift, quick movement if he wanted.

Sebastian blinks. “I’m sorry, am I supposed to know who you are?”

A corner of Lockwood’s mouth twitches. His voice is deceptively calm, his smile wolfish. “Lockwood from Lockwood and Co.”

Sebastian’s pale blue eyes widen. He looks at you. “You’re telling me you’re working with Andrew Lockwood? From the Lockwood and Co.?” A sort of deranged laugh escapes him. “I know it’s bad, but I didn’t expect it to be that bad! Surely, even you can do better than Lockwood and Co.!”

You throw a quick glance at Lockwood. He regards Sebastian in silence, and his face can be hewn from marble in its impassivity, which you realise now makes him all the more terrifying. His gaze sharpens like a hound on the scent.

“Why not ask your ginger boyfriend if he can get you a position at Fittes’s?” Sebastian’s smile crooks into a cruel half-moon. “Or has he already reached his expiration date?”

You open your mouth—and to your surprise Lucy shoulders past Lockwood and wrenches one of your bags out of your hand. Her eyes are blazing, red blotches of rage spot her cheeks and neck. “His name is Anthony Lockwood. And Kipps—Quill Kipps has a name, too! If you don’t have anything nice to say to your fellow—former colleague after everything she’s been through, then best keep your mouth shut.”

She whirls around and marches off, like a sudden autumn storm sweeping through the streets. Lockwood and you share a look; you notice his eyes glint with barely contained mirth and pride before he dashes after Lucy.

When you glance at Sebastian, he keeps his face blank, but the emotion behind it becomes unsettling and dangerous, like a vague whiff of burning plastic from an electrical outlet.

You hurry after your two new companions. Sebastian’s voice trails after you like a shadow. “Careful you don’t get your new team killed. Again.”

You draw up your shoulders, take your doubt, ball it up, and crush it into a fuel you can use.

“So,” you say when you caught up with Lockwood and Lucy. You’d offer to take your bag back, but Lucy holds it as though she can’t wait to use it as a weapon and bludgeon someone with it. “Kipps has a name, too. Nice one.”

“Shut it. I just can’t stand haughty guys like him,” Lucy grumbles, impatiently swiping hair out of her eyes.

“Funny,” Lockwood notices brightly, “how you sometimes use that same voice with me.”

Lucy rolls her eyes, but some of the tension in her shoulders dissipates.

“I gotta admit, good teamwork so far,” you say. ��I guess I can let you take a look at this.”

You flip the coin between your fingers and present it with the symbol up on your open palm.

Lockwood wastes no time plucking it from your hand, his fingertips brushing against your gloves. Even through the fabric, you feel the warmth of his skin. You put that information into a box, close it up, and shove it into a far, dark corner where you’ll hopefully forget it and it can collect dust.

“Fascinating,” Lockwood mumbles, inspecting the coin from every angle. “Does anyone know what this symbol means?”

Lucy glances at his open palm. “No.”

He said so earlier. No secrets, no holding back information. Yet this is something you can’t share yet. The fact that somehow, this symbol seems … familiar.

“No,” you echo, eyes fixed ahead on the road. Black clouds, like slabs of onyx, gather at the horizon, rolling over London. “Never seen it before.”

taglist: @helpmelmao, @simrah1012, @chloejaniceeee, @fox-bee926, @frogserotonin, @obsessed-female, @avelinageorge, @quacksonhq, @wordsarelife, @bilesxbilinskixlahey, @che-che1, @breadbrobin, @anxiousbeech, @charmingpatronus, @starcrossedluvr, @yourunstablegf, @grccies, @sisyphusmymuse, @ettadear

#lockwood show #lockwood books #lockwood & co #l&c #lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood x you #lockwood x y/n #lockwood netflix #lockwood and co reader #reader insert #lockwood reader insert #l&c reader insert #phill.l&c

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knuckle · 8 months

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on some more gentle book criticism it's wild that both of wu zetian's love interests in iron widow are highly educated & there are references to the aesthetics and structures of a scholar system, but there is utterly no casual reciting of classics, tactics, nor poetry from anyone. there are references to adapted forms of the classics, but it doesn't inform how characters talk or think (li shimin seems more like a guy who never got education than someone who memorizes poems to the point it destroyed his vision). I understand the whole "peasant frontier girl half literate" thing to an extent (even though it feels an odd choice) but there aren't even like idioms really. it feels very simplistic & uniform in characters' speaking style, and the world, language, and culture all read very flat because of that. tacticians like sima yi, an lushan, and zhuge liang too might have a more creative way to call someone a bitch or what is the point of reimagining them in this world is all I'm saying.

i think there was also a big miss of not even referencing half of the incredibly funny things that a star studded historical fiction cast could provide like zhuge liang never did something funny with a feather fan? no one had to bother him into working? no pranks with corpses? where is his ugly intelligent wife?

why not posture that an lushan's son gave the thumbs up on his murder? historically accurate and hilarious

honestly, the book shouldn't have been marketed as a reimagining of historical or quasi historical figures at all because if you know or care anything about chinese history/culture it's massively immersion breaking & xiran jay zhao should have just leaned into a fully dystopic "fallen" society with only the worst aspects of chinese culture surviving, deliberately so because of the way the populace is controlled and managed, without any dressings of valuing scholars because they clearly didn't feel confident enough or want to put in enough work to actually mesh chinese literary classics or more than a skeleton of historical context with characters that bear the names of legends.

every character could and should have just had an original name so i'm not frequently disappointed that, for example wu zetian who weaponized her children to become regent and curry favor views motherhood as the most restrictive shackle on a woman or that li shimin who assassinated his brothers in a tactical power play and expertly maneuvered the aftermath, getting his father to abdicate to him and becoming one of the most competent emperors in history, would just stand by helplessly with a bloody murder weapon while he was carried off to a death row labor camp

#iron widow

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biteofcherry · 1 month

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Happy Wetnessday

My brain is tired today so I'm gonna give you some facts to your relationship with King Curtis and you tell me how you guys met. This may be slightly inspired by your Curtis blurb from a few days ago

- he's a just ruler but can be brutal if needed but never with you. With you he's the softest (except in bed )

- you merntion something once and he does everything in his might to get it for you, including getting a delivery of your favourite fruits from your previous kingdom

- he frequently goes on rides with you, he even got you your very own white horse to contrast his black stallion

- he takes you everywhere he needs to go nd if he can't take you he writes lettersdaily and brings you a souvenir

So how did you meet?

xoxo Wetnessday anon 💦

Hiiiii Wetnessday Anon! 💕💐

I'm sure Curtis would take care of your exhaustion and find ways to switch off your brain completely and have your muscles relax into goo 😉

Now you would think that it's through arranged marriage that I ended up being with King Curtis, but it's more of an arranged misadventure. And by arranged I mean that I was attempting to organize a sneaky escape from my kingdom. And by misadventure I mean that I wasn't planning on ending up on Curtis' ship.

Curtis came to my kingdom along with four other rulers of foreign kingdoms. It was to talk potential alliances and treaties, since my older brother - a regent awaiting for the crown while our father was slowly fading away due to illness - decided he wanted to show how big his balls are. He didn't make a good impression.

But at least he didn't start any new wars, so that's definitely a success.

Since he has been getting on my nerves with his pushing and pressing to marry me to his friend (I'm a goddamn Princess and he didn't even arrange for me to marry another king, or prince; but decided to sate his disgusting friend's lewd desires to possess me), I decided to fuck it all.

My plan was to sneak off to the golden shores of King Ari's kingdom. I had naive dreams of living a simple life on the beach, even marrying a fisherman. Just being happy and in peace.

Fowever, the security in the docks was exceptionally good, especially around each ship, which forced me to do a lot of hasty moves and wrong turns. I thought I was getting on the right ship, but in the morning, when we were on the open sea, I noticed from my hiding spot below the deck that the sails aren't pure white painted with gold.

They were crispy white, yes. But they bore the black emblem of an axe. That moment I realized I was on the way to the snowy lands, ruled by the rough, unyielding King Curtis.

Few breaths later I was discovered and dragged in front of the King himself.

Curtis wasn't happy at first, annoyed at the prospect of conflict my irresponsible escape may cause. But he took me to his cabin and demanded a thorough explanation. After a long consideration, he offered me two choices.

One was that I would be given a boat and one of his sailors would row me back to my kingdom. The other was to go with him and marry him, since he saw potential gain in that for his own kingdom.

Curtis was blunt about the political lining of it, but he was also honest in his promise to allow me freedom within the borders of the castle, opportunities to explore and grow and have my own passions. He even joked (amused by my romantic musings of learning to fish and mend fishing nets) that he'd allow me to learn any craft I wanted.

Agreeing to Curtis' proposal was dictated by me really not wanting to go back home, but he quickly proved that there was love and joy in the icy cold northern kingdom. And that it wasn't covered in snow all the time, like foreigners believed.

The wedding night also proved that my body would never desire any other man.

#Wetnessday Anon

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asha-mage · 3 months

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Dimitri/Ashe, arranged marriage OR role swap

[Send me a potential AU and I'll answer with five things from that story!] OH BOY. OKAY. OH BOY. I could do either of these, but arranged marriage aus are my bread and butter so-

In this AU Christophe Gaspard was actually at the Tragedy of Duscar and was a survivor- being one of the knights who helped save Dimtri's life from the attackers. In the aftermath when the purge of Duscar in retaliation was just starting, Cristophe decides to take Dimitri and Dedue back to Castle Gaspard, rather then stay and be complicit. Once there Dimitri reveals to Lord Lonato that it wasn't the Duscari that killed his parents and the court and they need to stop the purge. But while House Duran is old and Lonato is well loved and respect in the Kingdom, he doesn't have the power to oppose Corenlia and Rufus. Christophe also says they shouldn't trust the Archbishop, as he's uncovered suspicions things about her in his time at the Academy.

The answer? Dimitri will declare Lonato his regent in the Kingdom, and to shore up Lonato's legitimacy, Dimitri will be betrothed to one of Lonato's children. Ashe being the closest to him in age and also his friend seems the obvious choice- and Ashe is of course 100% willing to do his duty by his Prince and Lord Father. The declarations are sent out, and the group heads for Fhirdiad, while making sure to stop at every castle, town, and crossroads between Castle Gaspard and the capital, sweeping up nobles and a following of commoner 'pilgrims' who want to do homage to their new King in waiting, and his new Lord Regent. The end result is that Cornelia and Rufus have no choice but yield the palace and accept Lonato as Lord Regent- or else risk setting off riots in the young Prince's name that will pull them down anyways. The purges of Duscur are halted, Rufus is strongly 'encouraged' to marry a rich merchant in that far eastern Alliance and go into comfortable exile on her country estates, and Cornelia quietly relocates to Airanrhod to plot her next move. (Rowe for his part has to pry his jaws open in order to swear the oaths of obeisance to his former bannerman- but he does it with some encouragement from Yuri. Meanwhile Rhea has no choice but to give up on her plans to have Christophe killed using the the Tragedy as cover. It's one thing to make an enemy of a minor Kingdom noble. It's quite another to kill the brother in law of a king, and son of a Lord Regent).

Dimitri and Ashe's relationship is....complicated. Ashe has always dreamed of being a Knight, of honoring his the House that took him and living up to the legends of the old romances that inspired him to give up his life of crime. Ashe would adore being Dimitri's consort as well as his knight, liege man of life and limb- but he can't help but feel he's been forced onto Dimitri as a fiance. Like he is another choice, another duty, Dimitri's station has foisted onto him. Especially given that Ashe is deeply insecure about his place in the peerage anyways- he's a barely literate former street thief adopted out of pity. He has no Crest in his blood, no great deeds or lineage to boast of. Even his adopted House for all it is as old as the Kingdom, has never been powerful. For a thousand years the House of Duran has ridden to war when the Kings of Faerghus called, true, but they have had no great heroes or legends in that time. Part of Ashe almost hopes that when Dimitri comes of age, he will dissolve the engagement- find someone more worthy, more proper, to be his consort.

On Dimitri's side of things, he of course feels like he's the one whose cost Ashe everything- bridling him to a life he couldn't possibly want, to all the dangerous viperish politics of court, to a role that will require him to give up freedom and his choices, and to a heartbroken soulsick man who is everyday wrestling with a darkness, an anger, a violence inside of him. Dimitri wants Ashe to be free- most especially he wants Ashe to be free of him, and yet there is a part of Dimitri that wants to cling to him too, a little possessive, a little selfish. That wants to shield this remaining bright innocent life, and crush the skulls of anyone would lay their fingers on it. The thought that Dimtri could have a more politically advantageous match never even occurs to Dimitri really- in his mind Ashe is perfect for the job of Prince Consort. It's just that he deserves a better king to sit beside him them Dimitri. (The irony that their both wrong about themselves and right about the other is of course lost on them- but not on the rest of the Blue Lions who don't really see a problem with any of this, and treat their joint ascension to the throne as a forgone conclusion for the better of the realm, at least, until war breaks out)

Even after Dimitri goes full Hamlet Ashe refuses to leave his side or abandon his prince. Dimitri furious does everything he can to push Ashe away convinced Ashe is only remaining with him out of the sake of duty, and that the best thing he can do to protect the one thing he has left is to drive Ashe off. But Ashe will not be moved- he refuses to see the monster Dimitri insists he is, refuses to be budged. He loves Dimitri and he will not live him to waste alone in the dark.

#fire emblem #fe3h #fire emblem: three houses #fire emblem three houses #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #ashe duran #ashe ubert #dimiashe #Lonato Duran #Lonato Gaspard #Christophe Duran #Christophe Gapsard #fe16 #dedue molinaro #yuri leclerc #Rufus Thierry Blaiddyd #Cornelia Arnim #Cleobulus #Rhea

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chubstr · 3 months

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Have you heard about Regent Row Clothing? The brand is making breathable, stylish #bigandtall shirts with stretch fabric originally developed by NASA with sizes to 6XL. Learn more & get a discount on your order: https://chubstr.com/resources/introducing-regent-row-big-tall/

#chubstr #big and tall #plus size #regent row

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illustratus · 10 months

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Soldiers in woodland near Ypres marching along 'Regent Street', 1915

by Fortunino Matania

This was drawn by Matania whilst on a visit to the front line in 1915 and was accompanied by a further written report from the artist in the same issue. The scene depicts relief soldiers marching through 'Plug Street' or Ploegsteert Woods 8 miles from Ypres on the 'Regent Street' back to the front line trenches. Many of the main thoroughfares and trench links were given nicknames such as 'Regent Street', 'Rotten Row', 'Warrington Road' and 'Hellfire Corner'. The nicknames were painted on wooden signs which were hung for reference as can be seen clearly in this illustration with the sign board nailed to a tree.

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dilemmaontwolegs · 1 year

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Midnight Blades {22}

Aemond Targaryen x princess!reader (Dark!themes) Summary: Aemond takes his seat upon the Iron Throne. Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, murder, blowjob. WC: 2318

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five || Part Six || Part Seven || Part Eight || Part Nine || Part Ten || Part Eleven || Part Twelve || Part Thirteen || Part Fourteen || Part Fifteen || Part Sixteen || Part Seventeen || Part Eighteen || Part Nineteen || Part Twenty || Part Twenty-One || Part Twenty-Two || Part Twenty-Three ||

Deep in the heart of the fleet, anchored in the harbour facing King’s Landing, you stood with Aemond and said, “I don’t like this.”

His knuckles turned white as he watched the soldiers on the ships ahead disembark to take control of the city, his fingers gripping the rail tightly. “You should try to rest, this will take some time.”

Exhaustion was heavy on your shoulders after a turbulent sleep but you knew it would be no different if you went below deck and tried to rest once more. The faceless women plagued you, mothers, daughters, sisters lined along the Scythian shores, weeping for their loved ones who were sailing to foreign shores with the very real possibility they would not return. You couldn’t erase their cries.

“We should be there with them,” you said before a shrill cry, and the reason you were not with the first ships, interrupted you. Leaving Aemond’s side, you met Nessa halfway and took Aedira into your arms and cooed, “Are you hungry, my sweet?”

Aemond curled an arm around your waist and led you beneath the deck where there was more privacy and so he could feed Kilexys, knowing the dragon and babe both had the same hungry appetite. At least this would serve as a small distraction while you waited for the dispatched ravens to return.

The response came at high noon and Aemond rushed to the deck after Ser Negan called him, finding a sealed scroll in the old commander’s hand. The wax seal broke as Aemond tore it open to read the message, the path to Red Keep had been cleared and the Lord Regent was awaiting the Prince’s arrival.

“The Lannister insults you by calling you prince,” you said as you read the message. “You are the rightful King.”

“I will be sure to remind them all of the fact.”

The ship was rowed to the docks and a carriage was already waiting to take your family to the Red Keep, a familiar face standing among the guards circling it.

“Cole,” Aemond choked a little over the name as his trainer turned, looking a little worse than you remembered.

“My King,” Ser Criston said by way of greeting and bowed his head before they embraced each other with a clap on the back. “It is good to see you.”

“And you.”

The only reason Aemond had any idea of the happenings behind the red brick walls while he was recovering in Scythe was thanks to the letters Ser Criston was able to send across the Narrow Sea. Without the intel, taking back the throne would have been less certain - especially when it was Lord Jason Lannister who had assumed the role of Regent in the absence of any Targaryen males.

“The Lords and ladies are waiting, ravens have been sent to those not already here. Are you ready?”

Aemond nodded and his jaw was set with determination. You could feel the subtle shift in him as he stood a little straighter and felt as if the world were righting itself after all the wrongs the past had brought. Even the crowds that had arrived and filled the streets behind the lines of soldiers could feel it and began to chant for the return of the dragon.

You climbed the steps to the carriage with Aedira in your arms but Aemond stopped you, taking his daughter and turning to the crowd. “Greet your Princess, my daughter, Aedira Targaryen.”

Aedira blinked at the cheers and looked around curiously as the soldiers held the crowds back. Most of the revellers were supportive and threw flowers into the path of the carriage but the odd individual was taken away when they shouted threats or tried to break the line with a weapon in their hands.

You were more than prepared to kill anyone who tried to stop your family from reaching Red Keep, and so were your soldiers as the carriage left the docks.

The carriage came to a stop inside the walls of Red Keep and the gate was closed securely behind. White cloaked guards stationed themselves outside the carriage and you handed Aedira to Nessa so that your hands were free to reach for your sword should you need. With one last look shared with Aemond, there was no turning back now and after a deep breath he opened the carriage door and stepped into the sun.

The argument had been cyclical since Aemond stepped into the throne room and pointed Dark Sister at the man sat atop the Iron Throne. Lord Lannister still held his self-imposed position on the seat while Aemond was fast losing his patience.

“I have returned to ensure peace to the kingdoms that are rightfully mine as a trueborn Targaryen,” Aemond growled as he took a step closer.

Jason scoffed as he tapped his finger over the metal arm of the throne, “You bring a legion offering violence in the name of peace!”

“The army that fills the harbour and the streets are to ensure peace, and if there is a threat to that vision then yes, I will invoke them. Do not give reason to use such force. Swear obedience and loyalty to me as King and let’s put the bloodshed behind us.”

Aemond stared down at each Lord and Lady gathered in the great room, testing their will and taking note of who faltered before one by one they dropped to their knees. Satisfied by the sight, he turned back to Jason. “Remove yourself from my seat before I remove your head from your shoulders.”

Jason looked at the others knelt and hesitated, he had tasted the power of being King and was no longer willing to relinquish that. Dark Sister flashed as Aemond struck, Jason’s hand barely having time to draw his sword before his head tumbled to the floor.

“If anyone else dare thinks to claim what is mine, remember this moment.” Aemond tossed the slumped body of Lord Lannister to the floor and took his seat, caring not for the blood that seeped into his cloak. “Traitors will be dealt with swiftly and anyone suspected of treason will find their heads spiked to the wall. Any questions?”

A Lord you recognised as the leader of House Baratheon rose to his feet. “What if our questions are not to your liking, King Aemond, will we suffer the same fate as Jason?”

Aemond thrummed his fingers over the arm that you stood beside and he sighed as he looked at the blood seeping across the floor, “I will not kill over a question.”

“Then I must ask, what are your plans with the Scythian force? Who are they loyal to?”

Aemond placed his hand on your lower back and you stepped forward to answer Lord Baratheon, “They are loyal to me, as heir to the Oaken Throne, and I am loyal to my husband. Once the Seven Kingdoms are in accordance with his rule then they will return to Scythe, except for the royal guards. They will remain to protect the future Queen and King Consort of Scythe as well as our heir, Princess Aedira.”

Lord Baratheon nodded to himself as he absorbed the information before he had one final question, “And how long are we expected to co-exist with the very soldiers many of Westeros’ Houses have marched against under the Targaryen reign?”

You smiled and from the step he took back you knew it was not a pleasant one. “That is entirely dependent on the lot of you and your actions from this day.”

He swallowed deeply and fell silent with a respective bow.

You looked over the other’s, watching the shifts of their shoes as they squirmed and fingers that twitched for the reassuring feel of their swords. “I am sure there are a great many more questions that may arise, and after the public crowning of King Aemond this evening we will be happy to hold court and listen, for now I would suggest taking a moment to collect yourselves and think wisely.” Your eyes flicked to the body on the floor and many other pairs followed suit. “We do not wish to see more lives lost.”

“Does this foreigner speak on behalf of the crown?” The new Lord Lannister, Jason’s twin brother Tyland, asked.

Aemond rose from the throne so he was standing at your side. “Careful, Tyland, that is your Queen you speak of.”

Tyland spread his arms open with an apologetic smile. “I mean no disrespect, but she is a foreigner.”

“She is Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and is to be treated as such.” Aemond let his words echo across the room until the silence grew heavy and he was satisfied the words had sunk in. “I expect to see you all at the ceremony.”

They took the dismissal gratefully and slipped from the room, whispering among themselves as they left.

“That went better than planned,” Aemond said with a sigh as he dropped back into the throne and pulled you onto his lap and spoke to Ser Criston. “Send messages to the Lords Baratheon, Lannister and Tully. I wish to have them on my council.” You frowned at the choices and Aemond laughed at the sight. “You don’t agree?”

You chewed your lip before answering, “Tyland was on your father’s council, can he be trusted?”

“Otto did not have his ear, nor could he find a way to blackmail him,” Aemond said with a shrug. “He holds honour in high regard and did not immediately draw his sword when his brother fell.”

“All right, and the last two seats?”

“I will need a Hand,” he said as he looked at Ser Criston once again. “Someone loyal and trustworthy to my family. Cole?”

Ser Criston smiled, though there was a sadness to it. “It would be an honour, your grace.”

“And you,” Aemond said as he ran his hand along your jaw, turning you to face him. “There are thousands of years of tradition we need to break for our daughter’s sake. We shall start with your seat upon the council.”

Forgetting that the room was full of guards, you kissed your husband until you were breathless and needy. Aemond pushed you to your feet and smirked at your unsteady legs before he followed, his arm curling around your waist as he made his way to the doors.

“Have that dealt with while we are gone,” Aemond said as he looked over his shoulder at the body. “And have the crowns retrieved from the treasury.”

“Yes, your grace,” Cole replied as you left, his voice following with orders for the mess to be cleaned and the body disposed of.

The door to your old chamber had barely closed when Aemond’s mouth was back on yours, his teeth biting at your lip until you gasped for him. “Are we not going to talk?”

“After,” Aemond growled as he tore the laces to your dress and pulled it from your body. “I need my queen first.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the title and you pushed Aemond’s back to the wall as a fever broke across your skin. You dropped to your knees as you freed his cock and he groaned as you slowly licked the length of him before taking him into your mouth. You took your time tasting him and teasing him, indulging in the control he ceded to you until the muscles under your hands tensed and he came with a deep growl.

The salty sweet cum coated your tongue before swallowing it and he pulled you to your feet, spinning you against the wall. “My turn.”

There was no space left in the great room with the high born and rich merchants filing in to see the coronation. The Dragon Pit would still be under repair for the foreseeable future so the Red Keep would have to suffice as the High Septon led Aemond through the aisle of soldiers and up to the throne.

Aemond had chosen a crown that had not been worn since his family left old Valyria and arrived in Westeros, one made of Valyrian Steel. He had explained that the crown had been worn during a time of upheaval and ushered in a new age for the Targaryens, such as he was hoping to do again. He had briefly pondered the idea of melting the salvaged crowns that his brother and his sister had worn but thought the crowns served as a reminder to the lessons that had been learned.

You couldn’t stop the smile growing on your face as you held Aedira close and watched the crown be placed upon Aemond’s head. Pride swelled in your chest as he rose from the last kneel he would ever take and drew Dark Sister, raising the blade to the chandelier.

Your voice joined the chorus as the crowd cheered for Aemond Targaryen the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Prince of Scythe. A few guests were startled by the last title but as you had become a princess of Westeros upon your marriage he had become a prince of Scythe.

Aemond took your hand and glanced at the diadem resting on your head, so very delicate compared to his heavy set crown. You could see the trepidation in his eye that no one else would notice given his relaxed demeanour and you squeezed his hand as you leaned in closer. “You will be a great King.”

His lip curled into a wry smile as he asked, “Is that a prophecy?”

“No,” you said with a chuckle, “it is a promise.”

He lifted your joined hands to the crowd and you heard his quiet whisper through the joyous shouts, “For Aedira, for you.”

Click here for Part Twenty-Three.

Taglist: @hopebaker , @xcharlottemikaelsonx , @eddiemunson17 , @ninjabritches , @solacestyles , @hideing , @missusnora , @marrianena , @jonsncws , @dudfahsn , @queenofterrasen418 , @naeviahope , @averagethottie , @evilcherries , @delusionsofnostalgia , @le-who-zer-her , @readsalot73 , @thewew , @m-indkiller , @blackundertaker , @insxgtt , @adoringanakin ,

#aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen smut #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond imagine #aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfic #hotd fanfic

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strong-with-the-sarcasm · 1 month

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part 16 - but I know where to start

“Feeling my way through the darkness, guided by a beating heart. I can’t tell where the journey will end, but I know where to start.” -Wake Me Up by Avicii

Regent Masterlist Part 15

Was it a cop-out to summon Jazz back to the Far Frozen? Yes. Did Danny particularly care? Nope!

Jason was comfortable, propped up with a book Ghostwriter who had popped by to personally deliver. How the ghost had known about Jason Phantom wasn’t going to question, but he suspected GW kept an eye on the bookworms that passed through the Realms- or at least those close to the “Royal family”. Phantom wasn’t much for reading, not unless it was space-related, but he enjoyed listening to the Liminal man reading out loud. He had a brash voice, accented with a cadence like those from Crime Alley, but it only underscored the passion he held for reading. Phantom didn’t interrupt him once, not even when the halfa pulled out his ecto-phone and texted Ellie.

(His little sister was in Kansas, spending time with another clone she’d literally run into.)

Almost another full day's cycle passed before Phantom realized Jason had fallen back asleep, a book resting open on his broad chest and soft snores coming from the man.

Yeah, he could see how he and Jazz fit together so well.

There was just something about the Once-Revenant, a part of what made him Jason, that resonated with the Phantom. It’s what made him talk to the man as Red Hood, feel comfortable enough to stay in his company for so long, trust him with his older sister- the person who raised him.

(Spent her birthday money to get him those cheap plastic glow-in-the-dark stars.)

(Taught him how to read.)

(Held him as the nightmares of his death shook him to his core.)

(Did not fear him.)

(Not as Phantom, Danny, or Dan.)

(Loves him.)

(Mourns him.)

(He would never tell her, but he understood how Dan could succumb to grief.)

(Jazz was his.)

(His first friend, his true mother, his rock.)

(She wouldn’t have claimed Regency without that tie.)

Remix & Original chat

Remix: Lol hows weenie Original: jasons x3 ur size pipsqeak Remix: ur point? Original: lol hes ok frosty says he got hurt wth shrpnel new healed core + shrapnel = bad time Remix: sucks 2 b him Original: so tru Whre r u? Remix: omw 2 spain barcelona Original: ooh send pics if u need me call Remix: pics or nay gotcha txt u l8r luv u Original: love u 2

Safely back in the living Realm and tucked away in Jason’s apartment, Jazz and Danny tried to investigate the bomb- unfortunately there was nothing for them to do but wait.

On the upside, the Justice League was about to hit the UN full force with all the subtlety of a tsunami and who had front row seats to the drama?

Yep, the Regent. Jazz wasn’t exactly thrilled that her presence was requested, even though it was on the path to the desired outcome the Nightingale siblings had fought for, but both her soulmate boyfriend and little brother would be by her side as support.

The Birds and the Bats Group Chat

Zombie: I lived bitch Spoiler-Alert: Jason! Fly-Like-A-Dick: Little Wing! Blood_Heir: Todd. Zombie: don’t sound too excited there demon brat. Blood_Heir: Never. Sleep_When_Im_Dead: Where have you been? Zombie: Stayed overnight at my Docs for observation. Fly-Like-A-Dick: For three days? Blood_Heir: Fail to find that humorous Todd. Zombie: wasn’t meant to be a joke brat. I was actually at my Docs. Zombie: Got a shovel talk from my girlfriends little brother too. Spoiler-Alert: Whoa GIRLFRIEND!!!! 😱 Jason! Why is this the first were hearing this??? Fly-Like-A-Dick: Little Wing!!!!!! Quiet_Dancer: 🤗 Zombie: At least Cass and Dickiebird are happy for me Spoiler-Alert: Ecstatic! But details! Now. Zombie: No. Fly-Like-A-Dick: Is she a redhead??? Sleep_When_Im_Dead: Jasmine Nightingale. Zombie: Babs. Oracle_of_Gotham: On it. [member Sleep_When_Im_Dead has been blocked from the group.] Spoiler-Alert: too late!!!!!! Cass with me! Quiet_Dancer: 🫡 Oracle_of_Gotham: DENIED Batdad: Welcome back Jaylad. Zombie: Old man You and I need to have a talk with words Fly-Like-A-Dick: battle stations everyone!!!

Council of Uncaged Birds

Queen_Regent: Ellie, I want you to meet Jason. Officially meet him. WanderingPrincess: eh??? temp said wasnt srs Queen_Regent: Danny No InfiniteStarPrince: Danny YES Frosty said they are soulmates!!!!!! WanderingPrincess: 🤯😱 wha th fuck!!!1 Queen_Regent: language! WanderingPrincess: ENGLISH imma get a shovel gotta undead weenie 2 bury.

Template. [user InfiniteStarPrince has left the chat] WanderingPrincess: coward Queen_Regent: I have many regrets. WanderingPrincess: u luv us 👻

Lady & Knight chat Lady: Jay remember when I told you I wanted you to meet Ellie? Knight: She’s bringing a shovel isn’t she. Lady: I love how brilliant you are. Knight: I aim to please.

Lady & Knight chat Knight: you patrolling tonight? Lady: wasnt planning on it Knight: wanna meet me? Lady: same time same place? Knight: you know it

The abolishment of the Anti-Ecto Acts officially happened at three pm on a dreary Gotham Tuesday. Jazz was cuddled with Jason on his couch, dozing off to his heartbeat as he read Pride and Prejudice for the thousandth time. The comfortable silence they had wrapped themselves in only occasionally broken by Jason turning a page was completely shattered when Jazz’s phone rang with the Ghostbusters theme song.

“Danny?” Jazz answered surprised, “School isn’t out yet, what’s wrong?” She was greeted by Danny’s heaving cries as he replied.

“Batman, he- he did it!” Danny sobbed, “He saved us.”

It clicked then. The Dark Knight had completed the task he was entrusted with by a Spirit of Protection, the Once and Future Star King, and unknowingly kept the promise a ghost made to a young Jasmine Fenton.

One day my son will stop this. All of this. You only need to be strong. Take care of yourself and your brother. I promise.

She had waited years for the promise to be fulfilled, the sworn promise of the dead to a living child. Jasmine was a patient soul, but she had still been a child that night in Gotham.

(The Drs. Fenton believing the stories about a ghostly vigilante patrolling the streets, a never aging child by their side.) (Dragging their children with them. ) (Hungry and cold.) (A dead man who swore his son would end their torment one day.)

(She should’ve known it wouldn’t come fast enough to save Danny.)

How was she to know the ghost was speaking of the Realms inhabitants, not the abused and neglected children of Ghost Hunters? How was she to know that the hope such a promise kindled wasn’t hers to keep? Jason wrapped his arms around her, the book set aside and her phone gently taken from her grasp to be put on speaker so they could both talk to her little brother. Danny had dissolved from heaving sobs to muffled hiccups, seemingly now that he’d shared the news with his sister.

“He really did,” she muttered. “He really did it.”

(The furry fucker actually did it.) (She’d known that he was going to try, but humans are stubborn creatures.)

A/N: Hi! Welcome to an update for the Regent. Just to be fully transparent with each of my readers - The Regent is still on Hiatus.

I have deleted so much of my writing because I don't like the flow/dialogue/pacing. Original ending thrown out and rewritten twice- still don't care for it. Who knew something other than Angst would be so difficult.

(Not me!)

Having said that, this entry is of course beta'd by the wonderful @meditating-cat who has put up with my random messages.

(You are amazing!)

(In all honesty, I wish I could just skip right to the ending because at least I know 100% I can get it just right....eventually.)

Thanks for reading and happy easter!

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