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endless-ineffabilities · 2 years

Text

and what of your love?

Aemond Targaryen x f!Reader (nsfw / 18+)

part two of the prūmia va perzys (heart on fire) series

part one: 'don't you love me?' , part three: the flames that divide , part four: the aftermath

themes: angst (obvi), smut, mention of violence/death, language, dragonrider!reader (her house is not stated)

word count: 4.6k ▪︎ masterlist

Aemond Targaryen is to be married, but his heart is not in it. In fact, he feels as if he hasn't had a heart ever since you left.

The message sits on your desk, the words all too vivid and clear, as if mocking you.

"You are cordially requested to bear witness to the union of Prince Aemond Targaryen and his future consort, Lady Alys Rivers..."

You had rushed through the words, in utter disbelief, your heart breaking all the while. Towards the end, it also stated, “His Royal Highness, King Aegon II, wishes to extend a truce, only to the Lady y/n, for the entire duration of the royal festivities, at the behest of Prince Aemond."

Oh please.

It has been over a year since you last saw him in your field, and ever since that night, you've tried your hardest to erase him from your heart. When he played a hand in the death of Lucerys, you were sure that would be the nail in the coffin of whatever love you may have had for him. Sweet, brave Luke who grew to become a brother to you. He was too young. The pain was crippling, the rage it unravelled was immeasurable.

You tell yourself, every day, every hour, that Aemond is lost. The man you once loved, the Prince who relentlessly pursued you, the lover who promised you the world - was no more.

But even you can't fool yourself.

Every time word reaches you of his latest crime, you don't feel hate. You want to only be angry, you should be. But you just can't.

He will always be your Aemond. You may condemn his actions, but you could never cut yourself free of him. He will always have a part of you, which is why you haven't taken any other lover.

But, apparently, he has.

The Lady Alys Rivers was rumoured to be beautiful, and enchanting. The perfect match for the equally alluring young prince.

Oh, seven hells. This must be a joke. Surely, he doesn't think I would actually deign to attend this union.

When you gave word to Daemon and Rhaenyra, they were sure that Aemond is merely toying with you. They knew all too well about your past affair, and seemed assured that this invitation was just a way for Aemond to get under your skin. To get you to lower your defenses.

There was no way you would cross over into enemy territory, given the heightened scale of the ongoing war.

Besides, why the fuck would you want to?

If he truly has forgotten me, if he has truly fallen for another, then I must move on. He no longer is my Aemond. He is hers.

Resolute, you take the parchment, the confirmation of what you have lost, and throw it into the hearth.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

The revelry is in full swing, and the lords and ladies of the court are jovially partaking in the week-long festivities, customary before a grand wedding of a prince of the Seven Kingdoms. Albeit now there is an atmosphere of gloom. A sense of unease due to the war is felt by most, and tonight, ale and dancing and fucking are the thoughtless remedies.

The groom, Prince Aemond, sits stoically at the High Table. His inebriated King brother sits to his left, and his bride, Lady Alys, to his right.

She keeps one hand on him, as she does every time, as if she fears that he might run away.

He has half a mind to do just that, plotting as he sips his wine. You had not showed up. You had not even given any notice of having received the invitation.

Does she know I am to be married? Does she not care?

Aemond downs his cup of wine in one long swig, to which his brother cheers, and pats him on the back.

His soon-to-be wife, glances at him chastisingly, and says, "Slowly, my love, the feast has only just begun."

My love. Aemond whips his head to her in a flash, "I told you not to call me that. Call me whatever you wish, just not that."

Lady Alys flinches at his tone, "Careful with how you address me, Aemond. I am your wife."

Aemond takes another swig after his cup has been filled, "Not yet."

"It makes no difference. I will be, soon," his consort smiles, clearly satisfied with herself, "Dance with me, husband?"

"Hmm," he tries to remain polite, although it's taking much resolve, "you go ahead. I'll remain here for now."

She plants a heavy kiss on his cheek, giggling, and joins the dance, getting lost in the crowd.

Aemond muses about his consort, how provocative and sly she is. The reason why he chose her, after the incessant nagging from his mother Alicent that he should be married, is because she's just about the least likely prospect.

Alicent immediately wanted to marry him off to some other highborn lady, someone more proper. Not the bastard daughter of House Strong, but he disagreed. He had no personal desire to be married, anyway, and is merely performing his duty. Marrying for love was clearly out of the cards, since you...

You. Aemond takes another gulp of wine.

He chose Alys on a whim, but also because she was the most amusing out of his options. She is beautiful, brazen with her words, and didn't care much for pomp and nobility. And, well, she was the one who is the most similar to you. Although, she can never hold a candle to your hold on Aemond's heart.

Aemond didn't love her, no, but he is able to tolerate her at least. He once thought that, perhaps, if you had never been in the picture, maybe Alys might have been able to steal his heart instead.

But you are. And you had.

He wonders if you still feel longing, if you also possess that incessant emptiness in your chest. If you still... love...

Fuck. I need her. He takes another drink.

"Brother," Aegon claps him on the shoulder loudly, jeering, "I've never seen you swig ale that quickly. Don't worry about losing your bachelorhood. You're the fucking Prince! You can have any bedmate you want, and your wife can't say a single thing."

There is it again. Wife. Aemond begins to think it vile. A pang of pity also befalls him for his dear sister Helaena, that she should be saddled with an imbecile of a spouse such as Aegon.

Fortunately, in a twisted way, it may even be beneficial for Helaena that her husband sleeps around, so that she may constantly not be on the receiving end of his nightly drunken stupors.

He wonders, dread and jealousy enveloping him, if you had taken anyone to wed. If he is anything like Aegon is as a husband, then war be damned. He would take Vhagar, reach wherever you and that mongrel may be, and end him.

In truth, even if your chosen consort would be the kindest lord in all of the Seven Kingdoms, Aemond would still crush him. He would burn him to the ground.

Doesn’t she care the same? Why isn’t she here now, putting a halt to this farce of a marriage?

Perhaps, she doesn’t trust me. Of course, why would she? Given what I’ve done…

“I know why your face is so sour,” his drunken brother addresses him again, “It’s because of Lady y/n’s absence, is it not? Well, she may still be present at the actual wedding ceremony.”

“You reek of ale, brother. Drinking like a fucking Braavosi sea horse, as always.” Aemond snaps back, getting tense at the subject of you being brought up.

“Why must you be so into that bitch, Aemond?,” Aegon continues his tirade, “You have a lusty wife now, and you can have a thousand whores besides.”

In an instant, Aemond slams his fist on the table and gets off his seat, drawing everyone’s attention to him. Aegon, the King, shirks away from his brother, knowing it was unwise to get on his nerve. Despite jesting with him so often, he may have forgotten that he shouldn’t have mentioned you in that way.

The Kingsguard draw close, prepared to defend their king. Ser Criston Cole rushes over to Aemond, “Stand down, my prince. Not here.”

Aemond glares at his brother, and if looks could kill…

Until he mumbles that sinister, “Hmm.” He composes himself, and raises a hand up to the guards, and to the crowd, “Carry on.”

The feast reluctantly restarts at first, but moments after, the whole exchange was forgotten.

But Aemond can no longer just sit there. If you weren’t going to come to the feast, or to the wedding, then there may be another way to get you to him.

He stands, ignoring the questioning looks coming his way, and he stalks out of the great hall.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

It has been a long evening, mostly spent in the Black Council, analysing the current trajectory of the war. Everyone was in agreement that the Greens have not made any significant measures due to the ongoing wedding festivities of one Prince Aemond.

Half of the council wanted to strike then, while they were occupied with all that pompous nonsense, while the other half favoured a temporary truce, at least until the nuptials have been finalized, for the sake of upholding and respecting Westerosi tradition.

Daemon, being Daemon, had only this to say, “Oh, who cares if my one-eyed nephew will be wed? All our eggs will be there, drowned in booze, in one basket. We should ride and just burn everything down.”

But that was the problem. Everyone would indeed be there. Even the lords and ladies, the maesters, the children, who were simply forced to side with the Greens, out of fear for their lives. Rhaenyra didn’t want any more unnecessary bloodshed, to which you agree.

You return to your chambers, exhausted, mostly due to the sore subject of Aemond’s wedding having been mentioned often. You were grateful to Rhaenyra, who was quick to change the matter of discussion, when she noticed you were growing uncomfortable.

Walking over to your table, you notice a plain black box, one that was not there when you left. You trace your fingers over it, feeling the smooth wooden exterior, and carefully lift the lid.

Your heart stops.

Gillyflower.

A cluster of fresh gillyflower lay inside, in a bright burst of red and violet. The flower that grew so wildly in that field. Yours and Aemond’s.

This used to be your tradition. If either of you wished to meet the other there, all you had to do was surreptitiously send some gillyflower. Like your own shared secret message.

Normally, there would be have been a bit of parchment, with sweet words imprinted.

My love.

My flower.

Come to me.

Each day without you is one I cannot bear.

Now, there was none. But you are sure, this can only be from Aemond.

Should I…? What if it’s a trap?

You mind races, heart beating wildly. You want nothing more than to take the risk, but what of your allegiance? Would you be betraying them? You should be concerned for your safety, but you also knew, he would never hurt you.

You need answers. You need revenge. You need Ae…

Oh, seven hells. Grabbing your sword, and putting on your cloak, you make your way out the door.

“Going somewhere?”, Daemon stands, leaning against the wall, as if expecting you to come out at any moment.

“Daemon,” you say, surprised. The cloak and the sheathed sword surely gave you away.

“It’s my nephew, isn’t it?”

“What-“

“I intercepted the messenger who brought over that box. I wondered about the contents, but then, who else could it be from?”

“Hmm,” you whisper, knowing it futile to hide anything from Daemon, “he wishes to meet me. I know not what for.”

“And you’re going.” He replies, as if stating a fact.

You nod, thinking of the right thing to say next. About how you will never betray Rhaenyra, how you only need to see him even if you’re not sure why, how you will be able to fend for yourself.

But your worries are quelled when Daemon says, “You better hurry then.”

“Daemon,” you say, not expecting him to just let this slide so easily.

“Listen, y/n, I trust you. I trust that you know what you’re doing,” he moves closer to you, “As for my nephew, he may be a bloody monster, and I may never forgive him, but I’m sure he thinks himself lucky to have someone like you to love him truly.”

You stare at him in admiration. There was a reason why Daemon drew so many people to him. He was cunning and highly dangerous, yes. But he was also intelligent and fair.

“I myself think the same way in that I have Rhaenyra to love me, as wretched as I am,” he smiles, and nudges your shoulder, “Go.”

You start to walk away, but you turn back once more, “Thank you, Daemon.”

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

The field is more or less the same, although the growth of gillyflower has become more relentless, pockets of red and violet and white spread all throughout.

You dismount from your dragon, close to Vhagar, and the great and terrifying beast only grunts in recognition. You were one of the only two people whom she was comfortable around, after your many trysts spent riding with Aemond.

“Hello again, you beauty,” you call out to her, “Where is your master, hmm?”

The field itself was empty, but there was a new fixture in the distance, close to the hills. A small, stone cabin, with faint candlelight burning inside.

Steeling yourself, you make your way over, knowing that nothing can truly prepare you for what’s to come.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

“My love.”

You hear him the moment you walk inside, and you have to stop yourself from running straight into his arms. You raise your head, and finally meet his gaze.

Aemond looks rougher, more rugged. As if the war has taken its toll. All the fighting must have strained him, as his figure is still lean and lithe but more muscular.

“Aemond,” you finally say, taking a quick glance around the room. It’s a humble space, with a large bed pushed up against the wall, candles haphazardly placed around the room. You see a bunch of gillyflower on a round table, weapons hung neatly above the fireplace, as well as…

Aemond follows your eyeline, and takes the framed image from the wall.

“Do you wish to see it?” he says, but he’s already handing it to you.

Taking it in your hands, you study the image containing a likeness of you. Every detail of your face, to your neck, down to your shoulders, portrayed by an artist’s skilled hand.

You try to comprehend what the fuck exactly it is you’re looking at, and you also can’t seem to grasp how cordial Aemond is acting about everything.

As if he hadn’t played a hand in the demise of some people you truly cared for.

You slowly hand the painting back to him, the words stuck in your throat.

He hangs it back up, “Beautiful, isn’t it, my love? I had it made not too long ago. As for this place, well, I needed somewhere where I can still have you. One way or another.”

“What are you talking about?” you manage to say.

“I haven’t been able to see you in far too long, my love. Too. Long.”

“There’s a clear reason for that, Aemond,” you say firmly, growing uneasy at the unhinged look in his eye, unblinking, devouring the sight of you.

He reaches for your hands, and you instinctively flinch backwards.

“Don’t, Aemond.”

“Why not, hmm?” he circles you, pacing ever so slowly, stopping just behind you, “You came here on your own volition, pet. You wanted to come, to see me.”

“I came to talk.”

“Hmm,” he makes the low noise that he always does, and it makes you want to just capture that sound from his lips with your own. He lowers the hood of your cloak, and you just stand there, letting the situation unfold.

Aemond’s fingers brush purposefully against the back of your neck as he takes your cloak off, and leaves in it a pile by your feet.

He steps closer, and you feel his breath against your neck. Using one hand, he pulls you to his chest. You don’t want to turn around and face him, afraid you might lose control, but you also can’t find it in you to move away.

“You built this place,” you state, your voice flat.

“This is our secret place, y/n,” he whispers close to your ear, “Every corner is a tribute to you. There is your picture, your favourite flowers, the sheets are of your favourite colour, the volumes on the mantel are the stories you like the most. Through this, I have some way of being with you.”

“Aemond,” you force yourself to pull away from him, “my love.”

“You finally said it,” he smiles.

“What?” you lean against a wall.

“My love,” he says, and moves to sit on a chair opposite you, “you’ve called me by name since you arrived, until then. Even though I don’t mind the way my name rolls off of your sweet tongue.”

“Stop,” you remind yourself that you came here for answers, “why did you call me here? Aren’t you about to wed?”

“Only for the sake of my duty, to further the Targaryen line.”

“Really? Why Alys Rivers then? Why not some highborn, legitimate lady?” your voice grows cold, and Aemond smirks at your jealousy.

“Because I simply don’t care. It pisses mother off, and you as well, it seems.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re free to wed whomever you wish, Aemond.”

“No,” he says, “I am not. Otherwise, I would have wed you a long time ago.”

“Well, your actions have forever buried that possibility,” you say too quickly, ire reflected in your words.

He flinches at your words, his lips pursing, “I only do what I have to do.”

“You didn’t have to kill Luke!” you lunge forward, your hand flying to the hilt of your sword by your waist.

Aemond notices your movement, but does nothing, “Hmm, Luke was merely a casualty in this war.”

“He was your family, Aemond. He was just a child. Why?”

He says nothing, and looks at you up and down, assessing your growing distress.

“Do you even regret it?” you ask.

A long pause passes, until he says, “I only regret that it has caused you pain.”

“Wrong answer, Aemond.” You unsheathe your sword, holding it out straight it front of you, “Fight me.”

This is the only right thing you can think of doing. The other things that have crossed your mind were completely unsavoury, unthinkable acts to do with the murderer who caused the death of your friend. You shouldn’t reach for him, you shouldn’t kiss him, you shouldn’t admire him, you shouldn’t run your fingers down his scar with reverence. Never again.

So, perhaps, you should bring him to justice.

“My love,” his tone is amused, and you grow even more frustrated.

“Get your sword.”

He stands, a sly curve on his prominent bowed lips.

My brave girl, he thinks.

“You’re so beautiful when you’re angry.”

For fuck’s sake, Aemond. No. “Your sword, Aemond.”

He backs away slowly to where his sword hangs above the fireplace, takes it, and diligently twirls it in one hand.

Your nerve starts to fail. Aemond was surely a better swordsman; he has been furiously training all his life. But, well, so have you.

Long ago, you and him even trained together. You may stand a chance.

“Your move, pet,” he says, tauntingly.

You cross the distance between the two of you, and deal the first parry, your blades connecting loudly in the air. An electric pause occurs, and Aemond smirks at you.

You dodge to the side, and lunge at him again. He easily deflects the blow.

You circle each other, and it’s unclear as to who is the predator and who is the prey.

Aemond deals a wide overhead arch, and you’re quick to block it halfway. This brings his face dangerously close to yours, and he whispers, nearly against your lips, “Surrender, my love.”

“Never,” you lunge backwards again, and Aemond twirls his sword smoothly, once, twice, and another final time.

Then, he spins in a circle, his sword a mere blur in the air, before delivering his final stroke, pushing you against the wall, the edge of his blade an inch away from your neck.

But, you were able to anticipate this, at the last second, as your sword slipped from your grasp.

“I win, pet. You’re mine.”

“Think again.” you whisper, and when he looks down, he finally notices the sharp edge of your knife poking at his ribs.

He looks at you in awe, “Well, I suppose we both have each other then, my love.”

He lunges forward, and claims your lips in a searing kiss. Wild, and passionate, as if to make up for lost time. Your respective blades remain where they are, and he muses, “Hmm, you know, we could just kill each other here. A glorious lovers’ death.”

“Aemond,” you say, out of breath from the kiss, and let your knife clatter to the floor.

He does the same with his sword, and pushes you against the wall once more, using his whole body to keep you in place.

“Tell me what you came for, my love. The truth.”

“I…” you say, deciding to let everything go, “I came for you.”

That is all he needed. And, for you, it feels freeing to allow yourself to just want Aemond. To love him. Despite what’s he has done, and how wrong this may be.

Your Aemond.

You run your fingers down the side of his face, and he shuts his eye in ecstasy. Your fingers stop at his eyepatch, asking permission, and he nods once, immediately.

His sapphire eye never fails to take your breath away. If anything, it only made him look otherworldly. Ethereal.

“Beautiful,” you whisper, and his heart swells.

He takes your face in his hand, admiration raw in his expression. Then he lifts you, wrapping your legs around his waist.

Your lips battle each other, as he strides over to the bed. He gently lowers you, and your arms naturally reach for his neck, bringing him down with you.

He chuckles deeply, flattered by your eagerness, “Patience, my love.”

“I have been patient,” you respond, as he nips at your neck, “but now I just want to take.”

“Hmm,” he muses, “I’ve missed your fire.”

“I’ve missed my dragon.”

“And,” he says, softly, pausing to kiss you, “a dragon…” another kiss, “is nothing…”, and another, “without its fire.”

“Oh, Aemond.”

He presses his forehead to yours, “I am lost without you.”

He makes swift work of untying your dress, only pausing to leave kisses down your body, until you’re left in a sheer white shift. You sit up, helping him remove his tunic, admiring every ripple of muscle, every new scar, every stretch of his glowing skin. His hair had come loose, the signature Targaryen silver like an aura surrounding him.

When he’s undressed, he takes the final piece of clothing off of you, the white shift that leaves nothing to the imagination, and throws that to the floor with the rest.

You begin a sort of dance, one that you both know so well, repeated over many sleepless nights filled with passion.

He always starts with you, lowering himself down to your heat. You almost come undone every time you see him, lips close to your entrance, before he makes the first taste. His eye gleams up at you, and then he begins.

Tongue swirling at your entrance, while his thumb masterfully plays with your folds. He keeps at it for a long moment, before he takes a second to look you right in the eye while he brings his fingers to his lips.

“Mmm,” he breathes, then he lowers his lips to your wet cunt once more.

“Aemond,” your fist bunch up at the sheets, your back arches, your toes curl.

He makes you tremble, your breath hitching at intervals.

He feels you getting close, so he licks one last strip upward, “Not yet, my love.”

“Yes, my prince.”

“Hmm, say that again,” he gets up, positioning his knees on either side of your thighs.

“My Prince Aemond,” you say, “Mine.”

“Yours,” he purrs.

He takes your lips again, an action you will never grow tired of, his fingers gripping your hair. He kisses down your cheek, your jaw, then your neck. He sucks at the flesh, marking his territory, making you press your pelvis onto his, feeling the length of his hardened shaft.

“Hmm,” he shivers, “fuck.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him to position himself, and he does.

His pushes his tip to your cunt. Torturously, but only just.

“Oh, for gods’ sake,” you moan, “come inside me, Aemond.”

He laughs, “As you wish, my love.”

He stretches you wide, pushing inch by inch, and you have to grow accustomed to his size once more.

“Oh, fuck,” you moan.

“Does it hurt badly, my love?” he is quick to ask, watching your face intently.

“It’s okay,” you grip the back of his neck, “keep going.”

With one deep grunt, he fills you completely, thrusting deep.

He moans, music to your ears, and whispers your name. He rolls his hips backward, then forward again, the motion more rough this time, moving your entire body upward.

“Aemond,” you whisper, “my Aemond.”

“My love,” he looks at you in wonder, sprawled beneath him, “it’s only been you. It will only ever be you.”

You pull his face down to yours, kissing him passionately. His hips resume movement. Slow, deep thrusts at first.

Then he turns wild. He ruts into you, quicker, more frantic, the smacking sounds of flesh and sweat, and unhinged animalistic moans echoing throughout the room.

He does a surprising move, his fingers first drifting around your neck, then applying pressure, and he looks like a vengeful, hot-blooded god above you. His face hovers just inches above yours, and his grip on your neck unexpectedly excites you, the danger of Aemond only serving to make things more erotic, and reckless. Your dark prince.

You dig your nails into his wrist, returning the pressure.

“You should have married me,” he breathes, “why didn’t you run away with me?”

“Aemond,” everything throbs, the fire in your abdomen reaching its climax, from his frenzied thrusts, to his hand on your neck, to his crazed expression.

“You’re mine. They can’t have you. No one else can.” His words are punctuated with hard thrust, after hard thrust.

Almost simultaneously, gloriously, you both come apart. Aemond spasms inside you, filling you with his seed. Your hips continue to jerk against him, as you writhe uncontrollably, riding down your high.

He places one more soft kiss upon your lips, then collapses beside you.

You close your eyes in satisfaction, letting the feeling wash over you.

You feel his fingertips on your neck, and you open your eyes, finding him lying on his side, studying you.

“Was that okay?" he asks, referring to his grip on your neck.

“Mhmm,” you reassure him, turning to your side as well.

He hums in return, before smirking, “I knew you couldn’t resist.”

You laugh at his forwardness, and he looks at you lovingly.

He leans forward to kiss you, “My heart has returned.”

You feel a pang of guilt at how you left him, all that time ago, even if it may have been the right thing to do. It will never be simple between you and Aemond.

“I missed you,” you say wholeheartedly.

“And what of your love?” he says, taking your hand.

“My Aemond,” you press your forehead to his, “It will never be gone.”

taglist: @dazecrea @ladystardvsts @afro-hispwriter @dudfahsn @poohkie90 @literishdegree99 @cleverzonkwombatsludge @lilostif16 @deeeeexx @nephitis @ladymoon666 @minicikasworld @livimulati @the-orions-belt @blueskies4everxo @stillinracooncity @julieeba @lawlerek @missusnora @wickedbutlovely @camspnt @umavvitch @claudie-080102 @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz @puredicks @crazylokonugget @lj127 @amethystwonders11 @icarusignite @mandyki @darylandbethfanforever9 @highexpectationsgurl @narwhal-swimmingintheocean

I've decided to save most of the sadness & regret for the next part, and yes, there will be a part 3. Our boy Aemond is still to be married after all. And he is still a "bloody monster" with majestic hair.

I hope I've tagged all those who asked - I'll keep yous tagged for any upcoming Aemond fic as well.

Taglist open - just comment.

PS. Alys Rivers is apparently Aemond's lover in the books, and I fear the feral jealous monster I will become if they decide to show that old hag in the upcoming seasons of HOTD. Sorry, not sorry.

#house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen fanfic

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stalkerofthegods · 6 months

Text

Dionysus & Bacchus cheat sheet deep dive

Signs he's reaching out • smelling wine all of a sudden, craving wine, You feel a twinge of madness, dreams with his attributes with him, seeing references of him everywhere

Herbs •psalakanthos plant, Grapes and their vines, Figs, Bay laurel, Barley, Pine, Pomegranate, Fennel, apples, berries, weed, Silver Fir, Bindweed, poppy, wheat and hops leafs, wildflowers, pine cones, Apple seeds, Blazing star. I think he would like Cinnamon, mint, feverfew (happiness), Pepper, basil, chives, horseradish (courage), orange, lemongrass, marjoram (insight), vanilla, sorrel, cinnamon (love)

Animals• Oxen and wild animals, asses, Leopards, Panther, Cheetah, serpents, rams, dolphins, tigers, lynx, panthers, goats, bats, griffons, bulls

Colors •purple, green, gold, Red, Black, White.

Patron of• fruit and intoxitation, Parties, Festivities, Banquets, Drinking, Bacchic Revelry, Madness, Bacchic Frenzy, Insanity, Hallucination, Homosexuality, Effeminacy, Cross-dressing, Forest Wilderness, Wild vegetation, Predatory big cats, Reincarnation, The path to Elysium, Comedy and Tragedy Plays, Playwrites, Actors, bartenders, the arts, non-binary people.

Curses• violence, and sickness, Destructive insanity, madness

Blessings• pleasure and fun, Religious frenzy (in the orgiastic cults), Ecstasy, Afterlife in Elysium (paradise), getting a bigger friend group, charismatic going up, getting a romantic partner.

Diety of• wine-making, orchards, fruit, vegetation, fertility, festivity, insanity, ritual madness, religious ecstasy, theatre, partying, Epiphany, weddings, death, sacrifice, sexuality, dancing, immortality, and reincarnation, uninhibited freedom, as well as the subversion of the powerful, ecstasy, and abandon, swamps and marshes.

Crystals• Amethyst, grape agate, Garnet, Ruby, deep red stones, tiger eye, serpentine, leopard jasper, amber, green opal or jade, carnelian, rose quartz (someone had it on their alter for him, so I added it here.), bloodstone, sugilite, purple fluorite, ametrine lepidolite

Mortal or immortal • immortal

Zodiac • Taruas

Vows/omans• none

Number• 7

Morals• he is morally ambiguous

Married to• Ariadne

Past lovers• Althaia, Ampelos, Aphrodite, Erigone, Kronois, Pallene, Physokoa, Polymnos.

What he favors in devotees• free-spirited, out-of-the-norm, wild lifestyle, gender fluid, transgender, nonbinary people. People are restricted wanting to become free.

Personality• He brings joy, ecstasy, and merriment, but also delivers "brutal and blinding rage”, he's a very chill guy, many say he is sassy. I met him once, and he respects people's boundaries.

Home• Mount Olympus

Equivalents/most resemblance • Osiris, Hades, Sabazios, Yahweh, Bacchus, Liber, Tammuz, Orotalt, Fufluns, Acan, Jesus.

Epithets• Acratophorus, Ἀκρατοφό.ρος “giver of unmixed wine at Phigaleia in arcadia, Acroreites at Sicyon Adoneus a Latinised form of Adonis and is also used as an epithet for Bacchus, AegobolusΑἰγοβόλος "goat-shooter" at Potniae in Boeoria, Aesymnetes Αἰσυμνήτης “ruler" or "lord" at Aroë and Patrae in Achaea, Agrios Ἄγριος "wild", in Macedonia, Androgynos Ἀνδρόγυνος ”Androgynous” specifically in intercourse referring to the god taking both an active male and a passive female role, Anthroporraistes, Ἀνθρωπορραίστης “man-destroyer" a title of Dionysus at Tenedos, Bassareus, Βασσαρεύς "fox-skin", which item was worn by his cultists in their mysteries. Bougenes, Βουγενής or Βοηγενής “borne by a cow", in the Mysteries of Lerna,

Braetes, Βραίτης "related to beer" at Thrace, Briseus Βρῑσεύς "he who prevails" in Smyrna, Bromios Βρόμιος "roaring” and "roar of thunder" refering to the wind amd primarily relating to the central death/resurrection element of his myths and also the god's transformations into lion and bull and of those who drink alcohol and refers to Dionysus' father, Zeus "the thunderer", Choiropsalasχοιροψάλας “pig-plucker" Greek χοῖρος = "pig"(which was used as a slang term for the female genitalia as A reference to Dionysus's role as a fertility deity), Chthonios Χθόνιος “the subterranean”, Cistophorus Κιστοφόρος "basket-bearer and ivy-bearer" because baskets are sacred to the Dionysus,Dimetor Διμήτωρ "twice-born" which Refers to Dionysus's two births, Dendrites Δενδρίτης "he of the trees" as a fertility god, Dithyrambos Διθύραμβος used at his festivals referring to his premature birth, Eleutherios Ἐλευθέριος “the liberator" also a epithet shared with Eros, Endendros ("he in the tree"), Enorches "with balls" with reference to his fertility, or "in the testicles" in reference to Zeus' sewing the baby Dionysus "into his thigh" which means his testicles used in Samos and Lesbos, Eridromos"good-running" in Nonnus' Dionysiaca, Erikryptos Ἐρίκρυπτος "completely hidden" in Macedonia, Euaster Εὐαστήρ from the cry "euae", Euius (Euios), from the cry "euae" in lyric passages, and in Euripides’ play “the bacche, Lacchus Lακχος a possible epithet which is associated with the Elusinian Mysteries, The name "Iacchus" may come from the Ιακχος (Iakchos) whicj is a hymn sung in honor of Dionysus.

Indoletes, Ἰνδολέτης, meaning slayer/killer of Indians Due to his campaign against the Indians, Isodaetes, Ισοδαίτης, meaning "he who distributes equal portions", cult epithet which is also shared with Helios, Kemilius, Κεμήλιος and kemas: "young deer, pricket",

Liknites "he of the winnowing fan", as a fertility god connected with mystery religions ( a winnowing fan was used to separate the chaff from the grain.)

Palazzo Massimo, Rome, Lenaius, Ληναῖος "god of the wine-press", Lyaeus, or Lyaios Λυαῖος, "deliverer” and "loosener") which refers to him as who releases from care and anxiety,

Lysius, Λύσιος "delivering, releasing" At Thebes there was a temple of Dionysus Lysius, MelanaigisΜελάναιγις "of the black goatskin" at the Apaturia festival,

Morychus Μόρυχος “smeared" in Sicily, because his icon was smeared with wine less at the vintage, Mystes Μύστης "of the mysteries" at Tegea in Arcadia, Nysian Nύσιος according to Philostatus he was called like this by the Ancient indians Most probably, because according to legend he founded the city of Nysa, Oeneus, Οἰνεύς "wine-dark" as god of the wine press, Omadios “flesh-eater", Eusebius writes in Preparation for the gospel that Euelpis of Carystus states that in Chios and Tendos they did a human sacrifice to Dionysus Omadios,

Phallen , (Φαλλήν) (probably "related to the phallus” at Lesbos, Phleus "related to the bloοm of a plant", Peudanor Ψευδάνωρ "false man" referring to his feminine qualities in Macedonia,

Pericionius, Περικιόνιος "climbing the column (ivy)" a name of Dionysus at Thebes, Semeleios or Semeleius or Semeleus an obscure epithet meaning 'He of the Earth' and 'son of Semele' Also “Son of Semele, Iakchus, wealth-giver”,

Skyllitas, Σκυλλίτας “related to the vine-branch" at Kos, Sykites, Συκίτης "related to figs" at Laconia,Taurophagus, Ταυροφάγος “bull eating", Tauros Ταῦρος “a bull", Theoinus, Θέοινος wine-god of a festival in Attica, Τhyiοn, Θυίων "from the festival of Dionysus 'Thyia' (Θυῐα) at Elis", Thyllophorus, Θυλλοφόρος "bearing leaves" at Kos, Dionysus and Zeus absorbs the role of Sabazios (a Thracian/Phrygian deity)

Facts• Dionysus was the last god to enter Olympus, When Dionysus had grown up lady Hera made him into a state of madness so he wandered through many countries of the earth, He was a student of the famous centaur Chiron who taught him how to dance, The common names Dennis and Denise are said to be derived from Dionysus. he hated the sight of an owl

Roots• Ancient Greece, Greek mythology, Mount Pramnos on Ikaria

Offerings • Honey, Meat, Alcohol (especially wine), Fruit, Cakes, Poetry, Songs, Spices (ex- cinnamon), Blood or liquids resembling blood, He thinks those "wine mom" signs that you get in cheap gift shops are hilarious, Grape juice, Intoxicants, Grapes, Olive oil, Apples, Figs, Eggs, Goblets, Curved daggers, Bull horns, Snake skin, Leopard or tiger print objects, Purple candles, Theatre masks, Sexual toys, Percussion instruments, Wine bottles, Fake/toy grapes, Leaves or curls from grapevines, Pine needles, Pinecones, Apple seeds, Bindweed, Wildflowers, Toys photos or art of any big cats, snakes, Hymns, Songs you’ve written, Any art that you create, Any stories that you create, Art, pictures of the comedy, Wine corks, Wine labels, Toy or miniature drums, milk, water from the sea (he has a strong connection with the sea), Decorative beads, party beads, flashy jewelry, Wine glasses, Shot glasses, Corkscrews, Sparkling cider, Grape flavored things, Cheese, hallucinogens, Nips (small alcohol bottles), Bottle opener, Beer/soda tabs, Alcohol bottles with cool labels, Costumes, NatureFig/fig newtonsBull imagery, Donkey imagery, Bones, Antlers, Dead/preserved animals, Hiking gear, Seeds, Concert/festival tickets, Locks of hair, Shaven beard hair, Pride swag, ravagant clothes/clothes that make you feel good.

Devotional • learn about sacred sex, shamanic journeying, responsible entheogen use, and alcohol as a sacrament, read “The Secret History” book, Make a playlist for Him, Dance and sing to your favorite songs or songs you’d think He would like, Throw a feast in His honor, Remembering to take your medication and taking care of your mental health, Support/donate to your local theatre in His name, Be a part of the theatre, Stand up for those that are marginalized, Write stories/plays for Him, Invite Him to watch plays or movies with you (especially comedies or tragedies), Throw parties or attend them, Attend festivals, Attend a wine tasting, Go on wine tours, Attend parades, Masturbate or partake in sexual acts for Him (if you’re comfortable doing so And over 18), Drink alcohol or grape juice, Smoke po, Learn about winemaking, Support local vineyards, Wear wreaths made from ivy, Wear faux leopard or tiger print, Wear the color purple, Pray to Him for things while intoxicated/high, Visit your local winery and participate in a grape-stomp, do some Homebrewing in his honor, Grow a garden in his honor, Make your own ritual tools in his honor, Collect art, do Glamourbombs in his honor, Pretend to be somebody else in his honor, go out to a club in his honor, listen to music in his honor, read in his his mythos, write things for a ritual and write a prayer for him, eat some grapes or have some grape juice or sparkling grape juice (or wine if able and of age), listen to party music, read plays, watch musicals or plays (ex- high school musical, Hamilton), listen to musical soundtracks, learn about the history of theatre, learn about viticulture and vineyards, do things that bring you pleasure, listen to party soundscapes, watch documentaries about any of his sacred animals, Trip intentionally/spiritually, Learn about substance abuse/recovery, Destigamtize drug users, Learn about harm reduction, Make home videos, Write poetry, Act, Dress up, Go to the woods, Dance/sing in the woods, Meditate in the woods, Learn wilderness safety and first aid, Learn what to do when encountering a wild animal, Go off the beaten path, Explore new areas, Pick up litter, Forage, Recycle bottles, Grow fruit, Try new fruits, Have sex (let the partner know beforehand it's in Diyonisus honor, 18+), Masturbate (18+), Have threesomes/swing (ask him before and make sure the other participants know it's in Dionysus's honor, 18+.), Finally, give into that one kink you’ve been ignoring (you know the one, 18+), Learn about consent with partners, Learn how to preserve dead animals, Learn about different life cycles (ex-plants, animals), Learn about immigration in your area, Learn about different cultures, Try foreign foods, Learn a new language, Learn about your ancestry, Help immigrants in your area, Grow your hair out, Keep a Manifest/Keep a manifestation journal, Use Sexual/creative energy to manifest, Shed your old self, Do Self-reflection/self-exploration, Identify areas where you overindulge (ex- food, substances, spending).

Symbols• Grapevine, ivy, phallus, Thyrsus, theatrical masks, Leopard Skin, Panther, Cheetah, the animal called asses, cymbals, swords, or serpents, rams, laurel, asphodel, dolphins, tiger, lynx, panther, horns, goats, his chariot pulled by 2 leopards, masks in general.

Siblings• Ares, Athena, Apollo, Artemis, Aphrodite, Hebe, Hermes, Heracles, Helen of Troy, Hephaestus, Perseus, Minos, the Muses, the Graces.

His friends/gets along with• Maenads and Bacchantes and Satyrs and Sileni and Pan and Priapus

Attendees• Seilenos (God of Drunkenness), Pan (God of Shepherds & Pastures) the Satyroi and Seilenoi (spirits of Fertility & the Wild) The Bakkhantes and Mainades (Nymphe and Women revellers) Komos Satyriskos (cup-bearer)

Appearance in astral or gen• Dionysus often took on a bestial shape and was associated with various animals, often wearing an Ivy wreath, the thyrsus, and the kantharos (a large two-handled goblet) In early Greek art he has represented as a mature male, bearded and robed holding a fennel staff tipped with a pine-cone, but later on he was portrayed as youthful sensuous, naked or semi-naked androgynous youth and effeminate with brown hair and pale features, often holding grapes and drinking wine.

Parentage• Zeus and Semele, some sources also say Zeus and Demeter, some say Zeus and Persephone, but he always sends up with Persephone as a foster mother or as a biological mother, but before his reincarnation, his parents were Ammon and Amalthea.

Pet• leopards

Children • Priapus, Hymen, Thaos, Staphylus, Ononpion, Cumus, Phthonus, the Graces and Deianira, Seilenos, Pan, Satyroi & Seilenoi, Bakkhantes & Mainades, Komodo’s

season and festivles• Diyonosus festivals were bacchanalia, Dionysia, Anthesteria, Dionysian, Lenaia, Panathenaia, his season was spring and March and April

Day• 11th to the 13th of the month of Anthesterion, around the time of the January or February full moon.

Sacred places• Boitia in Greece, naxos Greek, island Edina in western Thrake, his holiest shrine was Mt kithairon (Nysa) in Boiotia Greece, he also declared war on India. A sacred place is the theatre.

Status• Greek god in the major theoi, and an agriculture Demi God.

Pet peeves• Uderestemating him, he probably won't like it if you ignore him

Music• Disco, show tunes, psychedelic rock, acid folk, Greek folk music, EDM, classical, new wave, art pop, vaporwave, just anything you can dance and sing to.

Tarot• Temperance, fool card, three of cups, the tower, 9 of cups (based off of how people see him through their tarot cards)

Scents/Inscene • Pine incense, frankensince, patchouli and vanilla, nutmeg, mulled wine, storax, and Benzoin, he dislikes lavender.

Prayers•

Regular prayer

Dionysos, god whose arrival is swift and certain, enduring friend of women and men whose welcome is warm, bringer of light, we see you in shadows. Dionysos, granter of great blessings, your presence is a heady wine. Kind-hearted god, to each you give as is fitting, each vessel you fill only as we can bear, and yet with even a sip, we are drunk upon you, and our faith is affirmed. Awesome god, by our own will we drink deeply, with you we become lost, we wander, we are found.

Litany to Dionysos

Dionysos of the vine, rich-tressed god of wine, potent and lusty, unmixed, undiluted, with full force you come to us, vital and robust, rich and strong and surprisingly sweet. Dionysos, I praise and honor you, I thank you for your blessings. Ivy-bearing Dionysos, god of the green, of the power of root on stone, the force of life that will make its own way in spite of all who labor to hold it back, no will or work can bind your might. I praise and honor you, I thank you for your blessings. Dionysos of the deep earth, of the dark world, of the unknown expanse beneath the black soil, beneath solid stone, of mysteries you know much, of death and of what lies beyond. God of secrets, I praise and honor you, I thank you for your blessings. Dionysos the inspiring, granter of words of prose or poesy, words heard best by the drunken and the mad, words forgotten with the passing of night and delight. Bacchus, granter of rare transport, I praise and honor you, I thank you for your blessings. Dionysos Soter, holder of the hearts of men, you free us from the cares of the world, each brilliant frenzied moment a shining jewel, each glimpse of the sacred more precious than gold. I praise and honor you, I thank you for your blessings. Kindly Dionysos, granter of good to men and women, giver of gifts to all who seek your blessing. Gracious Dionysos, accepter of offerings great and small, friend of mankind, I praise and honor you, I thank you for your blessings.

Regular Prayer to Dionysos

Dionysos, deep-hearted one who knows the souls of men and women, whose hand is ever open, ever within reach. Dionysos, god who runs in the dark, who sees with eyes shut tight, who dances to the heart’s strong beat, ever are you yourself, ever constant, ever changing god of those who are trapped, those who seek your truth and their own, those who seek vision beyond seeing, those who seek wisdom beyond knowledge, those who seek the self, pure and sweet, those who seek clarity beyond definition, who seek to embrace the uncertain, to hold, but loosely, to what is true beyond trust.

Regular prayer to Dionysos

I praise Dionysos, lord of the vine, lord of the far reaches of the mind; in the thick of the woods, along darkened paths, in the shadows of dusk and of dawn, you roam the world, the satyrs and the pretty nymphs dancing in your wake. Son of Zeus and fair-haired Semele, bold-hearted Semele, who dared to look into the face of glory, beautiful Semele who you carried into life again, Semele reborn who men called Thyone; beloved of clever Ariadne, quick-witted one, so dear to your heart, your bright-eyed bride and consort; Dionysos, friend of women, friend of the blissful, wild-eyed maenads, pilgrims and pioneers, those who seek, your cheer and inspiration, those who seek your release, from sorrow and despair, those who are lost in joy, and those who have found themselves in you. Dionysos, god of the darkest dark and the deepest deep, boundless one, endless one, fathomless one, in you we see the edges of ourselves, in you, we find our life’s journey, in you we find our home.

To Dionysos

I call to Dionysos, great god of the vine, son of thundering Zeus and headstrong Semele, loving husband of warm-hearted Ariadne. From the east you came, old before the ancients, throughout the elder world were you beloved; in Naxos and Boitia were you celebrated, in temples and in the savage wilderness, the fleet-footed maenads running in your wake. The sweetest, strongest wine is ever your drink; the mind’s release, the body’s loosening, your gift. O Dionysos; thyrsus-shaker, ivy-crowned god, we see you in the shadows, we see you on the edges, we see you in the haze of ecstasy, where we know the truth of passion, where we find the essence of our being. Bacchus, I call to you!

| Sources & websites in comments. |

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samkerrworshipper · 6 months

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lost cause | leah williamson x reader

it’s a little blurb for my hurt girlies

warnings: depression, suicidal thoughts n discussions.

“Would you let me die?”

You looked deep into Leah’s eyes, the both of you trying your very hardest to fight back tears as her eyes shot open towards you. She flipped you over in your shared bed, switching you from your position as her little spoon so you were face to face with her.

“What?”

Leah’s words were laced with sleepiness, her body had been mere seconds away from sleep but your words had stopped her exhaustive haze, her eyes blinking furiously as they adjusted to the lack of light in the room, trying to gauge your facial expression.

“Would you let me die?”

Your words were murmured into the room, quiet that Leah was sure she stood a higher chance of hearing a mouse running across the floorboards then your words.

“What are you talking about?”

Leah’s voice waivered, trying to figure out exactly what you werte referring to.

“Would you?”

The conversation had been on your mind for days, the thoughts that had been humming steadily in your brain finally coming to surface in the moment.

“No shit I wouldn’t.”

Leah’s voice was as strong as it could be, her Milton Keynes accent coming on strong as she tried to decipher what exactly was playing in you brain at 3am in the morning that had led you to this point.

“Could you?”

Once again Leah struggled to understand the words and meaning of what you were saying. You’d had a impossible month, becoming the fifth arsenal player to be plagued with the acl disease. You’d had surgery two months ago, and revelry wise you were doing great, mentally you were struggling more than you ever had. Leah was working on it with you, trying her very hardest to keep you happy, to keep you alive. It was hard, there were days where you refused to leave bed, days where she found scars on your wrists that made her feel sick for not being there for you how she had to be.

“I just told you no.”

Leah’s voice held strong in the room, the only thing that could be heard was the sound of the two of you breathing. It had been a rough night to some extent, you were being weaned off the pain meds and it sucked, Leah was trying her hardest but she wasn’t a doctor, nor instant pain relief.

“What if I asked you to?”

Your words hung heavy in the space between you, like a weighted medicine ball falling directly between you on the bed.

It had been a thoguht that had been at the forefront of your brain for weeks, but for you, it felt like an obligation to talk to Leah about it, to prepare her for something that was very quickly beginning to feel inevitable to you.

“Why would you ask me that?l

Leah’s hand managed to travel its way down to your stomach, her fingers clutching onto your sharp stomach muscles, the lines were strong and deft, a map across your torso.

“Do you love me enough to just let me die?”

Leah looked directly into your eyes. Did she love you to death? Did she love you to your grave? It was a question that hurt Leah from the inside out. Was it selfish of her to say no, to say that it was stupid of you to leave her for the rest of her life, when you’d promised her forever.

“I know it’s selfish but-.”

“That’s a fucked up thing to say.”

Leahs voice harshly cut you off, the older woman try her hardest to stay composed as she kept her eye contact with you, it was the only glimpse she had into your thoughts, what exactly you were feeling in this moment.

“I know and I’m sorry Lee, but I had to ask.”

Leah shook her head, no you didn’t. There was a billion worlds where you never should have had to ask, to ask permission to live, to ask permission from her about whether or not she loved you enough to let you go.

“Do you want to die?”

Leah’s words struck a deep frown onto your face, like it had been plastered on with sticky tape and glue. It looked wrong on your face, nights like these were normally spent with you being the happiest you ever were, cuddled up in the arms thay you loved more than anything in the world.

“Are you planning on dying, could you?”

There was no illness, no surgery, no life threatening circumstance that could lead to the end of your life, so it was either planned or paranoia and Leah was leaning to believe it was the first one.

“Could I die?”

Her words twisted around in your brain, your heart racing furiously against Leah’s Arsenal hoodie as you tried to digest what she was saying to you, it wasn’t a meal that was agreeing with your stomach, you could feel the word vomit rising already.

“Could you love me enough to live for me?”

The rephrasing of her words made you feel even sicker, like the nausea you got after eating lactose when you definitely were not supposed to.

“You know I love you Leah.”

Leah’s brow furrowed, because yes, she knew you loved her, you reminded her at least once a day. But what about loving her made you want to die, enough to seek permission.

“So could you live for me, it might be selfish, but please.”

Leah’s words invoked an i necessary amount of uncomfortable silence that spread out like a blanket across your shared bedroom, even the dogs lying at the base of your bed seemed to understand the memo, their snores silencing for a second whilst you and Leah just stared at eachother.

“Leah, I can’t do this anymore.”

She knew that, knew that more than anyone this acl injury had been hell for you. Her once energetic and happy girl had changed, into a person that was completely unrecognisable, it hurt her heart and soul, wondering if she’d ever get her girl back, or if that version of you had died out in the pitch with your injury.

“I know your struggling bunny, but I need you to do this for me, I need you to try. If you can’t keep yourself alive then I will fight every single day for you. Suicide is not the answer for you, you have too good of a life ahead for suicide to be your last chapter.”

Leah often reflected, often prayed that maybe, for whatever reason some things were just meant to be, even when they sucked. Maybe, just maybe, life wasn’t supposed to be easy for you. Maybe you were one of the rare few who could handle tough times and still come out on the other end as a loving person. Maybe it was all falling into place because you are a strong person, you are having this experience for the good of yourself. Maybe it’s gods twisted way of loving you, pushing you through the hard times so you can see the good in life. Maybe for you, this is growth, pain is becoming the new normal. Maybe just giving your all was enough, or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Leah made up things to make her life easier.

She reached her hands up to the loose hair strands that had fallen in front of your eyes, pushing them back behind your ears so you were forced to look at her dead on.

“How bad is it bunny, is it bad enough that you can’t just try your hardest for me?”

You bit down hard on your lip, contemplating the question silently in your head as Leah awaited your response. You stayed silent for a little while, the only sign you were still alive being your eyes blinking every once a while and your chest rising steadily.

“I’ll try.”

The words were pieces, like chunks of oranges sliced up and scattered across a chopping board, and whilst Leah didn’t exactly hear them she managed to put all the pieces together in her brain.

“I love you.”

Her words came out as one big breath. To Leah, you were as important as oxygen, without you she died as well, your contagious laugh and sparkly eyes were what got her through the rough days and nights and she couldn’t even imagine what life would look like waking up without you.

“I love you more.”

Leah smiled at you gently, coaxingly, how you’d look at a injured puppy.

“You could never.”

Leah pulled your body flush against hers, her hand coming up and under your hoodie and coming to rest on top of your heart, the feeling of your organ pumping against her was pure comfort, a luxury that she allowed herself to be granted. She exhaled deeply as she felt the feeling of your blood being pumped all over your body, to your little toes and your tiny hands.

She knew life right now sucked for you, knew just how much a acl injury made you question every single part of your life, but that didn’t matter to her, what mattered was that you weee slive, and in her arms, finding solace in her gentle touches and broad body.

You intertwined your legs with hers, wrapping her warm ones around your cold ones and slowly beginning to relax against her, as your emotional revelation began to fade from your brain, your promise to Leah breaking every single thought that had been marinating in your head.

“Go to sleep bunny, I’ve got you, nobody is harming you in my arms, even yourself.”

#woso #woso community #leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #i love leah williamson #golden retriever leah vibes #leah williamson is mother #leah williamson is mom #leah williamson is boyf #leah williamson imagine #leah makes me cry

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the-greatest-magic-of-all · 1 month

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With such a God-focused season, one day, once Junior Year is finished and I have both the time and energy to do it, I want to make a Fantasy High God AU zine. It'd be from the pov of a mythologist/theologian in Spyre who's found strange links between minor deities throughout different regions' pantheons.

Half-Elves have a God of Dance and Flames who has been said to have defeated a Tiefling vagabond (and tamed his Hellhound mount) and charmed Fire itself with only a dance and his silk battle sheet. And if you look deep enough into his history there are rare depictions of him wearing an oddly shaped pendant and riding into battle with a sling-wielding Goblin peeking out of his rucksack. Interestingly enough, there's a minor Goblin God of Justice and Mysteries, the son of a Goblin Folk Hero and the Goblin Goddess of Knowledge, Laws, and Justice, who famously wields his father's enchanted sling. Though he and his father are often shown with angelic wings. So, why would he dally with a God so closely associated with Fiends?

Tieflings have a trickster Goddess of Music, Rebellion, and Devotion. The daughter of an Archdevil and a Wood Elven Goddess of Archery & the Wilderness. She's said to be a paramour of a Half-Phoenix Pirate Goddess of Wizardry and Knowledge and once toured the lands, performing with a Half-Orc companion. A lot of artistic recreations of that tour depict the Half-Orc companion with flower motifs that correspond with a Gnomish/Half-Orcish God of Tinkering and Rage. One that once outwitted a Sphynx and regained his spurned Saytr paramour's love by speaking to/reaching the stars with the help of a band of Tinkerer Gnomes.

There are tales of a Twice Risen Goddess who was once the chosen one of the Demigod Helio, but took one look at him and thought she could do better. With the wisdom to raise Gods from the dead and remove unholy rites without any divine power other than her own, this God-Saint of Doubt travels across Spyre not to spread her own religion but to inquire about others. This deep curiosity is probably how she ended up in some Fallinel depictions of the First Elven Oracle, who upon death ascended to becoming the Goddess of Sight, Intelligence and Righteous Fury. There are even short hymns written about the Oracle foreseeing the God-Saint's rise (against the Elven Moon Goddess' wishes) and of the God-Saint banishing some dark entity from possessing the Oracle with only a profane curse of its name.

And even more stuff connecting them all. Like the fact that all of them have tales of them defeating an Ancient Red Dragon. Or the tales of The Festival of the Crab King: a strange, delirious story of mortals witnessing a euphoric revelry of the deific kind that involved all these Gods from different pantheons.

#idk i think it'd be a fun time #fantasy high #dimension 20 #fabian seacaster #riz gukgak #adaine abernant #gorgug thistlespring #kristen applebees #fig faeth #fantasy high junior year #fantasy high junior year spoilers

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ldrfanatic · 14 days

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shiny things rust

theodore nott x fem!reader intentional lowercase

warnings - underage smoking (weed and cigarettes), underage drinking, cursing, dark mark, mentions of suicide (on theo's part), death, and murder; semi-happy ending?

this can lowkey be read as a prequel for Crawl Home to Her

prompt - they told me all of my cages were mental/ so i got wasted like all my potential... i was so ahead of the curve, the curve became a sphere/ fell behind all my classmates and i ended up here/ pouring out my heart to a stranger/ but i didn't pour the whiskey

synopsis - theo just recently got his dark mark and is trying really hard just to stay sane. reader finds him on the astronomy tower one night in bad shape. reader is essentially a gifted kid burnout and they have an unexpected heart to heart.

song - this is me trying - Taylor Swift, Folklore

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Sunlight streamed through the oculus window twenty meters above your head as you gulped alcohol in the Slytherin common room. For you, it indicated the turn of the new day. You tried not to trip over the green-draped bodies that were strewn about as you made your way through the room towards the dormitories.

Slytherin House had hosted yet another of their famous parties the evening prior and with a guilty feeling, you cast aside your homework for a night of revelries. Thankfully, the guilt subsided once you got high out of your mind. As you turned the corner, you promptly found yourself flat on your ass. You looked up in a sneer only to find Theodore Nott standing above you with a concerned look.

His large hand reached out towards yours.

"Are you alright, L/n?"

You grasped his palm and allowed him to pull you to your feet.

"I'm fine." You grumbled out. Before he could make any further remarks, you'd retreated to your dorm. Today was the last day of classes before the term ended for winter break.

All day, you'd been seeing Theodore Nott. And all year he'd been staring at you. You could feel his eyes burning holes into your skin. Actually, you could feel everyone's eyes burning holes into your skin. Your first four years at Hogwarts had gone admirably. Despite not being a Ravenclaw, you were one of the brightest in your year. Something changed in fifth year though.

You weren't sure when or how but you simply lost interest in academics. You'd grown so used to the praise that it didn't mean as much as it did before and you began to question your own reasoning for throwing yourself so desperately into school.

Once that realization hit, you plummeted.

Students and Professors alike whispered about in hushed tones when they thought you couldn't hear. About how you had so much potential just for it to be wasted when you decided you didn't want to try anymore. It was infuriating. How could they know if you were trying or not?

The first time that you lashed out at some Gryffindor girl it was blamed on poor parentage. That a rocky home life with a Death Eater family had been the cause of your downfall, and thus, your foul mood. In reality, you'd been putting your all into school for years and you just ran out of steam. No horrible home life or traumatic event to blame. You just couldn't anymore. No matter how hard you tried, and you did try really, really hard.

The rumors didn't stop of course, so you just learned to embrace them. You hexed the occasional girl who taunted you or got on your nerves. You drank and smoke your entire existence into oblivion. You took much needed naps in class. In fact, the only class you paid half a mind to was potions and that was only because you'd smelled something quite weird in the Amortentia you brewed last year and wanted to learn everything you could about it.

So it was no surprise that people stared. It was, however, unusual that Theodore Nott stared. He never wasted his time with girls. Or anyone really. The boy rarely ever spoke. He was only ever seen hanging around with Draco and his friends and you quickly learned that it was because Draco had roped him into it somehow.

Of course, catching Theo's eye didn't help the rumors. As you sat down for lunch on the last remaining day of the fall term, the whispers had already started. The main theory for the day: You and Theodore Nott were engaged, arranged to be married by your Death Eater parents, and that if anyone dared to speak to you, Theo would hunt them down.

Now, you didn't mind the last part so much. As you walked through the halls, people parted like the Sea. It made you feel powerful. Noticed. For the first time in years. Yet, you weren't particularly keen on the fact that this rumor only increased the whispering in the halls. All you really wanted was a bit of peace and quiet.

Finally, the day was over. Tomorrow morning, the train was to leave Hogsmeade Station. Fucking finally.

In a last ditch effort to get some peaceful alone time before you were beat down by your mother over 'wasted potential', you climbed the stairs to the top of the Astronomy Tower. You weren't expecting to see Theodore, using his wand to cut slices into the Dark Mark on the inside of his left forearm.

When he heard your footsteps behind him, he swung around and brandished his wand in your direction.

"Just me."

Theo scoffed at your figure and turned back towards the stars.

"Why are you cutting it? You should know it won't come off."

"My idiot father forced this, thing, on me. I'm just what everyone thought I would be. I don't expect you to understand, golden girl."

He spit the words with a sneer. Finally, you felt your blood boil over. Your limits had been pushed beyond what you could stomach. You desperately wished that people would stop assuming things about you. And now it was time to make them.

"Actually, Theodore Nott, you don't know a damn thing about me. Everyone always told me how smart I was, how much potential I had, but what good is potential when it's suffocated by stress and expectations? I spent years pushing myself to excel, sacrificing my sanity for the sake of grades and accomplishments. But what did it get me? A pile of meaningless accolades? Pouring out my hear to a stranger? And now, here I am, burnt out and bitter, a broken, disillusioned shell of a person. They told me all of my cages were mental, so I got wasted like all my potential."

You'd taken step after step closer to the brunette during your frustrated rant. Now, you were standing only a few inches away from him. You jammed your finger angrily into his chest while you continued.

"So don't you act like you know a damn thing about me. I may not be the 'golden girl' anymore, but I'm not pretending anymore either. And between the two of us, at least I'm trying to better my situation instead of slicing up my wrists like lunch meat thinking that will solve all my problems."

"It's just so hard!"

Theo's outburst caught you off guard. You'd expected him to be angry, or at the very least annoyed. Theodore Nott didn't take anything from anyone. You'd expected him to scoff, ignore you, or even just simply walk away. You hadn't expected him to explode.

"It's hard to be at a party when I feel like I don't belong. It's hard to be anywhere these days."

You could see how torn Theo was. Torn between what his friends and family wanted him to do, and what he actually wanted to do. Apparently those were different things, even if he hadn't realized it yet himself.

"Hey,"

Theo looked up at the sound of your voice. You stepped closer to him and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. A reminder that even if for a moment, there was someone that understood him. Someone that cared.

"At least we're trying."

---

theodore taglist

@moonlightreader649 @svt-dk97 @thatdammchickennugget @helendeath @fandom-life-12 @bouquetolegoflowers @maryvibess @nighttimemoonlover

#slytherin boys #theodore nott #slytherin #theo nott #theo nott x reader #theodore nott x reader #slytherin boys x reader

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thoughtspresso · 10 months

Text

Oshi No Ko was about Arima Kana all along.

And I think there’s a real possibility she may die at the end.

Or be placed in the way of grave danger.

I was reading some AquKane shippers say something about how they don’t understand AquaKana, and why the writers and directors keep clearly pushing Kana towards Aqua when they barely share any chemistry. Whereas, in their belief, his relationship with Akane is more honest, deeper, whatever. I’m not here to argue about that. But I get where they’re coming from. And the simple explanation is this:

It’s because this whole story was written for Arima Kana.

I’ve seen some Youtubers talk about how this whole story was meant to be fulfillment for Ruby/Sarina’s dream to become the next great Idol, something about Amaterasu favoring her.

And that’s near what I thought of it. But I really think if the God of Entertainment wanted to bless a child with cancer a second life as the world’s great idol, they’d also give her a great singing voice, y’know?

Spoilers for the manga, of course as we go along on this explanation. So anime onlies, get caught up before you start reading me ramble.

Here we go:

1. Arima Kana is the embodiment of Amaterasu, not Ruby.

Or at least, Amaterasu’s appointed representative, or her favorite daughter.

To give you a run-down of some of the core Shinto/Japanese Mythology that is important for the story, the Creator God Izanaki had three children:

Amaterasu, Goddess of the Sun.

Tsukuyomi, the Moon.

Susanoo, the Storm.

The story goes that Amaterasu and Susanoo had a competition about who could create better gods. So Amaterasu took Susanoo’s Totsuka-no-Tsurugi* (longsword) and split it into three, from which she birthed the three Munakata goddesses.

And woncha knowit, there are three great actresses born in that year?

*A reminder that Kana plays the character Tsurugi, which literally just means Sword. And Akane’s character Saya-hime just literally means Sheath or Scabbard Princess.

In this bet, Amaterasu got clever with the rules and won on a technicality. Susanoo went on a rampage, destroyed Amaterasu’s ricefield, and flayed Amaterasu’s favorite divine horse*, and then threw its body at her loom.

*The name Arima is spelled with the Kanji of Horse & Exist/Live.

Amaterasu, in her grief, flees into a cave, believed to be Amano Iwato cave, right in the town of Takachiho, Amamiya Gorou’s hometown, and the death place of Tendouji Sarina.

The being that draws Amaterasu out of there was the Goddess of the Dawn, known also as the Goddess of the Revelry & Arts, a being that Aqua says he knows well, and believes there’s a grain of truth to:

And how does Ame-no-Uzume draw Amaterasu out of her grief?

By throwing an absolute rager, and dancing really wildly that it catches her attention and makes all the gods around them laugh so hard. Just like:

Ame-no-Uzume will later on marry a diety who tried to block her passage before, Sarutohiko, who in Ise is worshipped as the god who illuminates the world.

That’s some divinity-level AquaKana shipping right there.

Just like how Aka Akasaka wrote the story of Kaguya-sama: Love Is War about two lovers who couldn’t be together just like in the myth of Kaguya, but having his characters overcome all odds to defy divine fate, I do believe that apart from the parallels to the mythology like he did in Kaguya-sama, there is very literal divine intervention this time in Oshi No Ko.

I think what’s happening is that the gods, particularly Amaterasu and Susanoo are quarelling again about who could create better gods, just like before, but now more of whose favored child will shine the brightest and be worshipped by the most humans. But just like last time, Susanoo may have been enraged, especially at the sexual assault of his chosen Hikaru Kamiki, that he possessed him with a corrupting force that urges him to destroy shining stars before they reach their peak, hence the murders of Himekawa Airi, Hoshino Ai**, and Katayose Yura.

Which by the way, the name Hikaru means Radiant Light!

And Hoshino means Field of Stars!

Whether it’s because Amaterasu is angry that every daughter she sends to earth is slaughtered by Susanoo’s chosen, or just because she wants to win their competition, she appoints Ame-no-Uzume to assist in safeguarding her new favored one from Kamiki’s clutches. Her new favored one being Arima Kana.

And therefore, Ame-no-Uzume takes the souls of two motherless humans who had passed before they could shine and sent them to become Hoshino Ai’s twin children. It was all anyway happening in her territory of Takachiho at the most opportune time.

Ame-no-Uzume is also known as The Goddess of Dance, as well as The Great Pursuader. And wouldn’t you know, that’s exactly the gifts that the Hoshino Twins received.

An energetic performer who takes the stage with dance:

And a deceptive, persuasive, extremely believable actor, who:

fooled his own sister into believing she had been rejected from an audition

pretended to scout an idol from a competing agency to research them

get Director Gotanda to raise him and train him

make Akane not just date him, but follow him down a destructive path

convince Kana and Mem to join IchigoPro

impersonate Pieyon for several days straight

Anyway, I truly, truly believe that unbeknownst to Aqua, his true mission is just to keep drawing Kana out of her darkness until she shines the brightest. Which is what he keeps doing anyway:

2. The Timing of the whole Oshi No Ko plot is aligned with Arima Kana’s rise to unprecedented stardom.

The story of Ai Hoshino’s pregnancy and meeting of Gorou Amamiya in a quaint hospital occurs at the beginning of Arima Kana’s life, just after she is born.

She meets Aqua Hoshino around age 4, already talented, and already extremely arrogant which could have easily been the demise of her career. But meeting Aqua and seeing his acting was a necessary wake-up call for her, that it brings her to tears. She never forgets this experience that she brought that lesson with her to her adulthood: that she can’t be satisfied and keep working harder, and to be a better communicator with her colleagues. At their first point of contact, Aqua already becomes the reason why Arima Kana’s acting career survives the slump.

They meet again in high school, when Arima Kana has one acting job in a lackluster production of Sweet Today. The ratings had plummeted, if not for the fact that Aqua came onto the set to draw out the best acting Arima Kana could deliver. After this, Arima receives much more respect and recognition from her colleagues in the industry beyond just being cast to bring some legitimacy to their production.

It’s because of Aqua and Ruby that Kana joins IchigoPro’s Idol Division, and her career is reborn anew. Such that, even after quitting B-Komachi, Arima states she never regretted the decision to join, because otherwise the career of Arima Kana would have been already over.

It’s because of Aqua’s presence that Arima trains to become better and better as an idol. Aqua kept drawing out the light from Kana’s eyes, to the point that it catches the attention of the crowd who previously had no interest in her.

It’s because of her experience as an idol that she regains the confidence and sense of greed necessary to grab the attention of the audience when on stage, such that even Akane recognizes this change in her when Arima takes the stage as Tsurugi for the 2.5 Adadptation of Tokyo Blade.

And it’s because of all of these that she captures the attention of award-winning Director Masanori Shima, who lines up some roles for her when her acting schedule had dried up. It’s once again because of Kana’s dedication towards Aqua that Shima D finds her so interesting that he was most willing to promise her the best role possible.

It was as if Ame-no-Uzume-no-Mikoto appointed Aqua and Ruby to come draw Arima Kana out of her Cave, and bring the Sun out again, just like how the deity drew out Amaterasu.

If you think about the title of the show, Oshi No Ko, it literally means The Favorite Child. God’s favored child. Arima Kana had been born chosen by Amaterasu from the very beginning. And Ame-no-Uzume is sending Aqua and Ruby to aid on this quest.

Which explains why it seems like there had been a mission communicated to Aqua from the very beginning. And why Ai was never going to be reincarnated at all.

You would think that if The Crow Girl, which we assume is the divine guide Yatagarasu, was communicating with Aqua about his revenge plan or helping him find Kamiki, that Aqua would hold a more favorable relationship with The Crow whenever it appears to give advice, no?

But it’s exactly the opposite. Because The Crow is guiding him into something that is different from his personal goal that Aqua doesn’t understand.

And this is where I think Arima Kana could be put in danger.

3. Arima Kana is Hikaru Kamiki’s next target.

There were earlier theories that thought Kurokawa Akane was the one to die next, because of what people have now learned of Kamiki’s serial murderer profile targeting big celebrities before their peak, and because Akane had received a bouquet of white roses from him when she won an award.

The chapter when it was expected to happen was a fake-out from Aka Akasaka, and some people think it’s still possible that she’s the target. In fact, I keep seeing recent theory videos who discount Kana and say she’s “the safest”. Hah! If only!

The scenes with Shima D weren’t just a mere plot point to bring scandal to Arima’s name, and threaten her career and life enough that it pushes Aqua to reveal his mother’s secret in exchange. But it’s there because this is the upward path for Arima Kana. So far, the only people who have witnessed her dazzling star power have been fans of the Sweet Today manga, idol otakus, and people who attended Tokyo Blade. That’s not really masterpiece-of-the-century, performing-at-the-dome level. None of these gigs have placed her center stage in what could be Film of the Year, and a Best Actress spot. Now, the chance is here, and it’s real:

I think, The 15-Year-Lie will attempt to draw out Hikaru Kamiki, or that Aqua intends to reveal himself in the movie looking like him, and reveal the identity of his father.

But I also think what would happen is that they would be unsuccessful at taking him down completely. Instead, from the movie, he would be interested in Arima Kana, and target her through the course of her Shima D movie, and plan to kill her before an important awards night.

Alternatively, now that Kana is changing her focus to film, she may consider moving agencies, and ask Frill Shiranui about her agent. And if we’re right, she is likely represented by Kamiki Productions.

Either way, Kamiki will pay attention to her and try to kill her just before she reaches her highest.

But I don’t think Arima Kana will die. I think instead of being saved by Aqua, it’ll be Kana who takes Kamiki down. Echoing back to her getting mad at Aqua for thinking that avoiding her was protecting her, and Aqua believing that Kana doesn’t need help since she’s strong enough to take care of herself.

And then maybe, it’s Arima Kana who draws Aqua out of the darkness too.

And, just like with Kaguya and Shirogane Miyuki, Aka Akasaka is once again writing a story about two people who will defy a fate of divine tragedy, and come out of it being more truthful with each other than they’ve been with themselves all along.

#oshi no ko #oshi no ko spoilers #arima kana #aqua hoshino #japanese mythology #shinto #shintoism #aqua x kana #hoshino aquamarine #onk spoilers #aquakana

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pxnsneverland · 15 days

Text

Something Immortal | Biker!Austin Butler x OC (part 2)

plot summary: In the gritty underbelly of a city ruled by werewolf biker gangs, Austin Butler reigned supreme as the ruthless leader of his pack. A man of unwavering ferocity, he lied, killed, and stole without remorse, living by a code of violence that defined his kind. Yet, even Austin harbored a secret weakness – his childhood friend Bonnie Barlow, the one woman he had loved in silence for years. Bonnie's father had once been part of Austin's gang, but after his death, she fled the treacherous world of the werewolves, unable to stomach the endless cycle of crime and brutality. For five years, she remained a fugitive from her own nature, until a fateful night when her life took an irreversible turn. Freshly released from a two-year prison stint, Austin returned to his pack, reveling in the debauchery of their den. But his revelry was cut short by a frantic call from Bonnie, pleading for his aid. Rushing to her side, he uncovered a grim truth – in a desperate act of self-defense against her abusive boyfriend, Bonnie had taken a life, awakening the dormant werewolf within her. As the next full moon loomed, she would undergo her first agonizing transformation, a fate she had always dreaded. Defying the pack's ruthless code, Austin sheltered Bonnie, guiding her through the excruciating metamorphosis that tore through her body each lunar cycle. In the depths of her torment, their bond rekindled, blossoming into a love they had long suppressed. Nights of shared laughter and reminiscence gave way to stolen moments of tenderness, their connection deepening with every passing moon. Yet, their newfound bliss was a fragile thing, forever threatened by the harsh realities that governed their world. For Bonnie was branded a deserter, her very existence a betrayal in the eyes of the pack. If Austin's treachery was uncovered, retribution would be swift and merciless.

pairings: biker!austin butler x oc

word count: 2961

warnings/notes: violence, murder, blood, death, mentions of abuse

Chapter 2: A Desperate Call

Bonnie Barlow. His Bonnie. After what felt like an eternity, she was finally on the other end of the call. Her voice, like a gentle melody, washed over him and brought back memories of happier times. But underlying that beauty was an unmistakable panic. Something was wrong. Very wrong. His heart hammered against his chest, threatening to burst out as he stumbled across the room, frantically reaching for his jacket once more. Through the phone, he could hear her soft sobs, tears evident in every quiver of her voice. He had to get to her, no matter what obstacles lay in his path.

“What’s wrong, Bon?” His voice quivered with emotion as he made his way back out the door.

“I need you, Austin…” Her words were muffled by her sobs, but each one pierced through him like a dagger. He knew he had to get to her quickly.

The sound of her heart-wrenching sobs cut through him like a knife. “Please, baby…tell me where you are.” He pleaded, his heart pounding in his chest. The thought of her being in danger made it difficult for him to catch his breath. Bonnie remained silent, and for a brief moment, he feared she had ended the call. With trembling hands, he pulled the phone away from his cheek and let out a sigh of relief when he saw that the call was still connected. Bonnie leaned in close, her voice a low whisper as she recited the unfamiliar address. Austin's fingers flew over the keys of his GPS, determined to reach this mysterious destination. He didn't dare hang up the phone, afraid that he might lose contact with Bonnie forever.

Like a bullet fired from a gun, Austin tore down the road on his sleek motorcycle. He weaved between cars and disregarded any semblance of traffic laws. The roar of the engine echoed off the buildings. If a police car had spotted him, they hadn't bothered to give chase. And even if they had tried, he wouldn't have stopped anyway for them tonight.

As Austin rode, the cool breeze whipped past him, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and damp earth. The dark expanse of night enveloped him like a shroud, making the world seem surreal and hazy. But his mind was focused on one thing - Bonnie. Her soft voice still echoed in his ear and the sound of her heartrending sobs reverberated through his mind. He gripped his bike's handlebars tightly, feeling the worn leather of his riding gloves beneath his fingers. As he picked up speed, the engine's growl grew louder and more urgent, matching the racing beat of his heart. His gut twisted with unease as he drew closer to the unfamiliar address, a nagging feeling gnawing at him that something was dreadfully wrong. Finally, the building came into view as he rounded a corner - an old house nestled in the middle of the dense woods. Its decrepit walls and windows gave off an eerie aura, adding to Austin's growing sense of unease.

With a quick twist of his wrist, he brought the bike to a stop and hopped off, feeling the weight of his body shift as he landed on the ground. Without hesitation, he flipped up the kickstand and grabbed his phone, grateful once again that the call was still connected. “I think I’m here.” As he jogged towards the front steps, his breath quickened with anticipation.

With a creak of protest, the old door to the house slowly opened, revealing Bonnie's haggard appearance. Her clothes were torn and blood stained, while her face was marred with deep bruises and dried blood. Her usually radiant features were now twisted in pain and fear as she stood in the doorway.

Austin's breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight of her. His heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest, pounding with such force that he could feel it reverberating through every inch of his body. The blood in his veins turned to ice and a shiver ran down his spine as he saw the pure terror in Bonnie's once bright eyes.

His legs moved forward on their own accord, driven by an overwhelming need to protect her. But as he reached out for her, his hands trembled with fear and hesitation, afraid that she would break apart at his touch. The pain etched on her face tore at his soul, threatening to consume him with its intensity like a raging fire.

Bonnie managed a weak smile, her lips trembling with agony. "Austin," she whispered hoarsely, her voice strained from holding back tears. She looked up at him, determination shining through the fear in her eyes. With all her strength, she threw herself into his arms, clinging onto him as if her life depended on it. "I'm so glad you're here," she cried out.

Austin's powerful arms envelop Bonnie's broken body, cradling her with a fierce protectiveness. She is his everything, and the sight of her battered and bruised fills him with a boiling rage. The sweet scent of wildflowers and fresh rain that clings to her skin only intensifies his desperation to make things right for her.

"What the hell happened to you, Bonnie?" His voice trembles with emotion as he presses his lips against her hair, trying to absorb all of her pain and suffering. She shudders in response, seeking solace in his embrace as she buries her face against his chest, unable to put into words the horror she has endured.

"In...inside," Bonnie muttered, her voice barely audible. She pulls away, wincing at the pain that follows, and starts to lead him inside the decaying house.

His blue eyes scan the room, taking in the dimly lit interior. Every corner seemed steeped in shadows, shrouding the room in an ominous veil. An uncomfortable chill fills the air. He steps inside cautiously, his boots making soft thuds against the wooden floorboards.

And then, he sees it. In the middle of the room laid a body, cold and lifeless. The man’s face is stuck in a permanent grimace, eyes wide open in terror as if he were still trapped in the moment of his death. A knife protrudes from his chest, glinting menacingly under the faint light from the overhead lamp.

Bonnie's voice caught in her throat as she whispered, "His name is Liam. We started dating a year ago."

Austin's gaze remained cool and unmoved, despite the lifeless body lying on the floor between them. "Did he do that to you?" he asked, his tone flat and devoid of emotion.

Bonnie nodded, tears streaming down her face as she recounted the horror of her recent encounter with Liam. "He was so angry...I could see it in his eyes. He was going to kill me this time, I just know it. I didn't have a choice," she sobbed, her body shaking with fear and regret. The room felt suffocating, like the walls were closing in on them, carrying the weight of Bonnie's pain and trauma. She couldn't bear to look at the body on the floor any longer, but she knew she would carry its image with her for a long time to come.

“This time?” Austin growled, his anger bubbling up like a volcano ready to erupt. He longed for the satisfaction of killing the jackass all over again, cursing the fact that he was already dead. How dare he lay a hand on her, let alone think about hurting her? Every muscle in Austin's body tensed as he fought to contain his rage, but his grip on self-control was slipping fast. The mere thought of someone harming her sent a wave of fury through him.

Bonnie nodded, her gaze dropping to the floor as she began to recount the numerous times Liam's outbursts had gotten out of hand. He had always been quick to anger, but in that moment, he was a different person - a monster. And in her fight for survival, Bonnie too had become a monster.

Austin's grip on Bonnie tightened as he processed her words. The image of this petite woman having to defend herself against a man like Liam infuriated him beyond measure. "You did what you had to do," he said, attempting to offer some comfort, but his voice was lined with an undercurrent of beastly rage. Not only had this despicable individual caused her physical pain, but he had also manipulated her to do the one thing she had always feared: take a life. As a blood born werewolf, taking a life meant triggering the dreaded werewolf curse itself. No longer could she hide behind human form - on the next full moon, she would transform into her true beastly self for the first time.

The thought sent shivers of dread down her spine as she remembered the stories her father had told her about the uncontrollable rage and carnage that accompanied the first transformation. "Austin," she whispered, her voice shaky. "I'm scared." Her eyes were pleading, filled with terror at the thought of her impending transformation. Her heart pounded in her chest like a wild drum, echoing the dreadful rhythm of her fate.

His heart clenched at the raw vulnerability in Bonnie's eyes. He was a leader, a protector, and seeing her in such torment was more than he could bear. "Listen to me," Austin said firmly, cupping her chin to make her look at him. His gaze bore into hers, the intensity making her breath hitch. "You're not going through this alone. I'm here. I'll help you."

The promise in his voice was a lifeline, a beacon of hope in the storm that raged within Bonnie’s soul. But despite his reassurance, she couldn't shake off the fear that clenched around her heart like a cold fist.

Austin kept her gaze on him purposely using his body to shield her from the sight of

Liam’s dead body lying on the floor behind him. “Go pack your stuff.”

“But what about…?” She trailed off, trying to see Liam's lifeless body on the floor.

He firmly refused, determined to protect Bonnie from any further pain. “I’ll take care of it. Go, now.”

With no energy left to argue, Bonnie nodded and swiftly disappeared behind a nearby door to begin packing her belongings. Left alone with Liam and his blood-stained body on the floor, Austin looked down. He didn’t even feel sorry for him. With a deadly calm, Austin approached the body. His nostrils flared at the scent of fresh blood and death filling the room. His instincts were pulling him in two directions. The werewolf inside him was poised to revel in such carnage, yet the man in him recoiled at the sight of what Bonnie had been driven to do. The room was silent save for the faint rustling from the other room where Bonnie was packing. A shiver of disgust went down Austin's spine as he stood over Liam's lifeless body, his cold eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling. The blood under his chest had already begun to coagulate, darkening the pale wooden floor beneath him. Austin's jaw clenched with fury, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the man who laid a hand on Bonnie.

Kneeling down, Austin pulled the knife free from Liam’s chest with an efficient tug. The metal looked cold and unforgiving in the dim light, a stark contrast against the spreading crimson stain on Liam’s shirt. He wrapped the knife carefully in a rag he found lying haphazardly on one of the chairs. Austin stepped away and made his way to the back room where they kept the cleaning supplies. He returned with a bucket of water, bleach and a brush. The sight of Liam's lifeless body greeted him again, but with grim determination he set to work, methodically scrubbing away the blood. When he was done, he made quick work of dragging the body outside and rolling it into a nearby river. It would be so destroyed by the elements that the police would never figure out what had actually killed him. The silent night held its breath as the lifeless body of Liam disappeared beneath the dark, churning waters. Bonnie’s haunting cries of despair seemed to echo in his ears as Austin stood there, watching the river claim its gruesome prize. A sudden rage roared through him, a savage desire to tear everything apart with his bare hands for what had been done to Bonnie. But he reined it in, focusing on the task ahead. He returned to the cabin, ignoring the lingering smell of fear and death, and grabbed a bag of lime from their utility shed. The sharp stench of bleach still hung heavy in the air while he went about covering the patch of the floor where Liam had lain with lime. It would speed up the decomposition process and help eliminate remaining traces of blood or odor that might lead anyone to them.

As he finished, a soft sound from behind made him stiffen. He turned around slowly, finding Bonnie standing at the entrance of the small living room, her wavy hair cascading over her shoulders like a protective curtain, dark eyes wide and shining in the pale light. Her small frame was covered in a loose cardigan despite the muggy summer heat outside, as if she was trying to shield herself from her own actions.

“It’s done,” Austin announced quietly.

Bonnie nodded, her gaze averted from the spot where moments before Liam's lifeless body had laid. She clung to the straps of her bag like a lifeline, her knuckles white from the strain. The comforting presence of Austin was the only thing that stopped her from collapsing under the weight of her guilt and fear.

Austin moved towards her, moving slowly as if not to startle a skittish deer. He reached out and took her bag from her trembling hands then wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side. For a moment, Bonnie stiffened under his touch but slowly relaxed, allowing herself to lean into his warmth.

"We need to leave," Austin said quietly, his voice soothing in the otherwise silent cabin. “You can hide out at my place.”

“What about the gang?” Bonnie's mind was overwhelmed with all that was going on, but she couldn't push aside the thought of her pack. As the alpha, Austin was responsible for punishing deserters and loyalty meant everything to their kind. If they found out about Bonnie, they would expect Austin to execute her as punishment. She knew he would never harm her, let alone kill her. His position as alpha would be threatened, and his loyalty to the pack would be questioned.

His voice was firm, allowing no room for argument. “They don’t have to know that you’re staying there. For now, we just need to focus on getting you through the next few days. We’ll figure the rest out later.”

Bonnie found solace in his resolve. His confidence was contagious, and despite her trembling heart, he made her feel safe. Austin had always been a rock in her life; looking at him now, she felt hope bloom within her."Alright," she whispered, nodding. Her trust in him was implicit, thought not without fear. But if there was anyone she could rely on in this treacherous journey, it was Austin. A tear slipped down her cheek as the reality of her situation began to sink in further. She felt Austin's grip tighten around her, as if he could sense her internal struggle.

Bonnie looked up at Austin, suddenly consumed by an inexplicable urge to memorize his face. The sharp contours of his jawline that made women weak, his intense blue eyes that reflected loyalty and a steadfastness she could always count on. His blonde hair that fell onto his forehead, stubbornly refusing to be tamed. Despite the harsh exterior, there was a kindness that lurked beneath the surface. A kindness that compelled him to risk everything for her.

Austin looked down at Bonnie's tear-streaked face and felt a familiar ache in his chest. Over the years, he had watched her grow into a beautiful woman who deserved so much more than the hand life had dealt her. He couldn't help but feel responsible for bringing this darkness into her life. It was the curse they both carried within them - their shared lineage as werewolves. But it was this same curse that drew them to each other. Bonnie, the girl who was afraid of her own strength, and Austin, the man who was too strong for his own good. Both were anomalies in their own world. He was a hardened gang leader with a heart that bled for Bonnie; she was a runaway who ran straight into Austin’s arms. It seemed like fate had a cruel sense of humor.

Austin led her towards his motorcycle, parked just beyond the cabin’s porch. The roar of its engine echoed through the silent woods as it rumbled to life. The sound seemed to pierce the eerily calm night and Bonnie wondered if it was a precursor to the storm that was about to break in her life.

“Austin,” Bonnie started as she hopped onto the seat behind him, wrapping her arms around his lean waist for support as he began to pull away from the cabin. Her voice couldn’t hide the tremble in it, yet she continued on bravely, “Thank you.”

Austin didn’t respond immediately - he didn’t need to. His hand came to rest over hers where it held onto him tightly from behind and gave it a reassuring squeeze. The message was clear: he would protect her, no matter what cost he had to pay.

Stay tuned for part 3!! Click HERE to view!

#austin butler #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler fic #austin butler fandom #austin butler feyd rautha #austin butler fluff #austinbutleredit #feyd #feyd rautha harkonnen #austin butler imagine #austin butler elvis #austin butler major gale buck cleven #austin butler x reader #austin butler x you #austin butler smut #fanfiction #fanfic #fan fiction #fan fic

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ms-scarletwings · 3 months

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Ok but what if ZiM faking his own death, as a little impulsive experiment… and giddily watching his leaders and society put on the most fucking grandiose and hype celebration public funeral on of all time. It got Conventia seats booked out and broadcasted to like 2/3rds of the Armada’s galactic range. I’m talking lightshows and gluttonous revelry every other invader got to take a day off to come join in on. It’s everything and beyond he was hoping for. When he finally concludes his little “test” and very destructively crashes the party, he (of course) mistakes Red and Purple’s reaction for tears of joy.

#iz #invader zim #iz plothooks #iz shitpost

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shadowgale96 · 6 months

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Little Moments in S2E2 of Heaven Official's Blessing

San Lang's jewelry sparkling when he's amused (?) by something. This one happens when the ghost gambling bets his daughters life. Reminds me of an anime glasses character's glass shine. this happens several times through the episode and is usually accompanied by a high pitched metallic sound. Like the chime of a sword unsheathing.

The green deer demon girl is adorable. Loving the frog man too.

The wind master genderbending back into a man after being dragged to a ghost spa with the undead women and freaking out about what kinda of products they used on his precious skin.

Xie Lian physically grabbing the wind master to keep him from slipping away to find a mirror. You're on a potentially life or death mission my guy. Bring a compact mirror on your next adventure. Fast thinking on an excuse by Xie Lian though!

This guy having zero points in stealth on a mission that the emperor himself said must be handled discreetly to avoid conflict with the ghost realm.

I love how they both panic, than immediately accept Qianqiu's imminent death at Hua Cheng's hand after he continues to insult the man in his own establishment.

'This place of mine is meant for revelry. If you don't want to take the path to heaven, and break into hell, what else can you do?' Hua Cheng revealing that he knew who they were already. Which isn't surprising because they all stand out enough as is, even if his husband wasn't with them and standing within within eyesight.

Respecting the demons/ghosts for calling out Qianqiu when he said they're lacking humanity and decency. Like 'Bruh, We are literally NOT human. We don't share you're morals or sense of decency at all. Just let us live our lives.' Like, I'm actually in agreement with them.

Getting into an air bender battle, while San Lang is barely flicking his wrist at him. I like how San Lang crushes the table and sends the shards flying at him. Showing he could easily impale Qianqiu before pulling him up at the last moment. It felt like San Lang was trying to teach him. He might have recognized that Qianqiu was young and foolish, but was trying to do good. So San Lang warns him by showing him what could happen if he keeps running his mouth without knowing who he's threatening. That or he decided not to dice Qianqiu because Xie Lian was watching... could go either way

HuaLian having a tender moment looking into each other's eyes while everyone waits downstairs confused.

San Lang 100% offered Qianqiu as a prize to give Xie Lian the chance to help him and Him the chance to hold hands with Xie Lian X'D

We hear that metallic chime noise again here. I think San Lang gave Xie Lian some of is luck here. San Lang also holds Xie Lian's hands on the final round too when Xie Lian rolled two 6's and wins.

Everyone's reaction to San Lang calling Xie Lian 'Gege'. Qingxuan is curious and confused. Qianqiu looks shocked and a little embarrassed. and the grandma Pleakley looking demon's head falls off their body.

San Lang telepathically ordering his assistant to have everyone STFU while he's playing with Xie Lian.

Wind Master Qingxuan pelting Qianqiu with his fan for continuing to run his mouth.

San Lang being completely smitten with Xie Lian as he drops a man from the ceiling

Xie Lian making Qianqiu shut his mouth. Dude BE QUIET! They JUST saved you.

It was incredibly sweet how when San Lang approaches Xie Lian asking for the bet he's owed, Qianqiu steps between them and holds his arm out to protect Xie Lian from who he perceives to be a threat. Qianqiu knows he wouldn't win, but he moves to protect Xie Lian anyway. He's so foolish but so brave.

San Lang would eat stale pringles off the floor if Gege touched them,

Prince being to good for his own good again by telling Xie Lian not to lie to Hua Cheng. Despite himself not liking him at all for treating him like a pinata prize in front of everyone.

This was a very cute episode and there were so many enjoyable moments.

#shi qingxuan #tgcf #lang qianqiu #heaven official's blessing #xie lian #san lang #hua cheng #tian guan ci fu #hualian

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jaimeslanisters · 2 months

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the pawn in every lover’s game (part fourteen)

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: 16.1k notes: posting. so i can finally beat those death allegations... 🙏🏼 please take this extra long chapter as my apology if any of you are still around

The wedding of Aegon and Helaena Targaryen ends with as much fanfare as it had began with. Buried underneath the cheers and claps, you can still distinctly hear a choir singing a hymn, its lyrics completely muffled by the sound of revelry still reverberating within the Dragonpit. You’ve long since stopped clapping, having decided to at least save your palms some of the misery, but the rest of the room seemingly does not seem to mind the sting, the sounds of their claps shaking the room like thunder. From your vantage point, you can see how Helaena’s smile tightens and how Aegon’s eyes seem to grow increasingly more and more distressed. Their hands are squeezing each other so tight that even from your vantage point, you can see how their pale knuckles whiten even further from their tight grip on one another. They look beautiful, striking and unnatural, but all you can see when you look up at them are the ghosts of the children they used to be, dressed up and lovely but painfully unprepared.

Part of you wants to usher them off the altar, to save them just a little of the embarrassment, to shield them from the all too piercing gazes of the capitol.

A larger part of you, however, knows that this is only a taste of what they will have to face in the future. Sooner rather than later, the entirety of the realms would be looking to them for direction, for wisdom, and for strength, and they would all trace it all back to this singular moment in time. The historians, the maesters, the singers, and the storytellers would all look back to this one day, to this mere stretch of an hour, and say that this is where the tone of their reign was decided. It’s monumental. It’s historic.

It’s no wonder the Queen looks as stressed as she does. It’s a miracle you haven’t ripped your own hair out.

Just as the cheers begin to die down, you sense movement out of the corner of your eye and you turn your head in time to see Ser Criston nod to the Lord Hand, murmuring something quietly in response. In the next breath, Ser Criston moves up towards the altar, bowing his head to Aegon and Helaena as he does. Behind him, other kingsguards move up to follow behind, their white cloaks starched to perfection so they practically shine with a pale glow from the sunlight filtering in through the windows in the domed roof. They form a wall around the two Targaryens, leaving space for them to remain visible to the rest of the Dragonpit but close enough that no attackers would stand any chance of getting close enough to do damage. It’s a shockingly familiar picture, one that you’ve seen countless times before though not in recent memory.

It’s King Viserys and Queen Alicent, hand in not quite loving hand, their twin crowns perched delicately onto their heads as they stand proud before their people.

Almost.

Not quite but maybe just enough.

“The Lord Hand has an eye for the dramatics,” you murmur to Aemond, not taking your eyes away from the altar, from the show of extravagance.

Aemond hums, dropping his arm down to scoop your’s up. You hide a smile at his show of affection, however small it may be. “He was the one to insist on the coronet. Mother was the one to push for the wedding to be in the Dragonpit rather than the throne room. The throne room would be limited to only nobility and even then, only the highest echelon. Here - thousands can fit.”

You nod, glancing over your shoulder. In the very back, some people have started to move towards the wide open doors, sensing that the ceremony has ended and seeking a quick escape, but the vast majority of people stay, still clambering to catch a glimpse of the royals. The mass of the smallfolk are held at bay by a wall of City’s Watch, their cloaks forming a golden wall between the nobility and the rest of King’s Landing.

Like the curtains of a playhouse stage.

This was a performance. A beautiful lie where the actors would play their roles to perfection or fall to shambles in front of the world. Endless and endless roles and parts to play, endless scenes to perform. It would never end. It couldn’t.

Smallfolk didn’t care about who sat the Iron Throne. They didn’t care about which Lord ruled over them, didn’t care whose birthright was being taken, whose ruling right was being usurped. They cared about being fed. They cared about surviving the winter. They cared about their sons growing into old and grey men instead of dying young in a nameless field and their daughters marrying good, kind men.

They cared about their stories - their pretty little stories they could pass onto their children and their children’s children. They cared about Jonquil and her fool of a knight. They cared about Symeon Star-Eye, about Lann the Clever, about Brandon the Builder.

They would care about this - about the beautiful Targaryen maiden with emeralds in her hair and amethysts in her eyes marrying her equally beautiful brother, the yet uncrowned king. They would care about the dragon and his treasure.

They would care about the performance.

The performance was all that mattered.

“All the world’s a stage,” you murmur quietly and Aemond lets out a small noise, prompting you to tear your eyes away from the goldcloaks to peer up at him. Even as the guards begin to prompt all of the nobles to start to be ushered out of Dragonpit, to be guided through the tunnels, he looks down at you, focusing his attention solely on your words. It warms something up in you and you resist the urge to curl into him, tuck yourself into his side.

“It’s a quote,” you say, smiling slightly thinking about your little sister with her ink stained fingers. “Jeyne… She loves plays, you see. Always reading them, writing them. She used to make me and Tyshara act in them even. There’s a playwright she enjoys. It’s a quote from one of his works, I believe. She convinced me to go see it with her in Lannisport a few months ago.”

“You used to act in her plays?” He questions, gently pulling you along as the guards begin to grow a little more insistent. He walks slowly, keeping pace with you, and the two of you trail behind the rest of the wedding party, behind them but leading the rest of the nobility.

You mockingly frown at him. “What are you trying to imply, my prince? I was a once-in-a-generation talent. Joy still talks about my turn as a knight, a queen, and as a lady in a lake. In the same play.”

“Really?” Aemond says flatly, raising his eyebrow. “I remember a lady always finding my hiding spot in the library and somehow always being surprised to find me. You stopped being convincing after the first few times.”

You tilt your head up to hold your chin high even as your cheeks flare with embarrassed heat. “It worked, didn’t it? Seems like I was something of a leading star.”

“Your audience was a lonely ten-year-old boy and you were the prettiest girl I had ever seen, let alone the prettiest girl to ever talk to me. You could have convinced me that you were Balerion the Black Dread reborn if you had set your mind to it.”

A laugh bursts its way out of you, loud enough that Otto and Alicent turn around to peer curiously at the two of you, one smiling and the other frowning. Part of you wants to seize up at the scrutiny but a bigger part of you wants to stay in this moment and curl up in the warm glow in your chest.

Anything to distract you from the night ahead.

From all the nights ahead.

“Seems a shame I didn’t realize my skills,” you muse, pulling yourself away from the anxious thoughts that creep at the edges of your subconscious. “Then again, if ten-year-old me had known her own power, I’m afraid she might have grown drunk off of it. Who knows what she would have ended up doing?”

Aemond smiles, shaking his head slightly. “Perhaps she would have grown bold enough to woo a prince?”

You laugh again, gleefully, and this time Daeron stops in front of his mother to look back at you. You wave him off, smiling at him, but not before he grins at the two of you, so clearly pleased by the closeness you’re sharing with his brother.

The two of you settle into the silence and, once you step into tunnels leading deeper and deeper into the Dragonpit, you pull his arm closer to you as you follow the blend of goldcloaks and kingsguard. The tunnels are brighter than they were the last time you had entered these halls, when you had followed Helaena deep into the bowels of the pit itself. New lit sconces have been placed into the walls, carefully carved into the stone so they cast the light of the flames over the uneven ground. Even still, you’re careful to watch your step and keep your grip tight on Aemond’s arm, using him to balance yourself in case you misstep and stumble into a dip in the ground.

Somehow, it’s louder the deeper you go into the tunnels, the stone walls amplifying the footsteps of thousands above of you until it’s almost like there are waves crashing on the shore over your head, torrential and powerful. It reverbrates and shakes to the point that dust falls off the rocky ceiling, covering your dress with a thin layer, dulling the starched white into a yellowed shade. You’re not the only one suffering if the cries of the noblemen behind you are anything to go by and you can even feel it on your skin, feel little rocks falling into your hair.

The tunnels have never been so crowded, so full, before.

But there’s a strange emptiness in the air.

“Where did the dragons go?” You ask Aemond. As impossible as it would be, a part of you feels like you’ve snuck into the tunnels, even surrounded as you are by everyone in King’s Landing. It almost feels like you could turn a corner and run into the massive beasts that call this hill home, as if you’ll stumble onto them and have a dragon breathe flame onto you for the injury of trespassing.

Aemond tilts his head. “Dreamfyre and Sunfyre are waiting at another exit to take Helaena and Aegon to the Red Keep for a final procession in the sky. I believe Daeron has Tessarion housed somewhere near the Kingswood though she might have left if she grew bored of the cattle that they got her.”

“And Vhagar is at her roost, I assume?” You ask and Aemond spares you a small smirk.

“Why so inquisitive? Are you interested in meeting her, my lady?”

You miss your next step and only your hand curled around Aemond’s bicep keeps you upright. You right yourself fast enough but not so quick that you don’t hear his stifled laugh, a quick and quiet little thing.

Cheeks embarrassingly hot, you swallow thickly, holding back your immediate and empathetic ‘No’. It is a poorly kept secret that you aren’t fond of the Targaryens’ sigil and Aemond would love the chance to push and prod at this side of you. You weren’t hateful or even open about your aversion. You have just never once jumped at the chance to get close to any dragon, no matter the countless opportunities you’ve been given over the years, and you would shy away from offers to see them.

Helaena never failed to offer to bring you along with her to the Dragonpit and you would occasionally accompany her even if you would always beg off on actually going in with her. Aemond had only ever made one explicit offer, back when he was only weeks into having had claimed Vhagar, and you had been humiliatingly forceful in your denial. It was an embarrassing memory to look back on, one that you always cringed away from even thinking about. Even now, you can remember how you had stammered out a no, citing a recent newfound fear of heights and a mystery injury that had rendered you incapable of climbing up the tangled web of ropes that constituted Vhagar’s harness. You had been petrified to hurt his feelings, so soon after Driftmark, but Aemond had taken your rejection remarkably well even if he had looked insufferably amused by your poor excuses.

Yet another mark against you as an actress.

Aemond had never asked you again though he was remarkably transparent in his desire for you to meet Vhagar. He’d always announce when he was going to go see her, making sure that you were in earshot, and, once, when you were both years younger, he had made a grand show of having commissioned a large saddle of Vhagar - large enough to fit two.

His brothers, surprisingly, were less single-minded in their attempts to convince you to warm up to their sigil. Daeron, in the early years when Tessarion had been comparatively small and he would come to visit, would cheerfully invite you to come feed her with him, seemingly oblivious to the way you would grimace at the thought of seeing a dragon feast on a goat again as you had as a little girl. Aegon was, shockingly enough, the Targaryen least invested in your interest in dragons. While he was always prone to bragging about Sunfyre’s beauty, he hoarded moments with him to himself, zealously protecting his time with his dragon with such fervor that one would almost think that he was paranoid someone would steal Sunfyre out from under him.

No, your lack of fondness for the dragons the Targaryens rode was hardly a secret.

But it feels wrong to say that now.

Now, when all of your intentions had been laid bare at Aemond’s feet. Now, when you’re holding onto Aemond without nervous fear creeping up your throat, without the anxieties of wondering if he wanted you half as much as you wanted him.

No, you couldn’t say that.

“Perhaps,” you start slowly, the words dragging themselves out of you slowly, sluggishly as if your own body was rebelling against what you were about to say. “I would want to meet her. I… I imagine it’s time I see her.”

You feel a jerk on your arm and you stop short, turning to gape at Aemond. He’s completely stopped in the middle of the hallway, staring so intently at you that for a moment, you fear that your very skin will light on fire where his eyes trail on you. You’ve pulled away from him slightly, the most space between your bodies since you had stood in your place next to him during the ceremony, but your hand is still loosely gripping his arm, a tether between the two of you.

“Do you mean that, my lady?” He asks softly, as if he’s scared you’ll take it back, as if he’s nervous you’ll snatch your own words out of the air and push him away.

Around you, your guards slide to a stop behind the pair of you, a crimson wall between the two of you and the rest of the nobility approaching. There are only moments until they’ll be pressing down on your sacred space.

But you don’t look over at them. You look at him.

You feel like a ten-year-old again, sitting at your table in the library, eyes wide as you stare up at Aemond. If you try, you can almost erase the grown man in front of you and slot in a ten-year-old boy, his head wrapped in bandages, his mouth set in a determined line. He had been holding books in his arms, tight to his chest like a shield to protect himself with.

Had he been nervous? You can’t quite remember. Maybe he had been shaking. Maybe his teasing smile after had been hiding the hurt in his eyes. You can’t remember, can’t remember anything but the way it had felt as if your own stomach had dropped to the very ground at the mere idea of approaching the Queen of All Dragons.

You lick your lips, mouth dry. Despite the nerves creeping up your spine, the primal fear that threatens to settle in your bones, there’s only one answer you can give.

“Yes,” you say, voice soft and gentle, almost like a whispered promise down in these winding tunnels where dragons make their home. “Yes, I will meet her.”

Aemond Targaryen is all sharp edges and white knuckles, a dragon’s rage contained within one man. Just two days ago, he had plunged a sword through a man’s throat and stood victorious over him, had been hungry for more and for you. He was proud and lethal, fire and blood embodied.

There’s little trace of that man now.

Now, he stares at you as if this is the first time he’s ever seen you before. His gaze is almost unbearably soft, unbearably gentle. Even as children, he’s never been this open, this completely vulnerable.

Your heart clenches painfully in your chest.

A near decade since Driftmark. A near decade you’ve denied Aemond this.

You tug on his arm, beckoning Aemond to keep up, and this time, he’s dependent on you guiding him through the winding tunnels. His eyes stay on you, scanning you for any sign that you’re reluctant.

You’re not, however. More than your fear, more than your anxieties, you feel remorse creeping up your throat.

It’s an ugly, sickly feeling. You’re not used to guilt, not used to feeling sorry. You like moving people like chess pieces, the subtle art of manipulation, exercising your control and power.

But not with Aemond.

Never with Aemond.

And now, he’s caught you twice in a mere few days.

Your stomach still churns at the memory of when he had revealed that your intentions had always been plain. He had seemingly been okay with it, had seemingly appreciated that you had pursued him, but a part of you still wants to apologize for it.

Just not here.

You can feel the eyes of the nobility behind, peering through the wall of crimson cloaks that can’t quite shield you from their prying eyes. What you want to say deserves to just be his, your’s and his alone with no danger of someone stepping in and interrupting.

You already had to share him with the rest of the world. You didn’t want to have to share this too.

For just a moment’s breath, you allow yourself to lean into Aemond, pressing your side into his, resting your head on his arm. It’s only for a moment but you soak it in, trying your best to commit to memory the feel of his toned arm under your cheek, the way his body shifts to accommodate you, always aware of you as if you’re burned into his periphery, another part of him as he is to you.

You pull away, curling your hand around his arm. He doesn’t say anything but his other hand floats up, moving to cover your own, squeezing it tight.

You walk deeper into the tunnels, the crashing footsteps of King’s Landing all around you.

——————————–

The sunlight is almost unbearable after the tunnels. The sconces had done little to acclimate your eyes and when the narrow passageways open up to the bright blue cloudless sky, you reel back on instinct, turning your face away from the relentless sun. Blessedly, the ground is smoother out here, the rock having been worn down from decades of wagons and the heavy feet of dragons, and you move forward blindly before your eyes adjust.

You’re at the base of Rhaenys’ Hill, away from the grand entrance with its soaring arches and bronze doors. Here, the trees have receded, giving way to a few brick houses that line the bottom of the hill, houses that you know are large and luxurious but somehow seem so quaint in the shadow of the Dragonpit. In the distance, you can see the walls of King’s Landing, looming high over the city. From your vantage, you make out the Dragon Gate with its oversized dragon statues serving as sentinels, the golden bronze serving as a beacon to denote its location. If you turn your head west, you can just see the Old Gate though your sight of it is obscured by the massive mansions that surround it, populated by the richest merchants in the city.

Out here, in the barely fresh air, it almost feels like a world removed from the crowded Dragonpit or even the lined streets of the capital. There are no smallfolk jostling to catch a glimpse at the gilded few. There is no cheering, no screaming. There are just rows and rows of wheelhouses, servants standing at the ready next to them, such a familiar sight that it borders on the mundane. It feels, for the first time all day, normal.

It’s almost sickening.

It feels like you should have walked out to a world on fire. The buildings should have shifted, rearranged themselves to fit this new reality, but all of it is the same. It’s the King’s Landing you’ve grown up with. The King’s Landing you’ll die with.

You dig your thumbnail deep into your own palm, using the small jolt of pain to anchor yourself back into the moment, to quell your own mounting disappointment at this new bitter reality.

Aemond leads you down to the closest ring of wheelhouses, towards the gathered crowd of his family. You spare a glance over your shoulder. It’s a mass of people, all of them more finely dressed than the last, but Lannisters have always stood a head and shoulder above all the rest and that stays true even now. Jason and Tyland are tall and Tygett is even taller and, through seeing them, you can spot the smaller figures of your cousins and distant uncles surrounding them, even as deep as they are in the crowd of nobles.

“I imagine my father will come to fetch me soon enough,” you muse quietly to Aemond, eying the massive crowd that separates you from them.

Aemond spares you a look, his delicate mouth downturned. “You’re free to ride with us in our wheelhouse. There’s room to spare since I believe Princess Rhaenys will ride with her house and Grandfather has some matters to discuss with Lord Hightower in his wheelhouse.”

You hide a smile before shaking your head. “I’m a Lannister, my prince. I may live with dragons but I’m a lion and I go with the rest of the pride for now.”

“For now,” Aemond repeats and you don’t bother hiding your crooked smile now.

“For now,” you echo.

You rejoin his family by his wheelhouse and, the instant you arrive, Alicent descends upon the two of you, her hands fluttering up to brush off nonexistent dust off of Aemond’s tunic.

“You both did lovely,” Alicent praises, offering you both nervous smiles, and you instantly recognize the look in her eye, the energy that seems to pour out of her fingertips and fill the air with a cautious, staticky charge. She’s coming down from an impossible high - for all intents and purposes, she could still be riding that high, still drunk off the adrenaline.

You smile back at her, feeling a similar pulse of nervous energy coursing through your veins even as you bow your head in gratitude. “Thank you, Your Grace. I’d like to congratulate you on the beautiful ceremony - all of it, every single last detail, was an absolute marvel.”

Alicent’s smile softens, losing some of that manic quality and turning into something warmer. There’s a flicker of pride on her face, that age-old feeling of success and satisfaction. It makes her look that much younger, more overeager girl desperate for a pat on the head from her septa than a Queen carrying the burden of seven kingdoms on her back.

She is young if you think about it. If your math is correct, she’s over a decade younger than your own mother and Cerelle is not even a year older than Aegon. Your stomach twists at the thought, at the age she must have been during her first pregnancies. It had been a miracle that no harm had come to Alicent or to any of her babes.

Your mind flashes to Helaena, to the fact that now that she was wedded and soon to be bedded, her first child would come soon enough. That familiar, tell-tale nausea of anxiety begins to creep up your throat and you swallow it down thickly, trying desperately to bury it deep within you, alongside all the other anxieties that haunt your every move. Helaena is older than her mother had been. Helaena is stong - healthy.

You forcibly drag your focus back onto Alicent, just in time to see her bow her head in gratitude, pulling away from Aemond to give the two of you some space. As soon as she moves, however, Daeron takes her place, beaming brightly. His hair is slightly messier than it had been earlier, some of the delicate braids knocked askew as if he had run his hand through the tresses, but all of it only serves to give him a boyish charm. He’s still otherworldly, still more beautiful than anyone has any right to be, but he’s unmistakably human, unmistakably a boy.

It warms you right up and you smile more easily at him, part of you wishing you could reach out and muss up his curls even further. Boy that he is, and as close to adulthood as he is, something in his rosy cheeks and his bright eyes reminds you of Joy, of your little sister with her own rosy cheeks and bright eyes.

“I think you were right, Aemond,” Daeron says, grinning. “All of it went smoothly. Maybe the sun is a blessing for Valyrian weddings? Keep them warm and all of that.”

“As smoothly as it could,” Aemond drawls, seemingly unaffected by the warmth that his brother seems to exhibit like a little sun of his own. You suppose he’s rather used to it, having had him for years before little Daeron had been shipped off to Oldtown. You imagine he was even freer in his affection and kindness as a little boy but somehow, it’s impossible to imagine Daeron being any more sweet. “Helaena and Aegon will need every blessing the Gods see fit to give them.”

You snort, completely unladylike to the point you can feel the ghost pain of your childhood septa rapping you on the knuckles with her ruler. Neither prince seems to mind so you barrel forward. “If an entire day of prayers solely devoted to their union can’t conjure up some goodwill and luck, I pray the sun will do the trick.”

Daeron laughs. “I bet everyone else in the city is also praying for them too. They all want their future princes and princesses to be healthy - especially the heir. I’m sure they’re praying for them as they prayed for Mother and Father.”

You hide a smile but Aemond makes no such effort, looking supremely amused by his younger brother’s guileless treason. Daeron says it as if it’s a settled fact, a law of nature - not the most dangerous dispute to threaten House Targaryen since perhaps Maegor the Cruel. In a way, you suppose it is.

Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne. He may not be a named heir but calling something by a different name did not change the facts, could not shift the foundations that all of Westeros was built upon.

It is not treason to see the truth.

No one has ever said it so plainly and with such clear language though. You wonder if Daeron even has it in him to be duplicitous, to weave lies in with the truth until it was interchangeable in the same way his grandfather could.

No, you think as you look him over. He’s far too gentle for it, far too chivalrous. He’s the son of Alicent Hightower or, at least, the son of the gentle girl she must have been before the throne turned her into the woman she had to be.

“If the Gods see to bless them, then they will be blessed,” you say in as sincere a voice you can muster. You sound so devout that even the High Septon could not find fault with you but, judging from the tremble of Aemond’s arm tucked into your’s from his suppressing his laughter, you’ve failed with at least one person.

Daeron smiles at you, smaller than his previous grins but all the more sincere. “You’re right, my lady.”

“She rarely isn’t,” Aemond says, sounding entirely too smug to be praising you. “With the exception of her evaluation of her own acting skills.”

You scowl, immediately losing whatever minimal glow you had earned through your holy act. “I was ten and it clearly worked.”

“You used to act?” Daeron asks, looking like a child who’s just been handed a new toy.

You flush. “I didn’t. He’s poking fun.”

At the same time, Aemond says, “She used to. She was terrible but she has improved.”

Daeron laughs gleefully, his amethyst eyes flashing with unbridled joy. “My lady, I had no idea you were a thespian.”

“My sister,” you say, rather than explaining your storied past with acting with regards to Aemond in particular. “She fancies herself a would-be playwright. She’s always scribbling away on any scrap piece of parchment she can find.”

The youngest Targaryen prince tilts his head in response. “Is she good? Have you read her plays?”

You smile slightly. “I tried my best to read them when I was home, my prince, but she guards them more zealously than some dragons guard their treasure.” Aemond snorts quietly next to you, clearly amused by your little barb, and Daeron’s gaze turns all that fonder at his older brother’s obvious satisfaction. “I’m afraid the only writing of Jeyne’s I’ve read in recent memory is her letters,” you finish, sighing slightly.

It certainly hadn’t been due to lack of effort. You had cajoled, attempted bribery, even tried to (unconvincingly) threaten her. Short of locking her in her room, you had no way of getting the opportunity to read Jeyne’s plays. When the two of you were younger, you could hardly go a day without her shoving sheets of parchment in your face, staining your dress sleeves with the ink on her fingers with the way she would tug on them to beg you to read them over. When you had returned home, you had been the one chasing her down, begging for even a morsel of her thoughts.

Just another way that your world has shifted in a way you’re never going to get back.

“I’m sure she’s a great talent,” Daeron says, cheerful and amiable. He’s so sincere that you imagine even the High Septon could find no fault with him though you are certain he would try.

“Like the rest of her sisters, my Jeyne is a rare talent,” your father’s voice cuts through the din and you start slightly, turning to the source. Behind your father, you can see your uncle speaking with Lord Otto and the Queen, Tygett and Tygett’s own father and uncles at his side.

You bow your head at your father in greeting and, next to you, Aemond and Daeron do the same, Aemond deeper than his brother. This doesn’t pass Jason’s keen eyes and his gaze turns sharper, more mischievous boy than a High Lord, and you fight the urge to bury your head in your hands.

Your father will always have his fun.

“Prince Aemond,” Jason says, his voice high and lofty, and Aemond straightens next to you, his normal rigid posture even stiffer. Your father’s eyes sharpen at the shift, looking distinctly leonine, and even Daeron looks absolutely delighted by the turn of events. “I didn’t get the chance to congratulate you directly but House Lannister would like to extend our thanks for honoring my daughter as you have.”

Aemond bows his head again. “She brings herself honor, my lord. I was only given the opportunity to bring the rest of the capital’s attention to it.”

Jason laughs, so clearly amused, and you bite your lip to stop yourself from saying something. Knowing your father, it would only make this game he’s playing all that more fun. “The rest of the capital? After the tourney, I’m afraid the rest of the kingdoms are all too aware of my daughter’s honor now. On my way to the Dragonpit, I could hear some songs being sung through the walls of my wheelhouse. My uncle’s granddaughters were enraptured - they’re already asking their fathers to bring some bards back to Lannisport so they can share the songs with the other members of House Lannister.”

A thrill crawls its way up your spine. You certainly haven’t heard any songs - not that you would have had the chance to hear them - and you had known that the bards would do as they always do and write their songs. The pretty little story that the tourney had provided them with had been too good, too perfect, for them to resist.

But it actually happening is something else entirely.

You don’t dare look up at Aemond now, not when you’re certain it’d be impossible to hide from his amethyst eye, and the sight of your father’s increasingly amused face makes you want to crawl into your own skin to hide so you stay quiet, praying that the conversation will end.

Daeron, however, has no such qualms.

“Really?” He exclaims, so audibly delighted that you look over at him without even thinking. He’s brightened up entirely, grinning so wide that one would think that the bards were writing their songs about him. “Are they any good?”

Jason laughs, similarly pleased to have found someone to play along with his charade. “I’m no great expert on songs, my prince. You’ll have to ask my cousins for an educated opinion.”

Daeron laughs. “Perhaps a bard or two will sing a song at the wedding feast.”

“Perhaps not,” you intervene, sniffing delicately, unable to hold back your tongue. Next to you, Aemond snorts quietly. “This is Helaena’s wedding. Not mine. The singers should stick to the classics rather than trying out any new material on everyone.”

“Give it time, sweetling,” Jason teases and his voice has taken a softer tone, his smile just that much warmer. “Soon you and your dragon prince’s songs will be the classics. You’ll be begging for them to play new songs then.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes, and, against your own better judgment, you glance up at Aemond in hopes of finding an ally in this battle with your father and his unexpected ally Daeron. Predictably, he looks horribly amused as if this was all a big game to him, a show being put on for him. But he’s not just amused. There’s a shine to his eye, a gleam of something that isn’t just barely concealed laughter.

It’s warming. It’s gentle. It’s intoxicating.

You quickly look away, suddenly all too aware of the consequences of looking at him here, in front of your own father.

The thought of providing Jason Lannister with that much ammunition is almost too much to bear.

“We’ll have time to continue this at the feast,” Jason finally says, shedding the skin of a teasing young boy and donning his high lord costume. “In fact… Your Queen Mother and I have planned a tea for tomorrow. Just a simple meeting. Nothing to be concerned about.”

Nothing to be concerned about? You could almost laugh out loud. There would be nothing simple about a tea with the Queen - not one following a declaration of intents. Your father and Alicent would sit down and discuss joining their two houses, probing politely at the bones of a bethoral contract without overplaying their hand. If they were even feeling particularly productive, they could likely even hammer out the larger details of one - questions about your dowry, bridal payments, properties to inherit and divide. Knowing your father, he would be sure to push trade contracts that would heavily favor House Lannister, maybe try to slide in a chance for another marriage contract for Jeyne or Joy.

Tomorrow would be a starting point. It would be the first move to lay down the foundation on which your and Aemond’s futures would be built on top of.

Your mouth dries in anticipation.

“Yes,” you echo, letting a small smile slip on your face. “We have a tea tomorrow. There will be much to discuss.”

Your father smiles, pleased by your easy obedience, and Daeron grins, delighted by another chance to tease and poke at his brother.

But Aemond…

When you tilt your head up to look at Aemond, that gentle warmth has fled from his sole eye. There’s a curve to his lips still but it isn’t amusement or laughter.

No.

This is him moving with you, him responding on sheer instinct alone to the gnawing ambition that lays claim to your peripheries, pushing and pushing inwards until you can see nothing else.

This is him seeing your hunger.

And this is his answering your call.

——————————–

Sometime after the wheelhouse’s easy travel on smooth dirt roads gives way to the familiar bumping and jostling of the cobblestone roads of King’s Landing, you hear the roar of a dragon.

It’s like a shot in the dark, so loud and invasive that it slices through your father and uncle’s easy conversation without remorse, and you freeze for a moment, primal urge overtaking any rational thought.

Don’t move. You can’t be seen if you don’t move.

The impulse leaves you quick enough and you’re left with just a fading sense of embarrassment as you turn to one of the many windows that line House Lannister’s grandest wheelhouse. Sliding one open, you peer up to the sky in time to see a golden shine break apart the endless blue.

Sunfyre. Beautiful and peerless.

You frown slightly as you look up at his shape gliding delicately through the air, more graceful than any beast of that size had any right to be. You couldn’t hear the telltale sound of Dreamfyre’s wings beating loud and clear or see her blue scales glinting in the sun. There was no sign of Helaena’s companion which meant that there was only place that the girl herself could be.

Helaena and Aegon were riding together.

The thought makes you slide the window shut and you slump back in your seat, worrying your bottom lip with your teeth. Aegon was notoriously possessive of his dragon - all of his rings were styled after Sunfyre, obnoxiously ostentatious things, and most of his clothes were embroidered with metallic thread in an attempt to capture even a sliver of his beauty. Since reaching adulthood, he had forced the Dragonpit keepers to swear off approaching Sunfyre even to feed the dragon, preferring to do the gruesome task himself. If you’re being honest, you doubt there’s even another relationship in his life that would come close to his uncomplicated and free passion towards his own personal sigil.

And now Helaena had invaded that sacred space.

Even just a week ago, you would have gambled everything on Aegon preferring to be bathed in fire rather than allowing any of his siblings to ride alongside him on his one treasure. He coveted Sunfyre something fierce, more possessive of him than he was of anything else.

Yet Helaena was with him.

You’re not sure what it means.

Aegon loves his sister - you know that as surely as you know that you love his sister - but he didn’t love his sister and that maybe mattered more now. Aegon and Helaena would be no Jaehaerys the Conciliator and Good Queen Alysanne whose love for each other only dimmed in comparison to their love for the realm.

But maybe they could be something better. Something more than their parents with their glacial relationship. Something more stable than their grandparents and their infamous Quarrels.

You sigh, pushing the thought out of your mind. There would be plenty of time in the future to worry and fuss about Helaena and Aegon’s relationship and how the realm would view it. There would be plenty of time to plan how you would twist Westeros into cherishing it. You had enough to worry about for today.

Namely the feast.

“I wonder how Queen Alicent will outdo herself tonight,” you muse out loud, drawing your father and uncle’s attention to yourself. “She’s guarded her plans rather zealously.”

Tyland snorts quietly. “It’s certainly been a grand expense. Lord Beesbury has not stopped fussing about the cost of this and that to anyone who will listen even though the Hightowers are paying for most of it from their own coffers. You’d think the expenses are coming straight from his own purse with the way he goes on about it.”

You hum, letting a mischievous smile slip on your face. “Lord Beesbury, may the Gods forgive me for saying so, much prefers the sound of his voice rather than putting forth any meaningful solutions. He’s never been fond of the Queen and he’s even less fond of her children. It’s a miracle that the Lord Hand managed to loosen his grip on the purse of the Targaryens to fund even the tourney.”

Your uncle nods in agreement, tapping his fingers against his thigh. “He’s Lord of Honeyholt. They’re always getting the castoffs of House Hightower and old Lyman is no exception to the animosity his House has nursed for centuries now. I sometimes wonder if he’s really so fond of Princess Rhaenyra as he likes to say he is or if he just hates the alternative. He himself has a daughter older than his heir and you don’t see him pushing her first in his line of succession.”

Jason shakes his head, looking genuinely annoyed. “They should have retired Lord Beesbury years ago. He’s senile in his old age. It’s a miracle he doesn’t crumble into dust whenever he bumps against something.”

You blink, somewhat caught off guard by your father’s frustration. “Is he really that old?” You prompt, eager to coax more of his true thoughts out of him.

“He was old when they placed him on the small council, sweetling,” Jason scoffs. “He’s even older now.”

Tyland grins at his brother, looking absolutely tickled by his twin’s simmering anger. “You’ve never gotten over the fact that King Viserys snubbed Uncle Stafford for him.”

“More that he snubbed you,” Jason shoots back. “Master of Coin should be yours. You’re a Lannister - who knows gold better than us?”

You nod slowly. “If King Viserys was smart, he’d offer you, Uncle Tyland, Master of Coin and offer Master of Ships to Corlys Velaryon if not his brother. Bring the Velaryons back to the fold. Everyone knows that they’ve split from Princess Rhaenyra.”

“If,” Tyland murmurs, raising an eyebrow, and you stifle a laugh. “Besides… The Queen and her father hold the throne now, truly, and they might be hard-pressed to convince the Velaryons to come to their side. I don’t doubt that the Sea Snake still harbors a grudge for King Viserys passing over Lady Laena for Alicent Hightower.”

“The Sea Snake,” you say without thinking. “Not Princess Rhaenys. She’s a Velaryon and, like Queen Alicent, she holds her House’s power while her husband fights an endless war in the Stepstones.”

Jason leans forward slightly, quirking up a brow. “Since when have you been so close to Princess Rhaenys?”

“I’m not,” you reply. “But I’m not a Hightower or a Targaryen and that seems to count for something in her eyes. She clearly wants to foster a connection where her husband did not if she accepted the role of the Crone. Moreover to the point, I believe she’s… Fond of me.”

“Fond?” Tyland now questions you.

You shrug, flashing a smile. “Fond. Like a lady and her pet. I imagine she’d be surprised to find anything in my head that wasn’t revolving around Aemond or Helaena.”

Jason hums, leaning back in his seat. He starts drumming his fingers against his thigh, eerily echoing his brother perfectly. “Princess Rhaenys always liked to think that she was cleverer than everyone around her by far. She never did quite live up to her own expectations.”

She is clever, you muse, keeping your thoughts to yourself. But she’s too stubborn to approach allies - not when she can wait for them to approach her. She harbors the same grudge that her husband does towards the Hightowers. She can’t move past what Rhaenyra and Daemon did to her children. She’s isolated herself in a war where she’ll need allies to survive.

She would need to pick a side eventually if only to keep herself and her granddaughters afloat.

The only question was which side would snap her up first.

“The key to the throne is through the Velaryons, through Princess Rhaenys,” you say quietly. Jason tilts his head at you but Tyland nods at you, immediately understanding. “Securing her means securing her husband’s fleet and bringing two dragons with her.”

“Two?” Jason asks.

You nod, thinking of bared teeth and sharp purple eyes narrowed in your direction. “Lady Baela,” you say slowly, mulling over your words before you say them. “I do not believe she’s… as dedicated to Princess Rhaenyra’s claim as people think. She resents her for the shame she brought upon her mother by marrying Prince Daemon so fast.”

“Prince Daemon is her father,” Tyland says, more out of prompting you to continue with your logic rather than truly reminding you.

You tilt your head, playing with your sleeves slightly as you ponder what to say. “She’s loyal to her sister before anything else. I think… she may be more loyal to House Velaryon than to House Targaryen. Surely, that would mean something to her father.”

Jason snorts. “Prince Daemon deflowered the Realm’s Delight. He took a second wife and shamed Rhea Royce before a fall saved her from that humiliation. There are even more stories about him that would make your ears bleed, sweetling. He covets the throne. Always has. I doubt even his daughter could sway him from a lifelong dream being so close to his grasp.”

“Perhaps he does not need to be swayed,” Tyland murmurs. “A mad dog is only dangerous if it’s off its leash.”

“He is not a dog,” you reply. “He’s a dragon and those are rather hard to leash. If his own brother could not do it, I doubt we’d have much luck even with his daughter.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Your uncle asks and the look in his eye gives you pause for the first time in this conversation. He’s searching you, looking into you. He knows what your answer would be but he wants to draw it out of you, wants you to admit it to him, to your father. He wants your resolve to be firm. “How would you manage Daemon Targaryen?”

Silence hangs in the wheelhouse. Outside, you can hear the constant hum of people, the sound of hooves hitting the cobblestones, the shouted orders of City’s Watch.

Inside, you stare down at your uncle.

“I wouldn’t manage him,” you finally say, your voice steady. “I would kill him.”

Tyland’s eyes glint with something and you don’t dare look away, not even with your father looking at you with the same inquisitive stare. “And Rhaenyra Targaryen?”

Your breath catches in your throat and Helaena flashes in your mind. Helaena who had nothing in common with her sister but everything in common with who she had once been to Alicent Hightower.

“If I must,” you finally respond. “If I need to.”

“You’ll be kin by the time this would be necessary,” Jason finally says and your eyes swing to look at him. “She’d be your sister by law. He’d be your uncle by law.”

“No one is as accursed as the kinslayer,” you say on instinct, the phrase coming to you as easily as breathing. This time, you see Aemond. You see Aemond and dusty books and can hear you whisper about Brandon the Breaker and the night’s king. “There are kinslayers in every line,” you finally say, echoing your childish self. “What’s one more?”

“There are septons who would demand your tongue for that, little one,” Tyland muses, smiling all the while.

You shrug. “They’re not in here, are they?”

“Even if there was,” Jason starts, still peering at you as if he’s never seen you before. “I can’t imagine they’d have much sway on you.”

“Septons can be useful,” you reply, thinking of the High Septon with his clear gray eyes, with his rainbow crown. “I believe in them, I do, but I value my family, mine, over any of their words.”

“Your family is a mite larger than just lions,” Jason says, no question in his voice.

You meet his green eyes head-on, straightening up. “You sent me here,” you remind him, feeling that years-long grudge, that childish anger you could never quite free yourself from, rear its ugly head. “You told me to find a space for myself in the royal family. I did. I have. You cannot fault me for its consequences. Lannisters protect their own - at all costs and damn the consequences. I just have more to protect now than I did at ten.”

Jason looks at you, his eyes looking all over you as if he’ll find the answer written somewhere on your body. Maybe he’s searching, you muse almost fancifully, for the little girl he had sent away, the little girl he had damned to the capitol with its endless hate and its even more endless schemes. Maybe he’s wondering who this stranger that took her place is, this stranger that sends her sister off to freeze in the North, who wears a crown of bloody flowers like a prize, who walks amongst dragons.

You can’t miss her now, you almost want to say out of sheer spite. Not now when you didn’t want her then. You bite the inside of your cheek, knowing that’s more than unfair. It would just be cruel. Vicious.

It doesn’t make the desire to say it go away, doesn’t stop the anger from bubbling underneath your skin.

Finally, Jason smiles. That same old friendly smile that always disarmed your resentment, took away its teeth to make it into something docile. It’s the same smile that had coaxed you into the Sunset Sea after him, the same one he would give you the few times he had allowed you to crawl onto his lap during the summer storms.

You wish it didn’t work just as well now as it had back then.

“Hear me roar,” he says, grinning at you like you’re sharing a funny joke.

You simply nod, not wanting to speak anymore.

——————————–

None of the chaos of the earlier week of feasting seems to compare to the maelstrom that has gripped the halls of the Red Keep now. It feels impossible to move without having to elbow at least five of your cousins out of the way and not even your father and uncle forming a small retinue around you seems to clear your path any.

Perhaps I should have taken Aemond up on his offer you grumble in your head, eying the crowded hall outside the throne room with disdain. At least with the royal family, you doubt you would have had to wade through what seems like every single noble family in Westeros.

Up ahead, towards the entrance of the throne room, you can see the poor servant in charge of informing Ser Harrold of the next family to enter so that the Lord Commander can announce it. He looks harried and stressed, seconds from pulling his own hair out with his bare hands and you feel a flash of pity for him. Aside from the major houses, sure to be announced first, the minor lords must be haranguing him to be bumped up the list, to inflate their own self-importance by calling their name closer to the high lords.

It’d be a pointless exercise - you doubt people listen to the names if they’re not a major house and even then, you doubt most would care if it’s not their high lord being called.

You watch the servant for a few beats longer, fighting the urge to laugh when he gets shoved back by a lord only for the lord to realize that that was the man in charge of the procession. You’re so engrossed in observing that you miss the first whisper of your name. It takes a few more times but you finally register it and you turn slightly to see Jocata standing next to you, her big green eyes peering up at you anxiously.

You furrow your brows slightly as you look at her, more baffled than annoyed. Aside from the final day of the tourney, when she had complimented your crown blood and all, she has practically hidden herself from your sight, trembling like a leaf when your gaze did fall on her. You had silently resigned yourself to having soured that relationship for good but now she’s here, standing in front of you looking as if she would rather be anywhere than there.

“My lady,” she starts, her voice trembling as she takes a deep inhale to steel herself.

“You’re my cousin,” you interject before she can say her next bit, frowning slightly. “There’s no need to stand on etiquette between the two of us.”

Her lip shakes and you distantly wonder if she’d have a better go of it if you looked away or closed your eyes. She says your name weakly, shyly, as if she’s trying it out for the first time in her life and not having had used it for the eternity of your relationship with her. “I just wanted to… I ran away last time and it wasn’t right and I… I wanted to congratulate you on your crown… and apologize again for my role in Ser Victor’s favor.”

It’s a credit to her that she doesn’t burst into tears but she does look dangerously close to it, her pale cheeks a brighter red than either of your two dresses. You smile at her, trying your very best to put her at ease. “Just see to it that men don’t take further advantage of your innocence, Jocasta,” you warn. “It’ll only get more and more difficult the older that you get.”

Jocasta sniffles, nodding her head, looking distinctly like a scolded puppy. “I understand. I won’t… I won’t fall for it again. But I wanted to offer you a true apology. Not… Not what I had tried to do.”

She’s too soft to be a Lannister you think without any malice or anger as you look at her. She’s kind, gentle, sweet - all the markings of a lady and none of the characteristics of the house she called her own. With any luck, her husband would be a knight, a true knight who could uphold his vows and honor and cherish his lady wife. You somehow doubt her father would prioritize that, likely more concerned with increasing his own wealth as the third son of a second son, far removed from the main line and its heir, but you hope for it regardless.

“Of course Jocasta,” you finally say, reaching out to squeeze her hand, and she blinks at you before a small hesitant smile lights up her face.

“I prayed for Prince Aemond in the melee,” she whispers as if it's a secret she’s confessing. “I went to the sept and I lit a candle for him at the Warrior statue. I lit one for you too in front of the Maiden. Not because I knew you were going to the Maiden in the wedding party b-but just because I thought she should bless you regardless.”

Your breath hitches, caught off guard, and, wildly, you remember your fervent prayers that day, remember perfectly how much you had wished you had been able to light a candle for Aemond at the Warrior’s feet. Sweet Jocasta had. She had lit one for him and you.

You squeeze her hand again. “Thank you,” you murmur, wishing you could say more without tripping over your own words.

Jocasta just gives you another smile before she pulls away, walking beyond you to seek refuge among her sisters and brothers and cousins. You stare at the spot she had been occupying, turning the feeling of gratitude over and over in your mind, trying your best to force it to solidify into something you can do. Something you could reward her with for her good nature, for her gentle soul.

A good marriage is the only thing you can think of. Perhaps even an offer to serve in the royal court as a lady in waiting for you and Helaena. She could better her odds here, away from Lannisport where only lions roamed, but it would be dangerous here. She was too soft for the cesspit that formed King’s Landing and the Red Keep. The snakes in the court would eat her alive, and would strive to take advantage of her at every turn. Her Lannister name would protect her - some - but she’d still be subject to the court politics that haunted everything around her.

You bite your lip, moving forward on instinct when your father and uncle step closer and closer to the entrance to the throne room. There wouldn’t be much time to debate this or any time at all. Your cousins were scheduled to leave in the next couple of days. They’d possibly be delayed a few days if your father formalized a betrothal contract with the Targaryens but he could hold that card close to his chest. Cerelle’s marriage with Cregan Stark was sure to break soon and the announcement of a royal engagement could prove loud enough to drown out the whispers around that.

You wouldn’t be surprised if Cerelle’s new role as Lady Stark would be talked about tonight. If she was riding out to gather her new husband’s bannermen for him, more than a few of those lords would let any allies in the South know about the shock of a Stark lord taking a Southern wife for the first time in their long history and that wife being a Lannister of all things. Her letter couldn’t have possibly beaten all that gossip and could have very possibly been delayed if everything had happened as fast as she had said it had.

A part of you that isn’t preoccupied with whirling plans and ideas childishly longs for the next raven to be carrying a letter for you; that with it Cerelle will either castigate you or soothe your guilt. Either way, you want to hear her voice, read her words. You miss your oldest sister with a fierceness you haven’t felt in years. It had been different all the times before - you had always been secure in knowing that she was safe in Casterly Rock with your other sisters and your mother. Now, she’s in the frozen North, married to a man no one in your family has ever met before, far from your grasp and she would be for the foreseeable future.

Suddenly it feels like there’s no time at all. No time with Jocasta. No time with Cerelle. No time for anything. Everything is speeding up more than it had ever before, threatening to leave you in the lurch.

That familiar tight ball of pain begins to bear down on your chest, crushing your lungs and your heart under its weight, and it’s only the gentle call of that poor, harried servant that knocks you out of it.

When you come back to it, you’re standing right by the door of the throne room, positioned to the right of your father while your uncle occupies his left. Ser Harrold looks over at you and, as is customary with him, he spares you that little smile that you know has always been meant more for your mother than it has ever been meant for you.

You smile back though, completely instinctual, reminding yourself that this is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Who cares if he only likes you because you were the walking mirror image of Johanna Westerling, born looking more like your mother than any trueborn Lannister had any right to be? What mattered was that he liked you.

He looks over at your father and the warmth that he had held in his eyes for you slips away when he looks at Lord Lannister, replacing it with the stern face of one of the greatest knights in the realm.

He nods at Jason and your father nods and you take a deep, settling breath.

“House Lannister, with their lord, Jason Lannister. Lord Paramount of the West and Master of Casterly Rock.” Ser Harrold booms, loud and thunderous, and the endless chatter of the throne room, of all the lords and ladies of the regions that had gone before the Westerlands, ends and a silence settles across the room.

Your house moves as one.

The throne room is an impossible marvel, burning sconces of different colored flames illuminating the tables, mini suns lighting the room and making the banners and the tapestries glow with an otherworldly gleam.

Making House Lannister glow.

Underneath the flickering fires, the veins of gold within your dress glitter endlessly, the delicate rubies and emeralds woven within gleaming with a vengeance. Your bust and corset are covered with this, armorlike if not for the fact that it's molded perfectly to your body, tailored so perfectly that it clings like a second skin. The jewels stop at your waist, giving way to the crimson velvet that forms the skirt and train of your gown but the tendrils of gold continue, swirling and spinning in careful spirals down your body and skirt.

It is by far the most expensive thing you’ve ever worn, more expensive, you’d wager, than all the gowns and jewels some houses could bear to afford. It was the most extravagant show of wealth at this wedding - it would be obnoxious if it wasn’t so Lannister. Showing off your riches came as easy to you as breathing. Lann the Clever had won the Rock from the Casterlys and that made this your right.

Your father leads the procession to the royal table, somehow even more confidence in his step than ever before. He’s secured a grand prize, after all; a prince for his daughter. He walks like it too, smugness radiating from his every pore, as proud as he’s ever been. One would think that he was the one all but set to marry into the royal family.

When your family arrives at the foot of the Iron Throne, you all bow deep. When you rise, you look over in instinct at Aemond’s seat. Dimly, you recognize Daeron sitting in Helaena’s old seat, accommodating the shift to have Helaena and Aegon sitting together in the center, but he’s almost blurred in your periphery as you stare at Aemond.

He’s changed from his warrior outfit into a tunic more fit for a feast - fit for a prince. The black velvet is fitted to his chest perfectly, emphasizing his slender build to the point your mouth dries. Embossed on his chest, three dragons twist and curl around each other, each so distinct that you immediately recognize them as the dragons that conquered Westeros, and your lips tug up into a smile when you recognize the familiar shape of Vhagar front and center. Some of his long hair is braided up away from his face, the braids like a pattern against his scalp, but the majority falls like a sheet around his face. He’s so far removed from what he had been wearing earlier - a nobleman now rather than the living manifestation of a god. Even like this though, even without wearing the robes of the Warrior, he’s still undeniable, still holy and sanctified.

Your body lights up again, deep in your core and spreading out into your chest, and you feel the sudden desire to pray at his own altar, to prostrate yourself in front of him, to kneel and worship.

Your mouth runs even drier and you snap yourself back into focus, suddenly feeling too warm inside the throne room. You feel a hot desire for the cool air of the gardens or even the chill of the library and you bite your lip to pull yourself away from it, to settle in the now. It’s only then that you notice Aemond’s hot stare, the way he looks at you as if the entirety of his world has shrunk down to just you. That increasingly familiar heat is back in his eyes and he looks at you as he had when he had been covered in the blood of Victor Florent, when he had licked the sugar off a candied lemon.

He looks at you as if he wants nothing more than to devour you whole.

That gnawing hunger in your core, that burning flame, glows that much brighter, that much hotter, and you snap your eyes away from him, taking in a shaky deep breath.

You settle your gaze on Aegon and Helaena, sitting together directly in the shadow of the throne. They’ve changed as well, matching in velvet green and shining golden. You wouldn’t be surprised if the seamstresses had used the same bolts of fabric to make their clothes. It’s meant to present an image of unity, of harmony, but they look nauseatingly similar. Dressed like this, the scant year gap between the two of them vanishes entirely, leaving them as mirror images of each other, as alike as Jason and Tyland.

Your stomach twists but you force a smile anyways, meeting Helaena’s eyes. She’s plainly ignoring your father’s introduction of the gift House Lannister is presenting (three golden dragon statues with rubies for eyes), putting less of an effort than even blearily eyed Aegon, but she’s plastered a bland smile on her face to at least attempt the veneer of an interested party. The moment she registers that it’s you looking at her, however, her entire face brightens up and she sits up straighter in her seat, her fake smile melting away into something softer, more genuine.

You smile at her almost girlish expression. She almost looks like her old self, the sweet girl who had let you read to her in the shade of old trees. She looks like that little girl wearing a costume, too big in certain places, too tight in others, but it’s undeniably her. Maybe your fears were unfounded. Maybe your anxieties didn’t need to ruin every waking moment. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Your father finishes the presentation with a final vow to always be faithful to the crown and Alicent smiles gracefully, nodding and plainly deferring to Aegon to accept his oath. Aegon, for his part, doesn’t seem wholly aware of what’s happening, only jerking to attention when his mother leans closer to him, her smile placid as if she wasn’t driving the point of her elbow into his ribs. He jolts straight up, clearing his throat instinctually, eyes looking skyward as if he’s trying to remember a script he’s forgotten.

“As the first son of King Viserys, first of his name,” Aegon says slowly, trying the words out carefully like he’s learning them as he goes. “I am grateful… and appreciative of your loyalty to House Targaryen and… vow to return your faith. I- We look forward to only deepening and strengthening our bond and alliance.” He meanders his way through the sentence, clearly lost and struggling to remember, but when he finishes, there’s a quick flash of boyish pride on his face when he realizes he hasn’t messed up and he looks so much like the boy he must have been before even you had arrived to the capital and you feel an unfamiliar warm glow towards him.

You’re not used to feeling cozy towards Aegon - amused, yes. Annoyed, most definitely. But this is something new and your own confusion at your feelings must show on your face since Aemond looks supremely amused. You quickly move your sleeve up to cover your mouth, trying to play off your aborted laugh like a sneeze or a cough, but, judging from the way your uncle shoots you a reproachful look, you haven’t really succeeded.

Your father gives one final nod to Prince Aegon and, when he turns to face the rest of your house to be led to your seats, he meets your eyes. For a moment, in all the colors of light, he almost doesn’t look real with all the shades cutting across his sharp features. He doesn’t look like your father, doesn’t look like Jason Lannister. He looks like something else - almost like a painting with the colors smeared across it.

He looks proud, fierce. He’s won a windfall for House Lannister. You’ve won a windfall for House Lannister. He must already taste the iron in his mouth, must already dream of a daughter of your’s marrying into the house of the dragon, his blood sitting the throne itself.

And it’s all owed to you.

Your blood thrums with success, strong and vicious, and a part of you wants to hiss that truth to your father. Tell the Lord Paramount of the West that it was his daughter, his third daughter, the daughter he sent away, that brought this bounty to their house. Not him. You.

Jason nods at you, a smile flickering on his face, and you bow your head in response, only looking up once he’s passed you. You meet Aemond’s eye once more and he tilts his head at you, asking a question without words.

I’m fine.

He shifts in his seat, straightening up slightly, and you bite the inside of your cheek to hold back a grin when you realize if you made even the slight move to suggest it, he’d leave the royal table to follow you like a shadow to ensure your comfort and safety. You give him a small smile as assurance before taking your leave, following the rest of your house to be directed to your seats.

Unlike the feasts before, the seating isn’t strictly by houses. While your uncle is directed a few seats down from you, next to Lord Ormund, and your father settles into a seat next to Lord Celtigar, clapping the younger lord firmly on his shoulder, a maid directs you towards a seat nestled between Baela and Lady Floris Baratheon. You idly wonder how long it took the Queen to arrange this seating - who she must have consulted and what patterns she must have seen. You wonder if Aemond told her about your attempts to form some relationship with Baela Targaryen or if she had seen it for herself at the melee.

The moment you sit, eying the spread of food already laid out for you to enjoy, Lady Floris turns to you, a pretty smile on her face. “Lady Lannister,” she greets, leaning closer than she should, close enough that you can see the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and the kaleidoscope of colors in her eyes. “I just wanted to personally congratulate you on your crowns - oh, what an honor! I heard the songs the bards were playing near the Dragonpit - they were so, so lovely! I hope you’ll forgive me for saying this but I hadn’t known Prince Aemond was so handsome and he looked so beautiful crowning you.”

You smile awkwardly, slightly caught off guard by her overly effusive praise. She’s not all that much younger than you, closer in age to you than you were to Jocasta, but she’s so free in her manners that you wouldn’t be surprised if she was nearer in age to Jeyne. It seems half a miracle that such a sweet girl would come from the stormy house of Lord Borros, that such a frivolous girl could be the daughter of a high lord.

“I thank you, Lady Floris. I’m afraid I haven’t gotten to listen to the songs myself but it seems I will have to soon enough,” you reply, bowing your head in thanks, and she beams prettily. Everything she does is pretty - from the way she smiles to the way she reaches for her goblet of wine. Everyone around you seems to notice and you hold back a laugh at the way Floris seems to glow under everyone’s attention. You doubt there’s much of it to go around in Storm’s End - you can’t imagine a lovely girl like her thriving in the dark and dread of the tempests that haunt her home even if the Baratheons are nearly as prolifically virile as the Lannisters. It’s almost impossible to imagine it - even more impossible to imagine that she is one of the Four Storms, that her fights with her sister can and do grow to the point of infamy.

She giggles, her pale cheeks a bright red, and you drop your gaze slightly to the nearly empty goblet in her hand before looking back at her flushed face. You look slightly behind her, further down the table, to see her father laughing loudly as he snatches a carafe away from a servant to keep for himself.

As pretty as she is, it seems Lord Borros left his mark on his daughter after all.

She gives you one final big smile, slightly lopsided now that you look at her more carefully, before turning to talk to the enraptured son of House Reyne sitting at her side.

“She’s had two of them so far,” Baela murmurs, leaning slightly closer to you. Her white curls hang loose today and it tickles on the back of your hand when she moves closer and her hair sways over to you. “I’m afraid she might be a bit of a lightweight.”

You stifle your snort of laughter. “I’m sure she hasn’t had much to eat either - I only had some lemon cakes to make sure I didn’t keel over during the ceremony. I doubt she did much better.”

Baela snorts, reaching for her own goblet of wine in response. “I imagine it’s her first time being out in the court. Easy to get caught up in the splendor of it all.”

You tilt your head, reaching for a candied strawberry to pop in your mouth. “Royal weddings are usually the first time most ladies are brought to the court.”

“There hasn’t been one for years,” she responds immediately before pausing. Something darkens in her eyes, a flicker of old anger or regret, before she shakes her head, trying to clear it from her mind. “At least, none like this one.”

You bite down on the strawberry, enjoying the crunch of the crystalized sugar followed by the sweetness of the fruit. As you chew, you look over Baela carefully. She’s occupied herself with a tart, listlessly picking at it as she glares down at her plate.

The last royal wedding had been her father and Princess Rhaenyra. A rushed affair by all accounts - both in the time after her mother’s death and in the actual ceremony itself. There had been no traditional wedding - at least, no traditional wedding in the light of the Seven. No feasts. No tourney. If what you had heard when it had happened was true, they had had a Valyrian wedding on Dragonstone and that had been it.

You had little knowledge of what went into a Valyrian wedding - Aemond had briefly told you the details of it when the news had first broke but he had been uncharacteristically reticent to share information with you. He had explained there was meant to be a mixing of blood, to symbolize the different bloodlines coming together to become one, in the presence of fire to represent the strength that it would bring. He hadn’t given you much detail after that and you, admittedly, had not pressed him for it.

To be fair, he might have been sore over you debating out loud whether or not mixing the blood was necessary when the bloodlines were one and the same.

There hadn’t been tell of who had attended the wedding. Only that it had been attended by a maester who had confirmed its legitimacy to both the crown and the Citadel and a handful of guests.

You had never stopped to consider whether or not Baela had been there, if she had been there with her sister and with the Strong boys. You try to imagine what it must have been like to watch your father remarry, the tears not even dried from your mother’s funeral, and something in you trembles with rage and, alarmingly enough, sympathy.

Sympathy you didn’t care to feel, not when you can still remember the way Aemond had flinched when the maester had stitched his face back together, stitch by agonizing stitch.

Baela still harbors a grudge over it, bad enough that the memory of it would still send her into a dark mood years later. Another chink in the armor of House Targaryen, in the armor of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen.

Another place you can dig your fingers in and pull and pull and pull until it is an impossible gap to close.

“I doubt there will be more weddings like this for quite some time,” you muse, Baela looking up from her plate to meet your eyes. “No other prince is even betrothed.”

Baela snorts inelegantly. “Not as much time as you’re trying to pretend there will be. The Queen might be better off leaving these decorations up to save some time for the servants for the next one.”

You smile despite yourself. “I wouldn’t dare presume to tell the Queen what to do.”

“You might not but I would,” she responds with the typical brash confidence you’ve come to expect from her. Only her eyes twinkling tell you that she’s teasing. “Might as well tell the guests not to go home. Save us all some trouble.”

“My older sisters are yet to be married,” you remind her, thinking of Tyshara with her letters of love and Cerelle with her new wolf husband.

Baela’s eyes flash and she tilts her head, looking as if she’s caught you out on a lie, and you realize it half a second before she opens her mouth. “I’ve heard a rumor that’s come down from the North. Something about the first southern Lady of Winterfell.”

Something in you seizes for a moment and you can’t think about the fact that Baela is watching you for any reaction or that the intense focus on your house will only increase from here.

You can only think about the fact that Cerelle Lannister doesn’t exist anymore. She’s Cerelle Stark now - both in the eyes of the gods and the court.

You smile on instinct, forcing it easily. “I was wondering when that would spread.”

Baela cocks an eyebrow. “So it is true then?”

Your heart beats hard in your chest, so loud in your ears it’s a miracle she cannot hear, but you nod. You let your smile grow wider and force yourself to relax in your seat. “Lord Cregan Stark heard about my sister and grew curious about the girl who was set to be the Lady of Casterly Rock if there was no boy born to us. He sent her a letter, hoping to bond over their duties, and it grew from there. When Lord Bennard caught wind, he invited her North in hopes of swaying House Lannister to his claim but my father sent her with his blessing. I’m sure you can understand why they couldn’t have a large wedding with us there, not with Bennard Stark refusing to give Lord Cregan what is rightfully his. After the matter of succession is settled in the North, we plan to travel to Winterfell to pay our respects to the new and the rightful Lord and Lady.”

A lie. A very practiced lie. It’s one you’ve mulled over for weeks now, testing the weight of it. It had been Cerelle’s idea, back when the two of you had approached your father and uncle with your plan. A love story, Cerelle had said, would make the idea of a rushed wedding go down easily. Gossip loves a story and, above all, they loved a love story. Your uncle had helped hammer out the details and all of you had agreed on the finished version. Even back in Casterly Rock, your mother and Tyshara had been coached on what to say when questions undoubtedly drifted their way.

For weeks, you’ve stressed about whether or not this flimsy story would be believed, if people would honestly think that Cregan Stark had fallen for your sister through letters. You’ve stayed up wondering if you should have pushed for this certain detail to be added or rallied for that aspect to be changed.

You never once considered if some people simply wouldn’t care.

Baela shrugs after you finish your short speech, looking as if you’ve just commented on the strawberry you just ate or how Floris Baratheon seems to be leaning in closer and closer to you once she realizes you’re gossiping. “Interesting that House Lannister would be so invested in the matters of succession of other houses.”

Your smile grows sharp. “House Lannister just likes to ensure that the correct people receive what is theirs by law.”

She gets that now familiar glint in her eye, that vicious gleam that you’ve seen in Aemond’s. For all that she’s aligned herself with her mother’s Velaryon side, she’s still a Targaryen, still a dragon. You half expect her to lash out but instead, she visibly takes a deep breath, looking down at her plate again and taking another stubborn bite.

You eye her for a moment, taking in her stiff back and her tight grip on her fork, before you sigh slightly, turning back to focus on your own food.

You think you’ll be doomed to sit in silence through the rest of the introductions, through however many courses Alicent has arranged, up until you’re free to leave your seat and find Aemond and Helaena, but then Floris drags you into a conversation about Storm’s End, her goblet thankfully refilled with water from a watchful servant. She tells you about her sisters, the three she has, and she’s absolutely delighted when you tell her you have four.

“You have me beat, my lady,” she giggles, swaying into you. You shift slightly in your seat, accommodating her so she’s pressing more into your chest rather than your shoulder, and she slides closer, nearly leaning on you entirely. You glance over her head towards the royal table, just in time to see Daeron laughing uproariously at you while Aemond hides his smirk behind his own drink. You’re so busy making a face at them that you almost miss her next words entirely. “Maybe the gods will bless my family with another daughter soon. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough or another sister.”

You glance down at her, your eyes roaming over her reddened cheeks and her half-lidded eyes. She’s still smiling, just barely as if she’s not wholly aware that she is. “Not a boy, my lady?” You ask, unable to stop yourself from bringing your arm up to wrap around her shoulders. It’s a small show of comfort, a little affection, and it embarrasses you slightly to do so in public - especially to a girl you’ve only just met. A quick look around, however, reveals that Floris Baratheon is hardly the only drunk at the feast and that most likely she’s not even the drunkest. Her own father has only gotten louder and louder, singing bawdy songs over the hum of the crowd, and you can spot your father laughing at Lord Celtigar as the poor man spills wine all over himself. Tyland and Ormund are speaking to each other in low tones, their heads bowed together as if they’re sharing a secret for only the two of them. Everywhere you look, people are deep deep in their cups and this is still only the beginning of the night.

You shudder to think what it means for the rest of the night.

Floris doesn’t respond after a moment and you glance down at her, praying that she hasn’t fallen asleep on you, but instead, you just see her playing with her goblet, swirling it gently in her hand.

“My lady?” You prompt again and Floris heaves a sigh before dragging herself up in her seat, pulling away from you.

She frowns, the first time you’ve seen a smile drop from her face. “Maybe I’ll be lucky enough for another sister,” she repeats again, not meeting your eyes. You stare at her a little longer, trying to puzzle out her meaning.

House Baratheon didn’t have an heir - at least, no boy had been born to them as of yet. Only four daughters, nearly as precarious a place as House Lannister had been, but your house had had a key advantage. You had the blood of the Andals coursing through your veins. The lordship would have gone to Cerelle before it ever would have gone to your uncle. That rule had been what had allowed for Queen Leila to rule, protect her inheritance, and choose a husband of her picking. Joffrey Lydden had only earned the title of King of the Rock through her and, even then, he had had to change his name to hers. There was a precedent of strength through the maternal line in House Lannister.

Not so in House Baratheon though, to be fair, there wasn’t much of a precedent in anything for that house. It was scarcely over a century old, formed the same year that Aegon began his conquest. They had Andal blood, yes, but also Valyrian and First Men. It’d be much harder for them to force Cassandra Baratheon, their current heir as it all stands, through to the lordship without being able to use Andal law as a major precedent. This crisis would be the first true one yet. A boy was a necessity or else their house could very well crumble.

But Floris wants a sister.

You eye her for a moment longer, wishing you could probe her for more, but as soon as you open your mouth to ask her, Lord Otto Hightower calls the hall to attention.

You straighten up and even Floris next to you pulls herself up to her full height, the sound of the Lord Hand’s voice nearly enough to sober herself. On your other side, you can feel Baela shifting, settling her attention towards the throne.

Just like during the opening feast, Otto Hightower stands in the shadow of the Iron Throne but now, Aegon and Helaena stand on either side of them, mirrors of each other. You’ve never seen much of a resemblance between the Lord Hand and his grandchildren but now, with the three of them standing side by side, you can catch echoes of him in the pair of them. Aegon is purely Alicent, a perfect copy if not for his Targaryen coloring, but it’s Helaena who bears the greatest resemblance. She’s always been pretty, always been soft around the edges, but here, next to her maternal grandfather, she’s almost handsome in a certain way. In the same way that Otto Hightower demands respect, Helaena demands worship.

“The crown would like once more to thank all the great and noble lords of Westeros for coming to celebrate this union of King Viserys and Queen Alicent’s children,” he booms, his voice loud and strong. The room claps, a few of the drunker occupants cheering loudly, and Otto raises his hands, calling for quiet. “The crown’s strength comes from its people, from you, my lords, and from the power of House Targaryen itself, from its dragons, from its allies. As we look to the future, Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena will serve as leaders, as examples, as pillars to guide the crown to even greater heights. They will help to usher in a power not seen since the days of the Conqueror himself.”

The throne room cheers again, loud and raucous, and, even as you clap, you look around. Otto Hightower’s words are chosen carefully, vague enough that to take umbrage over them would be an extreme overreaction, but directed and pointed enough that his message is clear to those who care to listen. Most are applauding, completely buying into the words of the Lord Hand, but there are a few who look more thoughtful, more suspicious. Lyman Beesbury looks as if he’s sucked a lemon, his weathered face pinched and scornful, while Lord Grover Tully nods firmly in agreement.

Rhaenys Targaryen sits, surrounded by Baratheons and Tyrells and some of your Lannister cousins, looking to all the world as if she’s working out a puzzle, trying to make a piece fit where it ought not go. You can almost see her weighing her options, mentally calculating between the two claimants and what power they bring, calculating what Rhaenyra or Aegon would bring to the realm and, more importantly, what they would bring to her and her own.

Remember your children you want to whisper in her ear. Remember how Laena screamed in pain by herself, half a world away from you. Remember how Laenor must have fought in his final moments before they burned him in his childhood home.

You can hear Baela’s clapping slow next to you and, when you tear your stare away from Rhaenys, you meet her own blazing amethyst gaze. She doesn’t bother to hide the question in her eyes, doesn’t bother to disguise her naked curiosity. You know that there’s no answer you can give her - not one that would satisfy her by any means - so instead, you give her a smile.

Her gaze hardens like flint and you wonder if this will be where she snaps, where the Rogue Prince’s impulsive nature will take over, but her own common sense takes control and she simply looks away, back to the Iron Throne.

You eye her for a moment longer, brushing your gaze over her tense frame, before returning your own gaze back to the three figures standing at the royal table.

When the clapping slows and there’s a lull in the noise, Helaena claps her hands, the sound soft but still striking enough to call attention back to her before it can turn elsewhere. You straighten up even taller in your seat, focusing completely on her. She’s been worrying over this since she told you a few days ago and you bite your lip.

Helaena takes a deep breath, looking visibly anxious to your familiar eyes, before clasping her hands together to hold against her chest. “In thanks for all the warmth the people have provided, Aegon and I would like to gift the leftovers from this feast to the poorest in this city.”

Aegon nods beside her, waiting for the applause to die down again. “We’d also like to provide more funds to the poorhouses in Flea Bottom so they can share in some of the plenty.”

He stands there awkwardly for a second, clearly unaware of what to do once he finishes his part, but, when the crowd begins to clap and cheer for him too, he straightens up, a small smile creeping on his face. You release a breath in relief when their small speech is over and it’s clear that the room is pleased by their show of charity. It had been the Queen’s idea - both the gift itself and the actual presentation of it - but you had helped Helaena practice. She had rehearsed it over and over again until you’re sure you could say her part in your sleep.

But it had all gone according to plan. You can feel one of the countless knots of anxiety inside you loosen and vanish but it gives you no relief, not when there are countless other knots to unravel within you.

There’s a beat where Aegon and Helaena look at each other, both of them caught in the moment staring each other down. It would look romantic if you didn’t recognize it for what it was - reluctance.

Then Aegon, drawing on strength from who knows where, holds up his hand for his sister, bowing his head as he does. Helaena only waits a breath before taking it and, together, the two of them walk around the royal table, beginning the slow march down to the empty space that had been cleared for dance. When they pass Aemond, your stare lingers on him.

He’s watching his siblings go, stone-faced and looking to all the world as if he was sitting a normal dinner and not the wedding feasts for his siblings. His eye tracks Aegon and Helaena as they walk and when they reach the center of the room and turn to each other, a flicker of something flashes on his face. It vanishes quickly, as if it had never been there, but it had been there.

Regret? Pity?

For all his talk of doing what he must for his family, you imagine even he would chafe at this duty. Even he would resist. Talk is easy. A lifetime tied to his sister with more than just blood is not.

You watch him, greedily taking in every single minute twitch of his face. For once, he doesn’t seem to sense your gaze. He’s completely lost in watching his siblings, his eye solely focused on them, and you know without looking when the dance begins. More than the soft gasp from Floris, more than the songs of the bards growing louder and more pitched, you can tell from the way he shifts in his seat, pitching forward as if it’ll give him a better view. His hair falls over his shoulders, falling around his face as if a curtain to protect him, but it doesn’t hide his complete concentration.

He would pull them away if he could. He would try to save them from this pain.

If he could.

Your breath hitches and you look away, following his gaze to see Helaena and Aegon.

They’re closer than they had been at the opening feast, their chests pressed up against each other in a show of intimacy. They’re clinging to each other, their heads bowed together as if they’re whispering to one another. It looks romantic. It should work.

But it doesn’t. It almost can’t. It’s the closest Helaena has ever been to anyone else - closer than even you have been to her in years but it fits her all wrong. It’s like trying to fit into a dress made for someone years younger, trying to shove your foot into one meant for a child. She holds Aegon as if she’s never held him before - never held him so close to her, so intimately. You wonder if she’s ever held anyone like that and somehow you doubt it.

She’s never been allowed it, never been given the opportunity to desire it out of anyone but her brother.

Not even with you - never been allowed to, had maybe never even considered.

A hot flame of resentment and jealousy begins to burn through your chest, burning and painful and agonizing. Why Aegon? Why her?

None of it has ever been about fair, about what was just, but now more than ever, you want to break something. Somehow this dance, this close of a dance, feels more a finality than even the wedding had been. This is everything put into motion. This is the first show of the performance that the two of them will have to give every day for the rest of their lives. You had told yourself you could manage it. You had told yourself that you could swallow back the bile and work with the pieces they’ve given you.

And you can. You will. You’ll bear it and relish the weight of the burden because of the power it gives you.

But as you watch the two of them, spinning round and round on the dance floor, it’s hard to remember that horrible truth about yourself - not with the pain swirling inside your chest.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond x you #i MEANT it when i said that grrm himself couldn't stop me from finishing this fic #ok bedding next chapter fr i got carried away bc im the biggest yapper i know #love you guys

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