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#the poor nursemaid
lokijiro · 2 years
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Little Thor : (hides face) Peeakaboo! (uncovers face)
Baby Loki : *giggles*
Little Thor : (is delighted by the response, hides face again) Peeakaboo! (uncovers face) I see you!
Baby Loki : *laughs*
Little Thor : (hides face again) Peekaboo! (uncovers face)
Baby Loki : *has disappeared*
Little Thor : !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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lemonhemlock · 1 year
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Can’t wait for aemond and aegon to tag team rhaenys
i'm such a coward i don't want aegon to be in crippling pain so soon!! 😫 i hope he gets the tyrion war wound treatment
rhaenys, however, can get it - justice for the people of king's landing! ✌
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blackopals-world · 15 days
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Noble!Yuu: Remember before we were married and you went on and on about how many kids you wanted?
Malleus: (reading paperwork while trying to hold a fussy fire-breathing toddler) Please don't bring that up now.
Noble!Yuu: What? I bet it was really easy to talk a big game before you got a taste of the real thing. Balancing work and parenting is hard isn't it, love?
Malleus: You're still mad I was insistent that we don't hire a nanny or governess.
Noble!Yuu: Of course, I have so much work to do and we need more than the two of us. It takes a village and I wanted my old nursemaid to help.
Malaise: (bitting Malleus, trying to draw blood)
Noble!Yuu: His instincts are so strong. Come now young prince, we get blood from our prey not daddy.
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(Because I have to say it. The attitude that nannies are for neglectful parents(read mothers because they are the ones who are shamed the most and not fathers) who don't care about their kid's well-being. Most families with nannies are the most involved with their children which is why they hire nannies. This is however dependent on both the nannies and the parents of course. However, the insistent of some parents to not get babysitters or nannies is based on harmful propaganda against women who entered the workforce and would "neglect" their family duties. This conveniently forgets that just a generation ago the role of child-rearing was done by slaves and later poor free women/immigrants. Regardless children take up time and energy and quitting your job for them is a personal choice and too many men make it about themselves. They will call their wives bad mothers for needing help even while their wives are postpartum and are very vulnerable to those comments, making them do things they wouldn't have done otherwise if they were in a better state of mind.)
(If you ever thank me for anything, thank me for spending information you may need to know.)
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floatyflowers · 1 year
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The Adopted Princess| Dark! Targaryen and Velaryon Boys x Reader (Aegon II, Aemond, Jacaerys, Lucerys) VI
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Part V
You smile at your one-year-old daughter, as you happily play with her, entertaining her with her dragon toys.
A lot has happened in the past six years, like how your adoptive father Laenor who was killed, and how your adoptive mother remarried Daemon.
Helaena and Aegon got married and had children together, and so did you and Aemond, you gave birth to a daughter who your husband decided to name Daenerys.
Honestly, Aemond is a blessing, that's if you exclude his extremely possessive nature.
In other words, he's gentle and soft with you behind the doors of your and his chambers, but in front of the eyes of others, he is brutal.
Also, Aegon has been making your life extremely hard, especially with his persuasion of trying to bring you to his bed, to have an affair with him behind his brother's and wife's backs.
Something you hate, as Helaena is your best friend and you would never do that to her.
And Aemond...there's nothing in the seven kingdoms that would convince you to cheat on him.
Right now, you are enjoying your time with Daenerys, or Dany as you and your husband like to call her.
Suddenly, one of the guards enters your chambers.
"My princess, your brothers, Prince Jacaerys and Prince Lucerys are here"
Hearing those words made your eyes widen in shock, which made you stand up on your feet with your daughter in your arms.
"What are you waiting for? let them in" you order, handing your daughter to the nursemaid.
The last time you saw them was at your wedding to Aemond, which was a disaster.
But that's a story for another time later, as the two Velaryon boys enter.
"Welcome brothers, I'm so happy-" 
Luke doesn't wait for you to continue as he throws himself into your embrace, hugging you tightly. 
"I missed you so much, (Y/n)" Lucerys exclaims as you hug him back.
"I believe it is 'we missed you so much', not only you"
You chuckle at Jace, opening your other free arm, and inviting him to hug you.
Jacaerys hugs you without hesitation, inhaling your scent without you noticing.
"I didn't that you would come, are mother and Daemon also here?" you inquire, after pulling away.
"Everyone came" Luke states while his older brother continues. 
"But, there was no one to greet us" Jacaerys asserts, causing you to sigh.
"I apologize, I'm sure it was unintentional, I'm sure" you assure them, even though you know it was done on purpose by Alicent and Otto.
"Is this Daenerys you have been talking about in the letters?" Luke suddenly inquires, staring at his niece.
"Do you want to hold her?" you offer cheerfully.
"Yes," Luke exclaims before taking the baby out of the nursemaid's hands.
You notice Jace's silence and his intense staring at your daughter, but you don't question it.
Little do you know, that Jace feels bitter inside.
You were supposed to be his wife, and this child could have been his not Aemond's.
If only his plan worked at your wedding, this dream of marrying you would have come true, but the king insisted that the wedding would continue.
"Vaemond Velaryon is trying to take Driftmark for himself" you chuckle at the news.
"Someone is trying to get his tongue cut off today"
꧁𖣔꧂
As expected, Vaemond got his punishment for calling your brothers bastards and your mother a whore, but Daemon cut off his head and only left his tongue and jaw attached instead of his tongue.
But, what wasn't expected is the king attending and defending his daughter in such poor health.
And not only that but also holding a feast tonight.
And also you who decided to stand on your mother's side, dressed in all black, showing your true intentions towards the whole situation between the greens and blacks.
"What was that back then?" Aemond demands as you brush your hair, while he stands directly behind you.
"I don't believe I know what you are trying to say, dear husband," you reply in innocence.
But his sharp glare through the mirror made you feel uneasy, you have never seen Aemond that angry before.
"Why did you stand by them, and not only that but wearing black instead of the green dresses you wear around me and my family?"
You turn around to face him, titling your head at him.
"You already know the answer to that" Aemond's hands grabs into your arms tightly at your answer.
"You must stand by me and my family, this is your duty" you huff, rolling your eyes.
"I believe I have been doing my duty for years, putting up with your idiotic brother and cunning grandfather" you assert.
"I mean support Aegon's claim to the throne" 
You try to move away from him, but he holds you in your place, not removing his gaze away from you.
"Support whose claim? A drunk and a molesting person like Aegon? over my dead body" you spat out, glaring back at him.
Aemond's following silence made you feel fear for some reason.
He's always calm before he strikes his enemies.
But you are not his enemy, you are his beloved wife, the mother of his daughter.
"Get ready for the feast, my dear" 
He kisses your forehead and smiles down at you, this caused you to become more worried.
"I will make your brothers, my nephews, feel welcomed"
With that, Aemond leaves you in your chambers, terrified at what might occur at the feast.
꧁𖣔꧂
You play with your necklace in paranoia, as Jace dances with Helaena while everyone having fun talking after Rhaenyra and the queen fix their friendship to please the king, who has left to take a rest.
However, the way you saw Aegon poking fun at Jacaerys shows how nothing is fixed.
"Can I please have this dance with you?" Lucerys asks, making you smile a bit at his sweetness to ease your worries.
"I would love to" your husband interrupts you, standing up all of a sudden, slamming his hands on the table, then picking up one of the wine cups.
"Final tribute, to the health of my nephews, Jace, Luke, and Joffrey, each of them handsome, wise... " Aemond glances at you, continuing his speech.
"...strong boys
You place your hands over your face with embarrassment and sadness. 
"I dare you to say that again" Jace raises his voice angrily at Aemond, causing the letter to walk over to him.
"Why? T'was a compliment, do you not think yourself strong?" Aemond mocks the older Velayron boy, causing him to throw a punch across your husband's face.
Aemond shoves Jace to the ground, and Aegon slams Lucerys face down on his plate, but you stop them from taking any further actions against your brothers.
"Stop it! STOP!" You scream, causing everyone's attention to switch to you.
"You are unbelievable, and I don't want to see your face today again" you point a finger at Aemond, turning around to narrow your eyes at Aegon who only smirks at you.
"And you are the most disgusting person I have ever met in my life, Aegon" you add, implying to him cheating on Helaena.
With those words being said, you leave the feast, not bothering to look behind.
However, Aemond will not let that slide.
Nor would Aegon.
Part VII
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stiltonbasket · 19 days
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I know Nyoomerr wrote a mini fic where Shen Yuan dotes on Bingge’s kids, before I sent you the prompt also, but listen… I want many cakes!
There are so many possible cute OC Bingge kiddos Shen Yuan could dote on, and so many ways the Binggeyuan drama outside said doting could go! I’d happily read a million different versions! ♥️
In spite of having three older siblings to play with, and three nominal mothers and four nursemaids to raise him, Luo Shunlei was a very lonely child.
Unlike his brother and his two elder sisters, Shunlei was rarely allowed to see his own mother. Muqin spent most of her time away from his father's palace in the human realm, for she was Emperor-Father's most trusted lieutenant as well as his wife, and could not be spared from the various battlefields Father left in his wake for more than a single season out of each year.
That life suited his mother, Shunlei knew: and he was being looked after well enough, since Mother Ning doted upon him just as tenderly she cared for his sister Suoxin. But he hated to go to her when he fell while playing cuju in the garden, or felt lonesome for his absent Muqin, for Mother Ning cried so often when she thought her children were out of earshot that Shunlei could not bear to add to her troubles.
Nor could he go to Mother Liu, for Mother Liu was Luo Nianzu's mother, and Nianzu clung to her like a baby fire-horned monkey because his birth mother had died before Nianzu ever knew her.
(The less said of Mother Hua, the better, Shunlei thought. She was not unkind to him, but she made no secret of the fact that she was jealous of the favor Muqin received from Emperor-Father; and since Shunlei was Muqin's son, Mother Hua had never liked him very much, either.)
But then, late in the spring of Luo Shunlei's fourth year, Mother Liu brought a man into the hougong's central garden and announced that he was to be Suo-jie and Ying-jiejie's new Shizun.
"He will be your Shizun too, in time," she said to Nianzu, "as soon as you learn how to read more than a few characters."
"What about me?" Shunlei asked anxiously, plucking at the hems of her sleeve. "Shunshun wants to study, too."
At this, Mother Ning looked up from her account-book and kissed the top of his head.
"You can join this year if the taifu says you may," she assured him. "You're very bright for your age, Shun'er, but there's no need to rush. Mingyan gave Zhu-laoshi a twelve-year contract, so he won't leave the palace until the year you turn sixteen."
Sixteen sounded dreadfully grown-up to Luo Shunlei, who had yet to celebrate his fourth birthday. And if the new taifu really would be staying for the next twelve years, it hardly mattered that Shunlei wouldn't begin his studies until after he turned five.
But the taifu was more than happy to teach him, though Shunlei had only managed to learn the three characters that made up his name—and by the first week after lessons began, Shunlei had affixed himself to his new Shizun like a barnacle clinging to the hull of a boat.
Zhu Qinglan was, strangely enough, only the second man that Shunlei had ever met. Imperial Father was the first, and Shunlei had seen some of his demon lackeys from afar; but they were forbidden to enter any part of the inner court save for Father's private palace, so he had never actually spoken to them.
"Are all men from the human realm like you?" Shunlei asked his Shizun once, not long after Imperial Father returned from his latest campaign in the North. "If they are, why doesn't Father make friends with them instead of fighting?"
Shizun laughed and put out his hand to steady Luo Shunlei's grip on his writing brush.
"No," he replied, after the brush picked up its pace again. "Your Shizun is very old by now, that's all. I had to spend eighty years wandering the wilds alone before I learned how to hold my temper properly, and my Shizun was long gone by then—poor shifu! If your Imperial Father had met me when I was a young man, he wouldn't have wanted me as a servant, let alone a friend...or as his children's taifu, I suppose."
Luo Shunlei pouted. "Shizun can be my friend."
"Mm, then this teacher is very lucky. Oh, Shun'er, not again—you mustn't touch the scroll at all, remember? See how well da-gongzhu is writing."
It was true that Shizun was scolding him, Luo Shunlei reflected—smudging his copy-work as he thought, to Shizun's great distress—but he did it so gently that Shunlei wriggled with glee, feeling very much like a wilted flower that had suddenly been thrust into the full light of day.
Shizun treasured Luo Shunlei, just as he treasured Da-jie and Er-jie and Gege; and since he belonged to all four of them, he loved them equally. Mother Ning loved Da-jiejie the most, and Mother Liu loved Gege the most; and though Mother Hua loved nothing in the world other than Er-jiejie, Shunlei was certain that his Muqin loved Imperial Father far more than she loved him.
Zhu Qinglan loved no one at the palace better than he loved Shunlei, and that feeling was so dreadfully new to him that he burst into tears the next time Shizun entered the schoolroom with a bowl of his favorite sweet sesame cakes.
"Why are you crying?" Shizun demanded, bewildered, as Luo Shunlei let out a wail and scurried over to bury his head in the long skirt of Shizun's white robe. "Are you ill?"
He passed the cakes to one of the maids and lifted Shunlei onto his hip, feeling his cheeks and brow with the back of his rough hands.
"His little highness doesn't have a fever," Shizun muttered, "but we can't take chances, so run for a taiyi as quickly as you can. This one will stay with the little prince until the doctor comes."
"No," Shunlei bawled, rubbing his face against Shizun's shoulder. "I'm happy, Shizun."
"Happy?" Shizun asked, more puzzled than ever. "Why?"
Luo Shunlei laid his cheek on Shizun's soft neck and wept, too overwhelmed to explain that no one had ever made anything specially for him to eat before.
His siblings were only passingly fond of sesame cakes, though they refrained from saying so to save face for their Shizun. But Shunlei likes Shizun's cakes even more than the ones Father sometimes makes for their weekly luncheons, and yesterday, Shunlei had finally worked up the courage to ask if Shizun could bake them again.
Shunlei's lessons were canceled that morning, since Shizun and Mother Ning's taiyi said that he needed rest; and so, he spent the rest of the day being carried about the palace on his teacher's back, and fed another handful of sesame cakes whenever Shizun remembered he was there.
By the third month, Luo Shunlei decided that he loved his Shizun more than anyone else he had ever known, except for Muqin and his Suo-jiejie—which was why he bit off the left half of his Imperial Father's nose when Father told him that he meant to take Shizun into the hougong as a bride.
"You can't have Shizun for your wife!" Shunlei screeched, incensed. "He's ours!"
Imperial Father only raised his eyebrows at him.
"If you ever do that again," he drawled, conjuring a mirror to make sure his nose was healing properly, "I'll send you to the North to fight ice demons with Hualing, and I won't bring you back until you're too old to need a taifu anymore."
Luo Shunlei growled and kicked his little feet until he heard the satisfying crack of one of his Imperial Father's ribs snapping in half.
"You can't," he insisted, as Father let out a gasping wheeze and put a hand to his chest. "You have thirty wives already! That's too many. You can't have my Shizun, too."
Father's right eyebrow climbed a little higher up his forehead. "Everyone under the sun belongs to me," he said. "If I want your Shizun, he'll be mine eventually. There's no more to be said about it."
"But Shizun doesn't want you," Luo Shunlei scowled. "Everyone knows that."
For some reason, Father's face fell so quickly that Shunlei almost regretted his unkindness.
Only almost, though.
"It doesn't matter what he wants," Father said at last, after a long silence—and after his broken rib had healed, much to Luo Shunlei's frustration. "But he—he will want me some day, even if his heart lies elsewhere now. You'll see."
Luo Shunlei squinted at him. "I'll go tell Shizun what you're planning," he threatened. "Then Shizun can run away, and I'll go with him."
"Do you really want to visit the North so badly?" his father said idly. "Everything that lives there could eat you up in one bite."
(Shunlei's mother had taught him what to do in case anything ever ate him, so he could survive perfectly well in the Northern Desert if he had to.
Naturally, he said nothing of this to his father.)
Shunlei reached up and tugged sharply on his father's hair.
"Shizun won't like you if you send me away," he sniffed. "You can't be stupid if you're an Emperor, Imperial Father. Shizun said so."
Father sighed and tucked Luo Shunlei under his arm. "Would it really be so bad if Qinglan joined the harem?" he asked. "He'd still be your Shizun, and you'll still get to see him whenever you like. Nothing will change for you and the other little ones."
Luo Shunlei said nothing.
"And," Father said softly, "you can call him muhou after he and I are married. I plan to make him my empress, so he'll be your Imperial Mother as well as your Shizun."
"Imperial Mother...?"
Shunlei had never had an Imperial Mother before. Officially, every woman in the harem was Father's legitimate wife; the sole difference in status between them was that only the five inner wives—or four now, after the untimely death of Luo Nianzu's birth mother—were allowed full courtyards of their own and the right to raise children.
None of them were allowed to call themselves empresses, only consorts and wives: not even Mother Ning, who had reputedly been Father's favorite wife since his childhood on Cang Qiong Mountain.
But if Father meant to take Shizun as his Empress, and if that meant Shizun would be Shunlei's Imperial Mother, then...
"Then if you do marry Shizun," Shunlei ventured, plucking at the yaopei dangling from Imperial Father's belt, "can Shun'er have a little sister? Or a brother?"
Suddenly, Luo Shunlei felt his father's body go cold.
"No," Father said brusquely. "You may not."
"But why not?" he persisted. "If Shizun becomes my Imperial Mother, won't he be allowed to have his own Shun'er? Like Muqin and Mother Ning and—"
"No," his father repeated, more harshly than before. "After your Nianzu-ge was born, I vowed that I would never father another child. Don't ever mention such things again."
Luo Shunlei stared at him. "But I'm smaller than Gege," he said uncertainly. "Didn't Father break that vow already?"
"Enough," Father hissed. "Listen to me, Luo Shunlei. I nearly killed your Mother Ning by letting her give birth to Suoxin, and I as good as murdered your late Mother Qin by fathering Nianzu upon her. If Hualing had tried to give birth to you the usual way instead of molding you from our mingled blood, she wouldn't even have lived long enough to bring you into the world. Would you have me risk killing your Shizun, too?"
Shunlei's eyes burned.
"No," he said in a strangled voice. "Put me down."
So Imperial Father set him down on the ground, looking very much as though he could not bear to stand in Shunlei's presence for another moment.
"Don't you dare mention any of this to anyone," Father said wearily, as Shunlei rubbed his fists across his smarting eyes. "Otherwise, I really will send you up North to your mother."
Luo Shunlei nodded, somehow contriving to hide his tears until he made his way out of his father's courtyard; and then he staggered off to the Bamboo Palace where Shizun lived, hoping against hope that Shizun was at home and not out on another beast-trapping trip with Mother Liu.
"Shizun," he sobbed, beating on the gate with his tiny fists. "Shizun, Shun'er is here!"
And then Shizun was there, bundling Shunlei into his arms and draping a warm cloak over his shoulders before bringing him into the Zhugong's little kitchen for cakes and hot tea.
He fed Luo Shunlei and washed the tears from his little nose; and then, after his sobs began to slow, Shizun wrapped him up in a soft blanket and took him to Mother Ning.
"No," Shunlei wailed, as Mother Ning came running out of her own palace with worry all over her face. "Mother Ning, Shun'er wants to stay with Shizun."
Mother Ning blinked. "He didn't make you cry?"
"No!"
"Then who did?"
Shunlei frowned and burrowed into his Shizun's coat. "Nobody. But Shun'er is staying right here."
"All right, all right," Shizun said soothingly. "You can stay with Shizun for as long as you want. Lady Ning, if you would..."
Mother Ning nodded and promised that she would send a maid to the Zhugong with a bag of clothes for Shunlei.
"You can send him back for his bath, if he needs one before bed," she fretted. "But if he'd rather stay with you, then that's all right, too."
Satisfied, Shizun bowed to Mother Ning and whisked Shunlei back to the Zhugong, where he was made to drink two more cups of medicinal tea—though he did not mind this, since Shizun had already fed him all the fresh-baked sesame cakes he could hold—and put to bed on the pretty lounging chair in the front room.
"Go to sleep," Shizun told him, stroking his hair. "And don't look at this teacher with such big eyes. I'll still be here when you get up."
Luo Shunlei's lip trembled. "Do you promise?" he whispered. "You won't go away while I'm sleeping?"
"Of course not. Has your Shizun ever broken his word? Look—I won't even let go of your hand. You can hold this one, and I'll use the other to write while you nap."
So Shunlei finally let himself drift off; and when he opened his eyes again, some two hours later, he found that Shizun had fallen asleep at his desk, with his head on the erhu score he was copying and his left hand still clasped about Luo Shunlei's.
Suddenly, Luo Shunlei's heart felt very full. But then he remembered that Shizun would leave one day, whenever Father deemed that Shunlei and Nianzu and their jiejies had no further need of him, and then...
And then Shizun wouldn't belong to Shunlei anymore.
His spirits sank. He squeezed Shizun's palm, not knowing whether he wanted his teacher to sleep on or wake up and comfort him.
But at that moment, two words shaped themselves upon Luo Shunlei's lips; and before he could bite them back, he found himself saying them aloud.
"Imperial Mother?" he whispered, hugging his Shizun's arm. "Muhou, Shun'er is...is...."
And then—like a ray of white sunlight spearing through a blanket of clouds—his Shizun smiled, though he had not woken, and kissed Luo Shunlei's pudgy hand in his sleep.
"Hush, my baobao," he breathed, already sinking back into his dreams. "Don't cry. Mother is here."
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wackapedia · 11 months
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The Wolf Prince
Cregan Stark x Targaryen!reader Plot: Snow Fairy sequel where you sort our your allegiance, navigating through the politics of your family Wordcount 2,880 Warning: None! :) More cute Rickon and Cregan, tiny angst but fluff
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The messenger bird's wings flutter against the cold air of Winterfell, carrying a letter addressed to your mother, the queen. You've begged them to not search for you, and that you've sworn yourself away from the politics of your torn family after the death of your father, King Viserys. You've also accepted your gracious host, Lord Cregan Stark's offer that you stay a little longer since you're still recuperating and that you're not in a hurry to be elsewhere. 
Everything in Winterfell felt right for you. You may have been waited on hand and foot back in the Red Keep but it never felt like home. Not like how you feel in the cold and peaceful Winterfell, where everyone was friends with everyone, submissive to their lord, and united in running the estate. 
One important factor was Cregan himself. He is most hospitable, kind, dutiful, not to mention handsome, and just great company altogether. He spends a lot of time with you, and it's making your feelings run wild. 
Another factor was his boy, Rickon. He had asked you one day whether you'd like to kiss his father, a reference to his favourite fairy tale where a fairy was found in the woods and only true love's kiss could bring her back. You asked the excited little boy to show you the book.
To which you find yourself in your current predicament. An hour past his bedtime, the boy had escaped his nursemaids and sprinted to your guestroom, carrying the book. He immediately sat himself comfortably next to you on the bed and showed you the Tale of the Snow Fairy. You volunteered to read it to him and he enthusiastically said yes. 
"... And then the wolf prince fell in love with the snow fairy and he realized he has nothing else to wish for if she remained by his side. She agreed and the power of love bound them together and lived happily ever after. The end." You close the book softly and watch little Rickon sleep soundly in your bed. You couldn't blame him, the illustrations in the book did look quite similar to your appearance, if you consider a child's imagination. You sigh quietly, adjusting the boy in a more comfortable position under the furs, letting him sleep next to you tonight. 
From the threshold of the room, Cregan listens in to you reading. He contemplates on the boy's imagination, calling the Princess Y/n a snow fairy when she was found unconscious in the woods over a few days ago. He worries about the boy being more interested in books rather than swords like other boys his age, but then his Rickon isn't like other boys. He didn't have a mother. Cregan sighs to himself as the story you were reading had ended. 
The Lord of Winterfell knocks gently on the door, waiting and wondering if the both of you had fallen asleep. 
You slowly open the door, careful not to make it creak so as to not awaken the boy sleeping in your guest bed. Cregan gently smiles, illuminated by the dim candlelight in the room.
"Yes...?" You ask, mesmerized. 
Cregan musters his internal strength to move his eyes from yours to the bed.
"Did he fall asleep? I'll just carry him back..." He smiles at the sight of his son.
"Oh, I won't mind if he sleeps here, he looks quite tired..." You say, a little heartbroken. You've started to enjoy Rickon's company. 
"Are you sure? I don't want him to be a bother..." Cregan lingers by the door, worried about his poor heart if he stands a bit more close to you or be surrounded by your sweet scent. He also notes you're in your sleepwear, and that his thoughts are ready to get inappropriate. 
"Oh, he's a delight. I can look after him tonight if it's okay with you?" Your eyes plead. Cregan was a goner.
"Alright then..." Of course, he yields. "Goodnight, y/n." 
"Goodnight, Cregan. I hope you get some rest." You smile sweetly. You know he stays up late at night answering letters and learning more about his trade. You've watched him one night surrounded by books and scrolls in the great hall with nothing but a few candles for company. 
Cregan nods and walks away from your room. 'Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her!' A voice tells him, and this time it wasn't Rickon's. 
It was his own. 
Cregan rarely finds sleep nowadays. His mind is plagued by the princess who ran away. The princess who now lives upstairs, in his mind, in dreams, and in his every waking moment. She is so kind and gentle, not only to his son but to his subjects. He observed her today in the markets, tucking her silver hair under a tight hat. She fits in like a puzzle piece here in Winterfell. He was so happy she accepted to stay a little longer, despite his lame reasoning of 'you don't happen to be urgently needed elsewhere, are you?'
So here Cregan attempts to distract himself from you as he studies piles of maps and scrolls, and building plans. The distraction was beginning to work until loud and heavy fluttering noises followed by a brief shaking of the ground alarmed the lord of Winterfell. 
And then, an angry screech. 
A dragon. 
-------
It was well past midnight when the dragon and its rider arrive in Winterfell. His boots crunch against the ankle-deep snow, one after the other. There was still some distance to be covered on foot, having to park his huge beast at a safe distance from the castle. His dragon lets out an angry huff, annoyed at the cold temperature.
The dragonrider arrives at the gate and introduces himself as royalty. Of course, he is let in. He is the prince.
------
You jolt up in your bed upon hearing the familiar screech of dragon. You hop out of bed, dressed up as best as you can put together in mere seconds, and picked up a coat of fur before heading out silently into the great hall. 
Rickon continues to sleep in the otherwise empty bed, blissfully unaware. 
--------
Cregan had suited up when you arrived. Strapped to his hip was a broadsword, large and threatening. Somehow he is even more attractive when he's gruff and serious. You stood there by the stairs, admiring him for a brief moment. 
The doors to the great hall swing open and in walked a Targaryen prince, paying his respects to the lord of Winterfell. 
"I apologize for arriving at a rather odd hour,..." He adds after making his introduction, fluffing the snow from his brunette locks. What in the Seven was Prince Jacaerys doing here?
Cregan was making hospitable small talk, promising him accommodations for the night when the prince's eyes drift to your figure, unmistakable platinum hair despite only torches to illuminate the room. Jacaerys interrupts Cregan in surprise of seeing you. 
"Princess Y/n!" His tone of voice sounded both threatened and surprised. 'Have you come to acquire the allegiance of the North?' was what he wanted to ask.
Cregan immediately picks up on the tension between you and your nephew. Looks like this matter couldn't wait until morning.
-----
You sat across your Jace, a large table meant for banquets in between you. Cregan sat at the head of the table, ready to settle things between your complicated family. 
You begin by telling your side of the story. How you ran away from home after the death of your father and heard the rumours of your brother Aegon set to be installed as king. How you asked your dragon to fly south after dropping you off at White Harbour, falling from a horse and hurting yourself- to which Jace laughed, earning a scowl from Cregan, and then the details of your rescue by the lord of Winterfell. 
Your nephew paid attention to your story and found an opportunity in it. Thus he had a proposition for you.
"Swear your allegiance to my mother, the Queen. You shall have your protection. You won't have anything to fear." He firmly states. You think he will make a fine king someday. 
It was a tantalizing offer for you. To support your good sister in leading the kingdom. It was what father would've wanted. 
So you accepted.
"Yes, Jace. I would like to come with you to Dragonstone, to formally speak with my sister, and inform her of my support."
Jace smiles brightly. He did not disappoint his mother today. 
At this exchange, Cregan hesitates to interrupt. You were both making plans to leave immediately on Vermax, the prince's dragon. Cregan had expressed his full support to the rightful queen. Now he's watching you leave. 
Maybe you weren't meant to stay long in Winterfell. Maybe a dragon's place is up in the skies with its pack. 
Maybe he was a lone wolf with nothing but the cold for company.
He watches you and the prince take off on the dark green beast, just as the first light of day begins to colour the edges of the sky. Cregan begins to feel his exhaustion as he walks back to the castle.
His feet carry him to the room you once occupied. Rickon continues to sleep peacefully, hugging one of your pillows. Your sweet scent gently caresses his senses as he enters the room, very quietly he dresses down and sits himself on the bed, next to his sleeping son. 
Rickon snuggles closer to his warmth. Cregan smiles at the memory of when Rickon was just a newborn, fitting comfortably in his arms. The grief of losing the boy's mother weighed him down while having to raise a child all on his own. For five years he's held on well, but he couldn't help but fantasize. Cregan rests his head next to his son's, lulled to sleep by your scent and the comfort of his son in his arms.
"Mama?" The boy mumbles, between sleep and wakefulness.
"Papa's here, Rickon." He whispers, tucking the covers around them.
--------
It was noontime when you landed in Dragonstone.  Your uncle Daemon greets Jace upon landing, bright smiles on their faces. Until Daemon recognizes your presence. His smile fades, not in disgust but in slight surprise and confusion.
Just then, your sister, the rightful queen, Rhaenyra comes into view. She gracefully descends from the steps, followed by her second son, Lucerys, who looked like he's seeing a ghost. 
"My dear y/n..." Rhaenyra approaches you after she greets Jace. Bending the knee while seeing her with the crown upon her head never felt so easy.
"I express my allegiance to Rhaenyra, the rightful queen." You announce, kneeling in front of her, and in front of her men. 
You hear her let out a sigh. She then pulls you up in an embrace. You found your family.
-------
Your good sister invites you to feel at home here in Dragonstone. Her maids helped you dress down from your northern furs to more appropriate clothing and invited you to stay as long as you want. 
"I would like to raise a toast, to my two boys who bravely carried out their duties as princes of the realm." Rhaenyra raises a glass over luncheon, giving a proud look to both her sons.
"How was Storm's end, Luke?" Jace asked his brother sitting across him on the table. 
Luke gives you a look, the same one when you arrived. He doesn't answer his brother. Instead, he asks you a question. "What were you doing in Winterfell?"
Rhaenyra moves to reprimand her younger son's tone. Lucerys resists. "No, Mother. I have to know why her dragon was in Storm's end!" His voice begins to tremble and tears threaten to fall from his eyes. What in the Seven happened?
"My dragon?" You ask, confused.
"Yes!" Lucerys rises from his seat. "Your good brother Aemond and his dragon were in Storm's End when I arrived. He tried to take my eye!"
"Gods!" Rhaenyra, Daemon, and the rest of the table were distressed.
"After I brought Mother's letter to Lord Borros, Aemond chased me down on his dragon. And then your dragon fought..." Lucerys paused, watching your mournful expression.
The entire table was silent.
"I saw your dragon fall from the sky..." He said with firm finality. 
"Please excuse me..." You rose from your seat, rushing to leave the room.
"No! Why did your dragon sacrifice himself for me?!" Luke moves to follow you but Rhaenyra stops him. Everyone notices how visibly upset you were, hearing how your brother had attacked Luke, causing the death of your beloved dragon. Has Aemond's heart turned black? All for a pointless struggle for the throne? 
It was later in the day when your sister knocks on your guest's quarters. She lets herself in and watches you mourn.
"I'm sorry I ruined your meal..." You glanced back from the bed. Rhaenyra shushes you and moves to sit next to you. You enjoy a silent moment, watching the view from your window.
"Do you think Aemond would still attack if I was on board my dragon?" You asked, the mere thought makes you sob.
"Do not plague your mind with these thoughts, sister." Her calming voice soothes your crying. "Your brother loves you, this I know."
"Then why would he? Why would anyone in my family do this to you? To father?!" The possibility of war strikes you.
"It is love that drives all of us to do things both kind and wicked," Rhaenyra answers. Her lilac eyes are full of wisdom as they watch yours. "It is your love that brought you to Dragonstone, to pledge your loyalty to me."
You let her words linger in your head. Love.
You almost laugh to yourself as a memory of Cregan and little Rickon crosses your mind. Like in Rickon's fairytale, it was the power of love that brought the snow fairy back to life.
Rhaenyra gives you a look as if she's read your mind.
"Jace told me of your time in Winterfell..."
Ah, well... They were very hospitable." You nod, trying to hold in a smile.
"Mhmm, Are you fully healed now?" She asks about your injury.
"Yes, Lord Stark was looking after me." You answered, rather mindlessly.
"I hope he wasn't too hospitable with you..." She gives you a teasing look.
"Rhaenyra!!" You sit up in bed, playfully berating her insinuation. She laughs along. For that brief moment, it felt like you were normal siblings, teasing and annoying each other. The room begins to grow dark as the sun begins to hide under the horizon. Rhaenyra gives you an adoring look, her gentle fingers comb through your silver hair, almost identical to her own. She contemplates letting you stay with her as family or letting you go to where you belong. Her love for you reigns, and makes you an offer.
------------
Rickon is upset all day. When he awoke, he expected to see his favorite Targaryen, but only finds his own father.
"Princess y/n!" He calls out into the room, jolting Cregan awake. The lord of Winterfell pulls his son closer and explains to him what happened overnight. Rickon cries and refuses to do anything all day except demanding to send you a raven, asking you to come back. Cregan's heart breaks. "She wouldn't have left if you kissed her!" Rickon cries.
Eventually, the boy tires himself out and falls asleep just after dinner. Cregan sighs, tucking the boy in his own chambers. He glances at the storybook on his bedside and decides to hide it for now, to help Rickon forget. Just as Cregan stows the book away, the ground shakes again, waking Rickon up.
"Father, is that a dragon?!" The boy sits up. Before he could answer, Rickon bolts out of the room and heads downstairs to the courtyard. Cregan chases his boy down the hall. They arrive just in time for the doors to open.
-------
You walked into the great hall of Winterfell with only seconds to realize that Rickon was bolting toward you at full speed. You catch him hugging you so tight, his little arms around your neck. You look up to see Cregan following, relief and joy in his eyes. You were home.
The very moment Rickon lets you go, Cregan wastes no time and closes the gap between you and him. His lips were warm against yours, a strong contrast to the northern weather. The kiss went on for a good while, Rickon clapping his hands as he watches the wolf prince finally kiss the snow fairy.
You wanted the kiss to go on forever, but your good sister, who accompanied you on her dragon, had to clear her throat from behind you.
Cregan's spirit nearly departs his body seeing your sister, the queen, standing there.
"No, it's fine." She jokes, almost sarcastically. "I just came here to deliver her. Be sure to invite me to the wedding though..." She gives you a wink before walking back to her dragon.
You give Cregan one more loving kiss, a lot shorter than the last, before picking up Rickon.
"Well, now that your father's kissed me, I will grant you your wish!" You said, watching the boy, and side-eyeing his father.
Both Stark boys lose it. 
----------------------------------------------
The end.
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A Wise Pair of Fools: A Retelling of “The Farmer’s Clever Daughter”
For the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge at @inklings-challenge.
Faith
I wish you could have known my husband when he was a young man. How you would have laughed at him! He was so wonderfully pompous—oh, you’d have no idea unless you’d seen him then. He’s weathered beautifully, but back then, his beauty was bright and new, all bronze and ebony. He tried to pretend he didn’t care for personal appearances, but you could tell he felt his beauty. How could a man not be proud when he looked like one of creation’s freshly polished masterpieces every time he stepped out among his dirty, sweaty peasantry?
But his pride in his face was nothing compared to the pride he felt over his mind. He was clever, even then, and he knew it. He’d grown up with an army of nursemaids to exclaim, “What a clever boy!” over every mildly witty observation he made. He’d been tutored by some of the greatest scholars on the continent, attended the great universities, traveled further than most people think the world extends. He could converse like a native in fifteen living languages and at least three dead ones.
And books! Never a man like him for reading! His library was nothing to what it is now, of course, but he was making a heroic start. Always a book in his hand, written by some dusty old man who never said in plain language what he could dress up in words that brought four times the work to some lucky printer. Every second breath he took came out as a quotation. It fairly baffled his poor servants—I’m certain to this day some of them assume Plato and Socrates were college friends of his.
Well, at any rate, take a man like that—beautiful and over-educated—and make him king over an entire nation—however small—before he turns twenty-five, and you’ve united all earthly blessings into one impossibly arrogant being.
Unfortunately, Alistair’s pomposity didn’t keep him properly aloof in his palace. He’d picked up an idea from one of his old books that he should be like one of the judge-kings of old, walking out among his people to pass judgment on their problems, giving the inferior masses the benefit of all his twenty-four years of wisdom. It’s all right to have a royal patron, but he was so patronizing. Just as if we were all children and he was our benevolent father. It wasn’t strange to see him walking through the markets or looking over the fields—he always managed to look like he floated a step or two above the common ground the rest of us walked on—and we heard stories upon stories of his judgments. He was decisive, opinionated. Always thought he had a better way of doing things. Was always thinking two and ten and twelve steps ahead until a poor man’s head would be spinning from all the ways the king found to see through him. Half the time, I wasn’t sure whether to fear the man or laugh at him. I usually laughed.
So then you can see how the story of the mortar—what do you mean you’ve never heard it? You could hear it ten times a night in any tavern in the country. I tell it myself at least once a week! Everyone in the palace is sick to death of it!
Oh, this is going to be a treat! Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a fresh audience?
It happened like this. It was spring of the year I turned twenty-one. Father plowed up a field that had lain fallow for some years, with some new-fangled deep-cutting plow that our book-learned king had inflicted upon a peasantry that was baffled by his scientific talk. Father was plowing near a river when he uncovered a mortar made of solid gold. You know, a mortar—the thing with the pestle, for grinding things up. Don’t ask me why on earth a goldsmith would make such a thing—the world’s full of men with too much money and not enough sense, and housefuls of servants willing to take too-valuable trinkets off their hands. Someone decades ago had swiped this one and apparently found my father’s farm so good a hiding place that they forgot to come back for it.
Anyhow, my father, like the good tenant he was, understood that as he’d found a treasure on the king’s land, the right thing to do was to give it to the king. He was all aglow with his noble purpose, ready to rush to the palace at first light to do his duty by his liege lord.
I hope you can see the flaw in his plan. A man like Alistair, certain of his own cleverness, careful never to be outwitted by his peasantry? Come to a man like that with a solid gold mortar, and his first question’s going to be…?
That’s right. “Where’s the pestle?”
I tried to tell Father as much, but he—dear, sweet, innocent man—saw only his simple duty and went forth to fulfill it. He trotted into the king’s throne room—it was his public day—all smiles and eagerness.
Alistair took one look at him and saw a peasant tickled to death that he was pulling a fast one on the king—giving up half the king’s rightful treasure in the hopes of keeping the other half and getting a fat reward besides.
Alistair tore into my father—his tongue was much sharper then—taking his argument to pieces until Father half-believed he had hidden away the pestle somewhere, probably after stealing both pieces himself. In his confusion, Father looked even guiltier, and Alistair ordered his guard to drag Father off to the dungeons until they could arrange a proper hearing—and, inevitably, a hanging.
As they dragged him to his doom, my father had the good sense to say one coherent phrase, loud enough for the entire palace to hear. “If only I had listened to my daughter!”
Alistair, for all his brains, hadn’t expected him to say something like that. He had Father brought before him, and questioned him until he learned the whole story of how I’d urged Father to bury the mortar again and not say a word about it, so as to prevent this very scene from occurring.
About five minutes after that, I knocked over a butter churn when four soldiers burst into my father’s farmhouse and demanded I go with them to the castle. I made them clean up the mess, then put on my best dress and did up my hair—in those days, it was thick and golden, and fell to my ankles when unbound—and after traveling to the castle, I went, trembling, up the aisle of the throne room.
Alistair had made an effort that morning to look extra handsome and extra kingly. He still has robes like those, all purple and gold, but the way they set off his black hair and sharp cheekbones that day—I’ve never seen anything like it. He looked half-divine, the spirit of judgment in human form. At the moment, I didn’t feel like laughing at him.
Looming on his throne, he asked me, “Is it true that you advised this man to hide the king’s rightful property from him?” (Alistair hates it when I imitate his voice—but isn’t it a good impression?)
I said yes, it was true, and Alistair asked me why I’d done such a thing, and I said I had known this disaster would result, and he asked how I knew, and I said (and I think it’s quite good), that this is what happens when you have a king who’s too clever to be anything but stupid.
Naturally, Alistair didn’t like that answer a bit, but I’d gotten on a roll, and it was my turn to give him a good tongue-lashing. What kind of king did he think he was, who could look at a man as sweet and honest as my father and suspect him of a crime? Alistair was so busy trying to see hidden lies that he couldn’t see the truth in front of his face. So determined not to be made a fool of that he was making himself into one. If he persisted in suspecting everyone who tried to do him a good turn, no one would be willing to do much of anything for him. And so on and so forth.
You might be surprised at my boldness, but I had come into that room not expecting to leave it without a rope around my neck, so I intended to speak my mind while I had the chance. The strangest thing was that Alistair listened, and as he listened, he lost some of that righteous arrogance until he looked almost human. And the end of it all was that he apologized to me!
Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather at that! I didn’t faint, but I came darn close. That arrogant, determined young king, admitting to a simple farmer’s daughter that he’d been wrong?
He did more than admit it—he made amends. He let Father keep the mortar, and then bought it from him at its full value. Then he gifted Father the farm where we lived, making us outright landowners. After the close of the day’s hearings, he even invited us to supper with him, and I found that King Alistair wasn’t a half-bad conversational partner. Some of those books he read sounded almost interesting.
For a year after that, Alistair kept finding excuses to come by the farm. He would check on Father’s progress and baffle him with advice. We ran into each other in the street so often that I began to expect it wasn’t mere chance. We’d talk books, and farming, and sharpen our wits on each other. We’d do wordplay, puzzles, tongue-twisters. A game, but somehow, I always thought, some strange sort of test.
Would you believe, even his proposal was a riddle? Yes, an actual riddle! One spring morning, I came across Alistair on a corner of my father's land, and he got down on one knee, confessed his love for me, and set me a riddle. He had the audacity to look into the face of the woman he loved—me!—and tell me that if I wanted to accept his proposal, I would come to him at his palace, not walking and not riding, not naked and not dressed, not on the road and not off it.
Do you know, I think he actually intended to stump me with it? For all his claim to love me, he looked forward to baffling me! He looked so sure of himself—as if all his book-learning couldn’t be beat by just a bit of common sense.
If I’d really been smart, I suppose I’d have run in the other direction, but, oh, I wanted to beat him so badly. I spent about half a minute solving the riddle and then went off to make my preparations.
The next morning, I came to the castle just like he asked. Neither walking nor riding—I tied myself to the old farm mule and let him half-drag me. Neither on the road nor off it—only one foot dragging in a wheel rut at the end. Neither naked nor dressed—merely wrapped in a fishing net. Oh, don’t look so shocked! There was so much rope around me that you could see less skin than I’m showing now.
If I’d hoped to disappoint Alistair, well, I was disappointed. He radiated joy. I’d never seen him truly smile before that moment—it was incandescent delight. He swept me in his arms, gave me a kiss without a hint of calculation in it, then had me taken off to be properly dressed, and we were married within a week.
It was a wonderful marriage. We got along beautifully—at least until the next time I outwitted him. But I won’t bore you with that story again—
You don’t know that one either? Where have you been hiding yourself?
Oh, I couldn’t possibly tell you that one. Not if it’s your first time. It’s much better the way Alistair tells it.
What time is it?
Perfect! He’s in his library just now. Go there and ask him to tell you the whole thing.
Yes, right now! What are you waiting for?
Alistair
Faith told you all that, did she? And sent you to me for the rest? That woman! It’s just like her! She thinks I have nothing better to do than sit around all day and gossip about our courtship!
Where are you going? I never said I wouldn’t tell the story! Honestly, does no one have brains these days? Sit down!
Yes, yes, anywhere you like. One chair’s as good as another—I built this room for comfort. Do you take tea? I can ring for a tray—the story tends to run long.
Well, I’ll ring for the usual, and you can help yourself to whatever you like.
I’m sure Faith has given you a colorful picture of what I was like as a young man, and she’s not totally inaccurate. I’d had wealth and power and too much education thrown on me far too young, and I thought my blessings made me better than other men. My own father had been the type of man who could be fooled by every silver-tongued charlatan in the land, so I was sensitive and suspicious, determined to never let another man outwit me.
When Faith came to her father’s defense, it was like my entire self came crumbling down. Suddenly, I wasn’t the wise king; I was a cruel and foolish boy—but Faith made me want to be better. That day was the start of my fascination with her, and my courtship started in earnest not long after.
The riddle? Yes, I can see how that would be confusing. Faith tends to skip over the explanations there. A riddle’s an odd proposal, but I thought it was brilliant at the time, and I still think it wasn’t totally wrong-headed. I wasn’t just finding a wife, you see, but a queen. Riddles have a long history in royal courtships. I spent weeks laboring over mine. I had some idea of a symbolic proposal—each element indicating how she’d straddle two worlds to be with me. But more than that, I wanted to see if Faith could move beyond binary thinking—look beyond two opposites to see the third option between. Kings and queens have to do that more often than you’d think…
No, I’m sorry, it is a bit dull, isn’t it? I guess there’s a reason Faith skips over the explanations.
So to return to the point: no matter what Faith tells you, I always intended for her to solve the riddle. I wouldn’t have married her if she hadn’t—but I wouldn’t have asked if I’d had the least doubt she’d succeed. The moment she came up that road was the most ridiculous spectacle you’d ever hope to see, but I had never known such ecstasy. She’d solved every piece of my riddle, in just the way I’d intended. She understood my mind and gained my heart. Oh, it was glorious.
Those first weeks of marriage were glorious, too. You’d think it’d be an adjustment, turning a farmer’s daughter into a queen, but it was like Faith had been born to the role. Manners are just a set of rules, and Faith has a sharp mind for memorization, and it’s not as though we’re a large kingdom or a very formal court. She had a good mind for politics, and was always willing to listen and learn. I was immensely proud of myself for finding and catching the perfect wife.
You’re smarter than I was—you can see where I was going wrong. But back then, I didn’t see a cloud in the sky of our perfect happiness until the storm struck.
It seemed like such a small thing at the time. I was looking over the fields of some nearby villages—farming innovations were my chief interest at the time. There were so many fascinating developments in those days. I’ve an entire shelf full of texts if you’re interested—
The story, yes. My apologies. The offer still stands.
Anyway, I was out in the fields, and it was well past the midday hour. I was starving, and more than a little overheated, so we were on our way to a local inn for a bit of food and rest. Just as I was at my most irritable, these farmers’ wives show up, shrilly demanding judgment in a case of theirs. I’d become known for making those on-the-spot decisions. I’d thought it was an efficient use of government resources—as long as I was out with the people, I could save them the trouble of complicated procedures with the courts—but I’d never regretted taking up the practice as heartily as I did in this moment.
The case was like this: one farmer’s horse had recently given birth, and the foal had wandered away from its mother and onto the neighbor’s property, where it laid down underneath an ox that was at pasture, and the second farmer thought this gave him a right to keep it. There were questions of fences and boundaries and who-owed-who for different trades going back at least a couple of decades—those women were determined to bring every past grievance to light in settling this case.
Well, it didn’t take long for me to lose what little patience I had. I snapped at both women and told them that my decision was that the foal could very well stay where it was.
Not my most reasoned decision, but it wasn’t totally baseless. I had common law going back centuries that supported such a ruling. Possession is nine-tenths of the law and all. It wasn't as though a single foal was worth so much fuss. I went off to my meal and thought that was the end of it.
I’d forgotten all about it by the time I returned to the same village the next week. My man and I were crossing the bridge leading into the town when we found the road covered by a fishing net. An old man sat by the side of the road, shaking and casting the net just as if he were laying it out for a catch.
“What do you think you’re doing, obstructing a public road like this?” I asked him.
The man smiled genially at me and replied, “Fishing, majesty.”
I thought perhaps the man had a touch of sunstroke, so I was really rather kind when I explained to him how impossible it was to catch fish in the roadway.
The man just replied, “It’s no more impossible than an ox giving birth to a foal, majesty.”
He said it like he’d been coached, and it didn’t take long for me to learn that my wife was behind it all. The farmer’s wife who’d lost the foal had come to Faith for help, and my wife had advised the farmer to make the scene I’d described.
Oh, was I livid! Instead of coming to me in private to discuss her concerns about the ruling, Faith had made a public spectacle of me. She encouraged my own subjects to mock me! This was what came of making a farm girl into a queen! She’d live in my house and wear my jewels, and all the time she was laughing up her sleeve at me while she incited my citizens to insurrection! Before long, none of my subjects would respect me. I’d lose my crown, and the kingdom would fall to pieces—
I worked myself into a fine frenzy, thinking such things. At the time, I thought myself perfectly reasonable. I had identified a threat to the kingdom’s stability, and I would deal with it. The moment I came home, I found Faith and declared that the marriage was dissolved. “If you prefer to side with the farmers against your own husband,” I told her, “you can go back to your father’s house and live with them!”
It was quite the tantrum. I’m proud to say I’ve never done anything so shameful since.
To my surprise, Faith took it all silently. None of the fire that she showed in defending her father against me. Faith had this way, back then, where she could look at a man and make him feel like an utter fool. At that moment, she made me feel like a monster. I was already beginning to regret what I was doing, but it was buried under so much anger that I barely realized it, and my pride wouldn’t allow me to back down so easily from another decision.
After I said my piece, Faith quietly asked if she was to leave the palace with nothing.
I couldn’t reverse what I’d decided, but I could soften it a bit.
“You may take one keepsake,” I told her. “Take the one thing you love best from our chambers.”
I thought I was clever to make the stipulation. Knowing Faith, she’d have found some way to move the entire palace and count it as a single item. I had no doubt she’d take the most expensive and inconvenient thing she could, but there was nothing in that set of rooms I couldn’t afford to lose.
Or so I thought. No doubt you’re beginning to see that Faith always gets the upper hand in a battle of wits.
I kept my distance that evening—let myself stew in resentment so I couldn’t regret what I’d done. I kept to my library—not this one, the little one upstairs in our suite—trying to distract myself with all manner of books, and getting frustrated when I found I wanted to share pieces of them with Faith. I was downright relieved when a maid came by with a tea tray. I drank my usual three cups so quickly I barely tasted them—and I passed out atop my desk five minutes later.
Yes, Faith had arranged for the tea—and she’d drugged me!
I came to in the pink light of early dawn, my head feeling like it had been run over by a military caravan. My wits were never as slow as they were that morning. I laid stupidly for what felt like hours, wondering why my bed was so narrow and lumpy, and why the walls of the room were so rough and bare, and why those infernal birds were screaming half an inch from my open window.
By the time I had enough strength to sit up, I could see that I was in the bedroom of a farmer’s cottage. Faith was standing by the window, looking out at the sunrise, wearing the dress she’d worn the first day I met her. Her hair was unbound, tumbling in golden waves all the way to her ankles. My heart leapt at the sight—her hair was one of the wonders of the world in those days, and I was so glad to see her when I felt so ill—until I remembered the events of the previous day, and was too confused and ashamed to have room for any other thoughts or feelings.
“Faith?” I asked. “Why are you here? Where am I?”
“My father’s home,” Faith replied, her eyes downcast—I think it’s the only time in her life she was ever bashful. “You told me I could take the one thing I loved best.”
Can I explain to you how my heart leapt at those words? There had never been a mind or a heart like my wife’s! It was like the moment she’d come to save her father—she made me feel a fool and feel glad for the reminder. I’d made the same mistake both times—let my head get in the way of my heart. She never made that mistake, thank heaven, and it saved us both.
Do you have something you want to add, Faith, darling? Don’t pretend I can’t see you lurking in the stacks and laughing at me! I’ll get as sappy as I like! If you think you can do it better, come out in the open and finish this story properly!
Faith
You tell it so beautifully, my darling fool boy, but if you insist—
I was forever grateful Dinah took that tea to Alistair. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen the loophole in his words—I was so afraid he’d see my ploy coming and stop me. But his wits were so blessedly dull that day. It was like outwitting a child.
When at last he came to, I was terrified. He had cast me out because I’d outwitted him, and now here I was again, thinking another clever trick would make everything well.
Fortunately, Alistair was marvelous—saw my meaning in an instant. Sometimes he can be almost clever.
After that, what’s there to tell? We made up our quarrel, and then some. Alistair brought me back to the palace in high honors—it was wonderful, the way he praised me and took so much blame on himself.
(You were really rather too hard on yourself, darling—I’d done more than enough to make any man rightfully angry. Taking you to Father’s house was my chance to apologize.)
Alistair paid the farmer for the loss of his foal, paid for the mending of the fence that had led to the trouble in the first place, and straightened out the legal tangles that had the neighbors at each others’ throats.
After that, things returned much to the way they’d been before, except that Alistair was careful never to think himself into such troubles again. We’ve gotten older, and I hope wiser, and between our quarrels and our reconciliations, we’ve grown into quite the wise pair of lovestruck fools. Take heed from it, whenever you marry—it’s good to have a clever spouse, but make sure you have one who’s willing to be the fool every once in a while.
Trust me. It works out for the best.
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sky-kiss · 1 month
Note
Raphael. Haarlep. Bath. Accidental fiendish ascension.
A/N: OH FRIKK. I FORGOT THE ACCIDENTAL PART. Bruh, I did goof this. But hopefully you still enjoy it lol. It’s been a while since I wrote them, and I forgot how much I love them. Sin under the cut.
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R/H: Desire
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"My, we are in a state." 
Haarlep snickers, patting their little brat's cheek. The cambion sneers, an admirable attempt at superiority undermined by the way his pulse leaps, chest still heaving. Oh, but the muscles in the poor dear's shoulders are still so tense, all of him so awfully rigid—a contrast to his softening length still nestled within the incubus' body. Haarlep clenches around it, rocking their hips twice—just enough to choke another strangled moan from their boy prince. 
They sigh, stroking hair back from his forehead, leaning over him. Over the course of centuries, Haarlep has learned what his Master needs. The woefully mortal half of him craves a touch of intimacy in the aftermath; in those scant few moments, the incubus could presume upon his good graces in such delicious little ways. They press their forehead to his, trace his nose with their own, lingering a hair's breadth from his mouth before licking into it. Raphael parts for them with an airy moan, hips rocking up. 
Good boy. 
Raphael shivers. His grip tightens on the incubus' hips, drawing them nearer before recalling himself. Remembering who he is, what they are—how tedious. Haarlep kisses him again to push those troublesome thoughts away, lazily stroking their cock. They have the pleasure of watching Raphael's eyes flutter, pretty lashes fanning out across his cheek. Such a beautiful boy, truly, full lips parting, still a touch hoarse from their earlier exertions. 
Haarlep traces his cheek with one claw. "Tell us what you need, darling. What are we for if not to help?" 
Raphael scoffs. "To watch. To mind me." 
"Mmm, to play nursemaid, yes. And we might have such fun with that." Haarlep shakes their head, sifting through their mental Rolodex to find a form that might suit such an image. They think better of it; it isn't what he needs. The incubus speaks against Rapahel's lips, still stroking themself, listening to the water slap languidly against their chests in counterpoint to his movements. "But not tonight." 
Raphael shifts beneath them, head tipping back against the pool's edge. Haarlep chases the movement, licking up the column of his throat and biting—not hard enough to break the skin. They must yet linger in the sweetness. 
"And what would you have, wretch?" 
So little vitriol in the moniker—just an attempt to maintain the upper hand. Raphael's right-hand strays to their hand, holding them in place against his throat. His cock stirs, pressing deep enough to steal a pleased groan from the incubus. 
"You." Ah, and it's precisely what the spoiled creature wants to hear. Haarlep groans against his skin, leading them in a lazy rock. "You." Such a pretty facsimile of romance—though, Haarlep prides themself that their pleasure is vastly superior to any reality. They pulled back, breathing against his lips. "Where is my pretty Fiend? It's been so long since we played." 
Raphael's eyes, lovely, lovely, hellfire eyes, light with desire. The Fiend is true abandon—no thought, no regard, only wanton violence and sharp edges. Haarlep sees the acceptance; no need to vocalize—they've shared this existence too long to need that. The incubus climbs from their hips, tail flicking lazily behind them as they cross to the pool's far side. 
Their little brat vanishes with a wash of hellfire and sloughed flesh. The Fiend remains, hunched, hungry, its wretched face staring down at them. Haarlep coos. They bring their hand to its cheek, snickering as it dips its head. It tastes them, tongue lapping out to stroke the curve of their throat and up to the incubus' mouth. Haarlep licks it back. 
The Fiend howls, knocking them back against the pool's side, struggling their legs open. And, oh, Haarlep cannot recall wanting something more. 
None of their boy king’s control. Only brutality. The Fiend is all his ambition made manifest. It is a live wire, heat, and hellfire fucking into them with perfect violence. It is a rare opportunity for Haarlep to simply exist, caught in that nexus of pleasure and pain. 
And oh, it is perfection. 
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shesjustanothergeek · 8 months
Text
His Love
|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|
Part Twenty-One
Masterlist of Series
Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.
Author's Note: I hope life hasn't been too terrible for y'all while I've been gone xD. While on this little vacation, I realized I have Computer Vision Syndrome (CVS). I know that sounds silly, but it actually really fucking sucks. When I write for a long period on my laptop screen (like 5 hours), I get awful eye pain, headache, migraines, blurred vision, vertigo, and nausea. I've learned different tips and tricks to help with it, so I'm doing much better. Thank y'all so much for letting me enjoy my break, and happy reading! 
P.S. Updates will still be Sun/Mon.
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Chapter Warnings: 0-100 real quick but with sexism, extreme anti-bastard language, minor ableist language, panic attack.
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"My blood is red and unafraid of living, beginning to end.
I'm liquid smooth, come touch me too,
And feel my skin is plump and full of life, I'm in my prime.
I'm at my highest peak.
I'm ripe, about to fall, capture me."- Liquid Smooth, Mitski.
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Surprisingly, life had proceeded smoothly after your tumultuous reappearance at Kings Landing. You expected more hardships to come, but astonishingly, they had yet to arrive.
However, becoming used to Aegon's advances took time. Following like a lost puppy everywhere you went, never far from his beloved little Princess. Much to your chagrin, people began to group you and the wastrel prince as a pair. Where one was, the other was sure to be.
Queen Alicent had dubbed you Aegon's keeper, ensuring he was not frequenting the Silk Streets and gambling houses as he once did. Playing the role of the Prince's Mother wasn't enjoyable at first, but you understood how much of an advantage this was, and a part of you grew to like it. It was the only sturdy aspect in your life, comforting and tending to Aegon's needs like a nursemaid, and should questions arise from your frequent sightings within the eldest son's apartments, the Queen herself would explain the rumors away.
Alicent prayed to the Seven that providing close contact with Aegon would convince you to see her reasons behind the line of succession and sway you to believe them. Even if that didn't work, she still found a way to control her scoundrel of a son and keep the blanket of shame from lying upon their backs. The Queen did not worry herself about the idea that her son might attempt to corrupt you. She was sure that if Aegon tried anything, you would physically overpower him and that her son's poor, borderline misogynistic words he called flirting would not work on a sensible woman like you.
Alicent had yet to inform her father of the schemes she concocted, and Lord Otto Hightower grew wary of the Bastard Princess and the Drunken Prince's time together. He knew of your loyalty to your family and how you believed with your entire soul that destroying centuries' worth of tradition and precedent would better the realm. By putting Rhaenyra on the throne, a girl he watched grow into a woman uncaring of duty, you would somehow prove yourself better than your worth.
But that was not how things were. That was not how dynasties secured their reign for millennia.
Upon reflecting on the situation, Otto realized he couldn't separate Aegon from you, for he was permanently attached to your hip. He needed someone under his thumb that you deemed trustworthy. Perhaps a knight that you respected and felt a familiarity with?
Otto summoned Ser Arryk to his study during the moment of realization. He tasked the Kingsguardmen to become your protector in the Red Keep regarding your newly appointed status as Small Council member. Lord Hightower knew it was a lie, and he understood you would too, but was comforted by the notion that Ser Arryk would accept this task with duty, honor, and integrity and would not fail him.
Yet, Arryk's reports back to him were trivial. He gave the Hand information he already knew and, at moments, even made him doubt putting the White Cloak to the task. The only thing that sparked Otto Hightower's interest was how many letters departed from the Rookery. At one point, when the Lord was genuinely desperate, he opened a letter addressed to Dragonstone, hoping to find something, anything that would give him that edge, but was greeted with a language he didn't understand and hot embarrassment for having been caught by the newly appointed Grand Maester Orwyle after the death of his predecessor.
But it was no matter, the Hand told himself. He learned how to wait. Otto Hightower spent many years playing a game no one else knew they were in and had not failed yet, for his daughter was crowned Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms, and his grandson was in line to inherit the Iron Throne. Otto Hightower had to be patient, as he always was, and everything would fall into place.
***
The eldest Prince's head rested in your lap, his violet orbs following the shapes of the white cotton clouds in the afternoon sky. You watched Princess Helaena search for bugs on the underside of leaves, quietly humming to yourself a song Rhaenyra had sung to you on many occasions.
You had just finished picnicking with him, Helaena, and her children, the tots handed to a nursemaid after little Jaehaerys fell asleep in your arms. It was a request by Aegon to his sister-wife to have them all for lunch. An idea you planted in his head that initially did not include a third person, but upon Aegon's manipulation Helaena allowed you to come—explaining something about how good you were with his son and that it would be practice for when you made the eternal sacrifice that was the act of raising children. Helaena immediately brightened at the notion of you possibly bringing more babes into the Keep and agreed immediately.
A nuzzling sensation on your stomach stole you from your contented trance, looking down to see Aegon pressing his nose into the crevice where your stomach overlapped the apex of your thighs. He continued the movements as you glanced over to Helaena, ensuring she was still distracted by the pair of mating green beetles she found.
"Aegon," you chastised, cocking a brow at the burrowing Prince. "Your wife is standing ten and five paces from us."
"And?" he prompted, nipping at the thin golden fabric of your natural waistline.
"And she could suddenly become disinterested in the pair of breeding insects and see her lord husband burying his face into the navel of another woman," you snapped, slightly curling your lip as your fingers glided over his scalp.
"Helaena would not care. She is my sister," Aegon flippantly retorted, his words muffled by your gut.
You rolled your eyes, the ring of purple shimmering in the Spring daylight and momentarily distracting Aegon. "She is your wife by law and the divine. 'Tis an insult for you to be so openly disrespectful of your ties," you answered cooly.
The Prince groaned, the noise muffled by silk and flesh as he moved his hands, swiftly palming at your breasts before he sat upright.
"Your observations are always appreciated, little one, but I believe those skills could be put to better use," he teased, giving your tits another squeeze as you stifled a squeal before separating to a proper distance.
"Rotten prince!" you whispered heatedly to Aegon, glancing at Helaena again.
He snickered in response, taking a swig of the imported strawberry mead from Drone to hide his smirk. "I seem to remember you calling me a different name last night." He gulped down the drink, releasing a satisfied exhale. "What was it again? Good boy? My sweet Prince?" He feigned forgetfulness, gazing into the blue sky with a stubby digit tapping his chin. "Oh, that's right! I remember now! 'Twas-"
You launched across the patterned blanket the servants had placed and tackled Aegon, covering his mouth with your fist as he squealed like a captured piglet. He wriggled like one as you attempted to punch his cherubic cheeks, legs straddling his torso.
Suddenly, your name was called, startling you and causing your hands to move from Aegon's body and rest your weight fully atop his waist. You feared the worst. Helaena, furious at you and storming over to have you escorted from Kings Landing for your scandalous actions, destroying your plans.
"Please, don't hurt him too badly," Helaena said, still focused on the beetles. "I am certain whatever caused this isn't worth murdering him over, but if you must..." She trailed off, turning her hand over as the emerald bug crawled across the back of it. "I have not seen anything."
It took a few blinks to realize she was jesting. Her monotone, almost dreamy voice did not indicate if she was. A hint of a smile graced Helaena's thin, peony lips, a devilish glint within your eyes as you bent your knees to attack.
"Devious women! Evil women, the lot of you!" Aegon cursed in faux protest, wrestling his arms with yours as a grin split your face.
And that was how Ser Arryk found you, straddling the eldest son of the King as you rolled over the top of each other like fighting wolves, kicking the large wicker basket to his feet on accident. He cleared his throat as he reached you, Aegon using the distraction to his advantage as he flipped you over onto your stomach, mouth centimeters away from your neck.
"Princess," Ser Arryk interrupted awkwardly. Aegon deflated against you at the sound of his voice, resting his forehead on your shoulder in defeat.
"Good afternoon Ser Cargyll," you chirped, trying to control the blush that crept across your cheeks. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?"
Arryk's gaze flickered to the protruding flesh of your bosom before swiftly averting his eyes to the blooming shrubs. He cleared his throat again, the notch bobbing as he swallowed.
"The Hand has ordered a meeting of the King's Council, your Grace. 'Tis an urgent matter," he answered, his back ramrod straight.
You sighed in acknowledgment, using your palms to arch your body and shove Aegon off, his short nails catching on the embroidered beads of your dress. He groaned in annoyance as he flopped onto the ground dramatically, reminding you of Jaehaerys during one of his tantrums.
Righting yourself, you smoothed the golden fabric of your gown, which Helaena commissioned for you as a Maiden Day gift and finally felt appropriate enough to wear. You nodded at the Kingsguardmen, walking a few paces before turning to face Helaena and Aegon, the latter pouting like the spoiled boy he was.
"I apologize that our picnic must be shortened, my Prince and Princess. I'm sure we could meet for supper if that is feasible," you offered with a tilt of your head.
Helaena nodded, strolling over to her sulking brother as she nudged him with her slippered foot.
Arryk observed the interaction as he waited, his eyes trailing to places of sin. The way your flowing silk dress hugged your skin, the white pearls on the neckline complimenting your intricately styled ebony hair. Bronze beads were sewn on the gold fabric in a way that reminded him of a weeping willow, the same little balls threaded into your thin sleeves in a swirling pattern. His gaze danced over your curves next, your hips, waist, arse, anything he could see before you faced him once more, a brilliant smile on your lips.
Shame ran hot through his veins as he made contact with Aegon, his eyes dark and stare piercing. Arryk had only seen looks like that from men set to battle, hardening themselves for imminent slaughter. He knew of the Prince's quick anger, a secondhand source of it from his brother. Whatever Aegon was thinking, or more so planning, Ser Arryk didn't want to be a victim of.
He quickly turned, making his way towards an entrance of the Keep without regarding the sole reason he came. You watched Ser Cargyll's retreating form, throwing a perplexed look at Helaena and Aegon before following him, the string of pearls around your waist swaying with the movement.
Once you both were far enough away from the Godswood, you stood in Arryk's pathway, hands on your hips.
"Why did you leave so abruptly? 'Tis hardly proper as a member of the Kingsguard to turn your back on his kin," you interrogated.
"My apologies, Princess," Arryk bowed, muscles tense.
Your face soured, cringing at the emotionless sound of his voice. "None of that," you waved your hands, dismissing the subject. "Twas odd, is all. I've never seen you act in such a way before. It concerns me." You paused, pursing your lips as you glanced at the cracked red stone floors, moving closer to him. "Did Lord Hightower inform you why the meeting was called? Is that the reason for your callousness?"
Ser Arryk swallowed the lump in his throat that formed while watching your concerned face scrunch, the violet in your eyes becoming larger as your pupils shrunk in the daylight. He couldn't answer your questions truthfully without knowing your relationship with Aegon, redirecting the conversation to something more comfortable.
"I am unaware of the reason," Arryk answered instead, his posture still tense as he spoke. "It's rather unusual for the Hand to do this, no?" He noted the brief scowl that pulled your mouth, tucking your lips in to nibble at them.
"Yes. You are correct, Ser Cargyll," you nodded, pivoting on the balls of your feet as you proceeded with your journey. "It unnerves me greatly if you do not mind me speaking freely." You glanced at him in your peripherals. He encouraged you to continue, following a respectable distance. "The last time something like this happened, Grand Maester Mellos passed, and Mother encouraged me to have her Maester put forth. 'Twas humiliating when Lord Hightower said it was the Citadel's decision, not the King's."
You pinched the bridge of your nose at the memory, shame, and regret burning your ears to this day. Ser Arryk chuckled at your recollection and, without thinking better of it, placed a comforting hand on your shoulder as a friend or companion would. He recoiled faster than a striking snake once he realized, clenching his fist behind his back in abashment.
You peered at him curiously with a raised brow, assessing the situation. The knight had forgotten himself, acting more of an acquaintance than a protector. Some of you wanted to dismiss what happened and brush it off as a mistake anyone would make when spending nearly every waking moment with someone. Still, the other more intellectual side saw the opportunity that had just presented itself, and who were you to ignore it?
In your hopes that it was amicable, a grin crossed your face, hooking your opulent arm with his armored one, encouraging him to keep walking and that you weren't offended by his actions. You continued your conversation as if nothing had happened, explaining to him more times that you made a fool of yourself during court and your anxiety with the impending Lords you were about to face. Arryk listened intently, offering consoling words each time you finished, eventually loosening his flexed muscles. Once you were a few paces away from the Council Chambers, you parted from Ser Cargyll with a polite smile, asking him to wait outside the doors until the meeting was done. He, of course, agreed, finding a spot alongside the wall as you entered.
Insecurity flipped your stomach as the few Lords stared at you, each of their expressions one of shock. You gazed back at them, unsure of the reason for their behavior, as your nails dug crescents into your blanched palms. Alicent was the only person with a neutral look, hiding the faint smile on her plush lips between her hands as she sat in the high-backed chair at the end of the long table.
Lord Tyland Lannister smirked as you signaled Aemond to pour a glass of wine, needing the courage the firewater brought. You followed the direction of his eyes, realizing they were on your outfit, glancing between the pearl dragon earrings and necklace to the shimmering gold of your gown. You understood it was something you would have never chosen yourself, more comfortable in your red and dark day-to-day palette, but it was a gift from a princess, and you weren't expecting an impromptu meeting. It would be best if you had changed before attending, you nervously thought.
Lord Beesbury was the last member to join, rushing in with a flurry of robes and parchment, the scrolls tumbling out of his arms. You rose to help him and gathered the fallen documents, ignoring the impatient groans of the men above you. Lord Laymen gave you a grateful smile, dropping the scrolls in a pile on the oak table before seating himself.
Otto Hightower broke the thick silence with a sigh and clap of his hands.
"I apologize for the abruptness of this meeting, but I have news regarding aid to the Stepstones," he announced uncharacteristically cheery. "We have received the shipments requested earlier than initially thought, and our Master of Coin's secretary has counted everything himself."
You couldn't hide the annoyed tick of your jaw for not knowing this news first. Lord Laymen was told to come to you regarding when the imports arrived. He was the Master of Coin, and a portion of his duties lay in the imports and exports of Kings Landing. You felt a sense of betrayal at the man, your usual cordial look towards him replaced with an icy one.
"This is wonderful news," Lord Lannister replied boisterously, a smile hidden underneath his beard. "Mayhaps we'll finally be done with this Triarchy nonsense, and Lord Corlys will prevail." The Master of Ships raised his half-empty cup, everyone except for you mimicking his actions. "A toast," he hollered, looking at everyone at the rectangular table as you swiftly lifted your drink to match them, "to the Bastard Princess for finally ending this Gods forsaken war."
"Hear, hear," rang out in the room from all the men, only the two women posing across each other, keeping their mouths shut. You downed the entire contents of the blood-orange wine in one go, swallowing the biting insult that threatened to spill from your mouth at the namesake.
"Thank you, my Lord Tyland, but we shouldn't partake in any victory celebrations yet," you said, false appreciation in your tone. "I would like to see the shipments myself if that is all right with you, Lord Beesbury? 'Tis not that I don't trust your secretary; this project is something dear to me, and I would feel at peace if I were there to ensure it in person."
The older Lord nodded almost ludicrously, "Of course, Princess. We shan't proceed without your approval."
Tossing a saccharine smile to the gentleman under your dark lashes as Lord Jasper chimed in. "Princess, I would like to accompany you in the process. As the Master of Laws, I must ensure they have the required documentation to sail to Dragonstone. We have increased our naval patrol over Blackwater Bay, and I would hate for the goods to be confiscated. If they were, it would be out of my hands then."
You raised a skeptical eyebrow at Lord Wylde, unable to hide the look of disbelief on your face. It felt like an unnecessary request of Lord Jasper, and it insulted you to have him think he could get away with it. "They got here fine, did they not? Refrain from troubling yourself with such trivial tasks. I would be surprised if those men could even read," you quipped, forgetting the courtly tone excepted of you.
Suddenly, the room went noiseless, the joyful feeling replaced with something else.
"Many would say the same about a woman like yourself—a bastard from the slums of Flea Bottom sitting on the King's Small Council. Most people would think you suited elsewhere," Ser Jasper sneered, slighted by your remarks.
Your face grew scalding, your hands balling into fists on your lap. You couldn't contain the following words, the inherited rage from the Rouge Prince boiling to the surface. "Why? Are you looking for another wife? Gods rest her soul."
Gasps filled the room. Everyone, even the One-Eyed Prince, was stunned at the venom that had just spewed from your lips. It had only been a month since the passing of Lord Jasper's wife, not yet through the mourning period. You wanted to take it back as soon as you sounded it. Not because of how vile it was but because it cracked the mask of righteousness you wore with pride, showing how much you were truly like your reckless father—the man who slaughtered the innocents of Flea Bottom over a decade ago.
"It would fit you better," he snapped, "wailing in pain while you served the only purpose a woman like you is good for."
You shot out from your chair, nostrils flaring and lifting your skirt before thinking better of it in an endeavor to unsheath your dagger.
"Enough!" The Queen shouted, stopping you from doing something you wouldn't survive to regret. "The Princess shall survey the shipments without company. This meeting is finished."
Each member left the chambers like frightened deer; even the Hand himself left in such a hurry that it shocked Queen Alicent herself. You could feel their lingering stares as they went, putting your cutlass back in its proper place before flickering your glare to the only occupants still brave enough to stay. Aemond stared at you with regard of what could only be interpreted as amazement, his one purple eye wide and bow lips parted like a suffocating fish would—Alicent, still seated, staring at her raw cuticles, a shadow cast over her heart-shaped face from her forearms.
You left with a succinct curtsy and newfound gratefulness for the Queen, pushing the hair that had fallen over your shoulders behind you and meeting the bewildered gaze of Ser Arryk. He would undoubtedly heard the loud screech of your chair as you nearly pounced on Ser Jasper Wylde, and you could see the concern etched in the fine lines of his skin. You disregarded his outstretched hand that wishfully asks to link arms again, the skirt of your dress nearly causing you to trip from your brisk pace. Arryk swallowed the bitter discomfort that formed in his throat at the denial and caught up to you with haste.
"Your Grace, are you well?" The knight oppugned.
"Quite well. Thank you, Ser Cargyll," you gagged, swatting away a strand of hair that blew into your mouth. Arryk's armor clanked with his swift gait, his white cloak billowing behind him.
"Are you sure, my Lady? I heard a commotion moments before the meeting adjourned," he prodded, hoping you would answer his unasked question.
"I tripped Lord Larys, and he fell into his chair, finally putting the poor cripple out of his misery," you snarled, unsure of your destination as you continued moving. "Is that what you want me to say, hmm?" You stopped abruptly, whipping your body around to face him. "That the wildling bastard Aegon Targaryen found in Flea Bottom is an eel like everyone else? Mayhaps I should go back and live amongst my fellow leeches."
Ser Arryk stared at you in stunned confusion, shock, and befuddlement about where your frustrations and sudden outburst originated.
"Princess-" He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came, lips curling and uncurling as he tried to find the proper expressions. Arryk finally gave up, his cerulean stares closing as he straightened his posture, becoming the impersonal Kingsguard he trained to be.
Even in your rage, Arryk still found you beautiful. Your inklike mane was braided skillfully in a half up half down style, golden pearl pins framing the soft features of your countenance. Immediately he buried the thought, a blush dusting across his pale cheeks. He desired desperately that moment he had his helmet covering the pink. You soughed, realizing your anger was misplaced, and crossed your arms, the bronze beads of your dress catching one another.
Before you could apologize, you caught a blur of green in the distance, the Queen Consort walking purposefully towards you, a firm yet serene expression on her soft face. The knight took note of your gaze, no longer on him, and turned, his posture impossibly more tense than before.
You both bowed in unison as she halted, dismissing Ser Arryk with the wave of her emerald and peridot jeweled fingers. Eyeing her curiously, you fell beside her, assuming she wanted to talk privately. Queen Alicent hushed as you trekked the long winding hallways of the Keep, waiting for the palace's inhabitants to thin before speaking.
"Twas unbecoming of Lord Wylde to speak in such a manner. I want to apologize on his behalf Princess," she said, causing your stomach to tighten.
The Queen never apologized; not once could you recall a moment where she indeed had. High-borns never sought remorse for their actions from those beneath them. They believed themselves above such things, especially a Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. You were just a princess, not even in line for the Iron Throne should something tragic happen to the people before you, and yet Alicent was seeking forgiveness. Not even for her actions!
"I believe your apology is unwarranted; you've done nothing wrong. I should hear this from Lord Jasper and not you, my Queen," you replied, flicking a brown and purple eye at her.
Alicent clasped her hands together, a position they seemed never to leave as she nodded grimly. "Yes, I agree, but he would never wound his pride like that. 'Tis the only thing men like him have."
You couldn't hide your disbelief, trying not to bring attention to your reaction lest she decide to rescind this brief moment of peace between you. While her mocking slightly disarmed your caution, you still trod carefully, not adding anything to what you thought of "men like Lord Jasper Wylde." When Queen Alicent saw you would not further her chaffing, she quieted, the delicate grin on her plush lips fleeting.
"It was sad, what he said," Alicent continued thoughtfully, "about your lineage." You glanced at her from the corners of your eyes, not indicating your thoughts. "It's unfair that you're the only bastard who receives nothing."
You quizzically raised a manicured brow at her, willing your mouth not to scowl. "How so?"
"Your adopted brothers. It is no secret that their father is not who Rhaenyra claims to be." You didn't hide the distaste from your look, ceasing your pace alongside her.
"Careful where you tread, my Queen. Some might think what you're implying is treasonous."
Her nude lips pouted, her aureate viridian earrings swaying as she followed. "I know you believe it to be true. I trust that there is comfort in numbers, I suppose. The more bastards in the House, the more likely one would be willing to accept their claim."
Rolling your eyes, you huffed, continuing the direction Alicent had set, yet not knowing where it was to be.
"Truly, I do not understand where this hate of bastards comes from. Men have them more than legitiment ones; why is the Heir not held to the same standard?" you griped, ignoring the Queen's unhurried footfalls to catch up to you.
"Because men do not give their bastards titles. They are not set to inherit what their father has, just as you're not."
You stopped striding again, storming to Alicent like an orange flame emerging from a dragon's throat. "I do not need more titles or gold. My worth is not defined by a piece of parchment or coin like yours." Your chest heaved, the necklace resting upon it, glinting with each breath. "Your implications of my brothers' birth will not be so easily forgotten as the King. My Mother will hear of this, and I-"
"The same Mother who refuses to give you what her sons of equal lineage have?"
The urge to strike her was powerful, your mind a raging inferno of acrimony, anger, and a cold draft of hurt. You quickly shoved it away, focusing on the two you could feel clawing at your ribs to escape. But before you could put your emotions into words, a door opened, a short curly white-haired head peeking out.
Aegon's curious amethyst eyes flitted between you and his Mother, attempting to discern what your clenched fists and red face were about, holding a chalice in his hand. You looked back at Alicent in a mix of malice and disgust for having been so worked up that you didn't realize she had led you to her son's door. Alicent's face was schooled, her back straight and neck high, appearing the ever-regal Queen her father groomed her to be.
"Princess, come," Aegon called, his speech lightly slurred, "join me for a drink. You look like you need one."
You hid the sigh of defeat from Alicent, facing her son with a placid smile. "I do not believe it would be proper of me to join you in your chambers without a chaperone," you countered, though you desired greatly to run into his room and lose the ire of the day.
"You are family, Princess," the Queen chimed in, eager to have you distract her eldest son from drinking too heavily and inevitably embarrassing her.
You glared. She knew of Aegon's unkinship-like desire for you, yet, she was content with practically throwing you into his chambers unsupervised. Every expletive you could think of wanted to be thrown at her, but you held your tongue.
"If her Grace is all right with it," you curtsied, hatred beaming as your voice displayed the opposite. "I shall join you for a drink."
Aegon smiled joyfully, taking a swig of his chalice before opening the door wider as you entered, but not before throwing Alicent a nasty look, the Queen's face unchanging. 
You stormed over to the table in the middle of Aegon's greeting room, dragging the simple wooden chair on the stone floor as it screeched. Placing your head within your palms, you huffed, relaxing your constantly tense shoulders as the tipsy Prince sat across you.
"I wasn't lying when I said you look like you need a drink," Aegon teased, furthering his jesting with a slow sip from his cup.
Dismissing him with a shake of your head, you leaned back in your seat with your legs outstretched and face pointed to the ceiling in an unladylike position. You had already drunk an entire bottle worth of alcohol today, and it was only a handful of hours after midday, and waking up the next morn with a cotton mouth and a pounding headache did not seem like a pleasant idea.
"Perhaps I shall make you come, then, for a change." In response, you tilted your head down, your chin tucking into your chest, eyes in incredulous slits. "You always take such good care of me, little one. Let me return the favor."
You couldn't deny that the idea was appealing. It had been ages since you dove into the soothing water that was pleasure, always preoccupied with Aegon, social events, and politicking. The only moments you ever felt that insatiable need the spoiled Prince seemed to have was with him, but more important things were at hand during those moments.
Your pleasure was not a priority, only his. He was the one that needed to become smitten with you. When he finally was, you would give him a choice, stay with his little Princess under the warmth of your bossom, drinking wine and eating all the sweet cakes he could stomach, or die seated on the Iron Throne as your dragon's flames melted the swords into his flesh.
"I do not need tending to, Aegon, but your offer is much appreciated," you replied, standing as you walked toward the open balcony doors.
The air was sweet, filled with the pollination of flowers and trees, the temperature mild, not too hot, nor too cold, a light-sleeved gown sufficient. Aegon quickly followed after you, resuming a mirrored position from the table on the railing, following your gaze to the southern side of Kings Landing.
He wished so ardently for you to give in to your human desires. It had been months of you living within the Red Keep, something Aegon had prayed to the Old Gods and the New since you left him. He spent countless sleepless nights buried high within his cups and deep within women's cunts to cope with his misery, going so far as to request particular whores with the same dark hair as you to bleach a strand to match yours. Nothing worked. It was never enough, never you.
Until now.
The most you had shown Aegon of the cunny he dreamed of was a glimpse on one secret night where his Mother had been particularly cruel with her words, something or other about spending time with his children. You had comforted him with a soothing ballad of kind words and lifting your skirts. Aegon came with such a force that he thought he saw the Stranger. He finally understood why they were called little deaths, for if he had spent like that every time, he would be dead by now.
Aegon perked at your sigh, watching your dress glitter in the sunlight as you crossed your arms. You looked like you belonged to him then, adorned in the same gold and opulence he loved to wear. He imagined then what life would have been like if you became his wife and not his dreamy-eyed sister.
How many children would you have now? Would he still have the twins? 
Aegon chuckled at the thought, catching your curious stare as he quieted. No, most certainly not. He would never leave you a moment unswollen if you wed. You would have sired at least six children if your body and the Gods allowed it. Your breasts would weigh heavy on your back, and Aegon, the ever-doting husband, would heal you from that pain. He would fuck you until the babe's head dropped, and you could see its lanugo hair. He would stay by your side through every moment of your birthing despite the impropriety of it. Then, after that, Aegon would care for the wounds his child caused, dabbing at your tender womanhood and applying the ointments the Maester prescribed.
A thumping in Aegon's cock tore him from his fantasies, reeling him into the present. You unmarried and babeless, him a piss poor father for his current children and neglectful husband to his real wife. He brushed the thought from his mind, not wanting to fall into the home that was his self-loathing. You were right across from him, deep into your head. He could give it to you now, what he desired, and see how your little deaths would rake through your whole body.
"I can sense you staring," your voice struck like the water he fell into at Blackwater Bay this past winter, "and why you are doing so. You will not make me come, Aegon. I've no want for it."
"Is that a challenge, little one," he teased, pushing off the red stone banister and sauntering towards you.
"No," you answered, facing him with a steeled expression. "It's a command."
"Awe, but Princess, the look in your eyes says differently."
You guffawed, your brows shooting to your hairline as you tilted your head. "You must be drunk then, for you are seeing things. Come now, let's sober you up."
You signaled for him to follow as you walked back inside, only to be stopped by Aegon's deft hands. He moved you more forcefully than possible, dragging you back to your former spot and caging your legs between his.
"Aegon, be serious," you declared, attempting to move his limbs but failing. Despite his lack of training, Aegon could be relatively strong when he wanted.
"I have waited years for you to return to me. I have cried, alone at night in my chambers, praying that the Gods bring you back." You watched him with a look of surprise and sympathy, reaching your arm out to stroke his cheek, something you knew disarmed him, but he swiftly snatched it. "But they did not answer. Now, I have you, and I shall never let you leave."
Aegon's lips crashed against yours without warning, his pink tongue making its way to tangle with yours. You were frozen at the sudden foreign sensation, leaving your jaw to hang loosely open before he shoved a knee betwixt your thighs. The beads of your dress created harsh pinpricks of pleasure on your pearl, causing your mouth to open and your body to slacken, Aegon deepening the kiss instinctually. Your back arched over the stone railing, the Prince's hold being the only thing to keep you from tumbling to your death, digging your fingers into the fabric of his doublet for leverage. If you were to fall, you would ensure the unspoken heir would do so with you.
Aegon's mouth left yours, taking the chance to regain both your breaths before he dove back in, sucking and nipping at the expanse of your neck. His hands began to explore downward on your body, his nails catching on the metal orbs sewn into the fabric, treading lower, lower, and lower until he bunched the fabric of your skirt in his grip.
"Aegon." You tried to sound firm, but the word became a whimper. Squirming in his grasp to leave, you only became weak, the steady placement of his knee rubbing against that sacred area, turning your muscles to mush. "Stop."
He shushed you in response, nuzzling his nose behind your ear, inhaling the welcoming smell of lavender and dragon. "It's all right, little one. I'm here. You deserve this," he cooed, snaking his palm across your navel and down to your heat.
He felt the hair there, more plentiful than when Aegon last touched it, brushing over the coarse strands before entering a finger between your lips. You cried out at the coldness of his digits against your sensitive core, trying to heat his touch before venturing further.
"You're soaked, sweet girl," he purred into your ear, nibbling at the decorated lobe. "Why do you deny yourself so? You do so much for the kingdom, for your family," Aegon paused, parting your damp lips and sliding a slick finger over your bud as warmth shot through you, "for me." Your leg hitched at his touch, moaning loudly as his pad drew circles.
"I don't-" you wept, cutting yourself off as you felt a coil in your stomach form.
"You don't what?" he mocked, pressing firmer and causing a spark of ecstasy to bolt through you. "Don't want it? No." Aegon shook his head, answering for you. "You don't deserve it? No again. You do more in a day than my wastrel father did during his entire reign."
Aegon went faster now, his finger rubbing harder than before and making you leak onto your thighs. "Don't... talk about your father," you said breathily, your head leaning on his.
You felt the vibration of his laugh in your skull, giving you a momentary peck to your jaw in apology as his other hand dropped the skirt of your gown and wrapped it around your waist to grind into his touch. Your chest was heaving, your heart pounding, the wire inside your abdomen rapidly tightening with each refined movement.
"You deserve this. You know you deserve this," Aegon repeated, using your moistness to go faster. "I want you to say it. I want you to say it when you come," he haughtily commanded, his voice thick.
His fingers were too focused, his touch too good, and you were so, so deprived of intimacy. With a few more circles, rubs, and kisses, you felt the words tumbling off your lips, the coil wound too tight as your neglected cunt soaked his fingers with appreciation.
"I deserve this!" you shouted into the cerulean sky, Aegon's digits working you through your climax. "I deserve this, I deserve this, I deserve this," you rambled, your body having a mind of its own.
"You do, little one," he praised. "Let them hear it. Let them know your worth."
"I deserve this," you mewled one last time, nodding your head against the side of his resting on your shoulder, looking like the many cats of the Keep marking their scent. Aegon peppered you with kisses as you inhaled gulps of air. Your legs twitched, and you struggled to stand as the aftershocks subsided, held by only the Prince's strength.
It was impossible to think clearly, to fully grasp what had happened. The months, perhaps even years of negligence you spent with self-pleasure, finally coming to a rearing head, clouding your mind. The consequences of your actions failed you. Your only thoughts of how Aegon slowly dropped to his knees, pulling your skirt higher as he looked up with a mischievous yet admirable look in his violet eyes, his mouth latching onto your puffy cunt with a grin.
"One more," he murmured, his moist breath tickling, "I just need one more."
***
Aegon had lied. He did not only pry one more climax from you but three in total. Once on the terrace, back draped over the railing, your hair hanging over the ledge. The second time underneath the caring disguise of wiping away the slick from your core, only to be met with his middle and ring finger inside your tight velvet walls, and finally, the third, with a combination of his tongue and digits.
You knew you shouldn't have trusted the boy. Aegon was known throughout the Seven Kingdoms for having an appetite that no amount of whores, food, or wine could satisfy. You didn't realize it extended to another's pleasure also. Your bones were made of the Apple Muse you adored by the end, your muscles so weak from the rapid tensing and untensing as he ripped those little deaths from you. 
When all was said and done, the whore of a Prince took great care of you, ensuring your throbbing cunny was clean from both your fluids, and servants brought a pitcher of water.
You were drifting asleep, an action you knew was unwise to do with Aegon around. The possibility of waking with the intrusion of his cock inside your wall was at the forefront of your mind. That fear was the only thing that kept you from drifting off when your body all but screamed for it. You took to speaking with him to distract yourself from rest, reminding him with mumbles that you promised Helaena that you would dine with her tonight. Aegon would have to play the husband's role again and see his children.
It was always difficult to return to Helaena knowing what you had done with him but not the guilt an adulteress would have. Yours was different. Shame that you were playing a game with her husband, knowingly partaking in these acts of scandal towards a goal and not for the pleasure of it. You did not know which was worse.
You were sure that Helaena would not be upset for your actions as a typical Lady Wife would, for she didn't love him like one. You supposed she would be grateful for what you were doing, keeping him away from the Silk Streets, gambling houses, and fighting pits. Ensuring there were no more bastards than there already were running around in Kings Landing. Well, that was what you convinced yourself, at least so you could look at the People's Princess without your sins written across your face.
The timber of Aegon's voice tickled your ear, snapping open your eyes that you didn't realize were closed. "I had the maids tell Helaena that we shall dine in my rooms tonight," he chuckled to himself, pecking you on the cheek with a grin, "since you are in no shape to make the journey to her's."
You nodded, unable to protest, and pushed yourself against the headboard to make yourself more alert. Aegon scooted into place beside you, resting his head on your shoulder while he played with the rings on your fingers. 
You still couldn't process what happened; disappointment was the only thing you could feel. The heavy-weighing claws of it tugging on your heart and dragging it into a bottomless dark pit, constantly carrying, pulling, weighing down on you until you felt the searing pricks of tears in your eyes. 
You had let yourself down and succumbed to the pleasures of the flesh that had ruined so many great men in history. You promised to focus only on Aegon and his desires, and wrongfully, you thought it would be easy. You had anticipated that the Prince was like all other men with sex, only seeking their release, and hadn't planned for him to seek yours out. By all accounts, Aegon had been just that. 
This was the first moment he had wanted you to reach ecstasy during your entire stay. The most Aegon ever begged for was a glimpse of your tits and cunny, working himself in his own hands during the process. Where had the sudden urge to pleasure you emerge from? 
Perhaps the plan was going better than you thought. It's only natural for a man to desire a woman's warm embrace eventually. Still, you hadn't realized it would come at the unreciprocating hands of Aegon the Drunk and only for him not to want something in return. You had long ago made peace with the fact that you would endure the tearing of your maidenhead by him and expected nothing more to bear but this... Aegon had opened something locked tightly inside of you, and your mind could not understand it, so it found the only thing it did: hatred. Not hatred towards the eldest Prince but toward yourself. 
You loathed yourself for what you did, what you allowed. You would understand the reasonings behind the act if it was only once, but you had allowed Aegon to take, take, take from you, willingly, knowing your morals. It was your fault for what happened. There was no one to blame but yourself. 
You searched desperately for anything to justify what happened. Did it bring the unsung heir closer to you? No. You would've had the same results if you had just let him rape you. It further helped make Aegon realize he wanted to be with you more than having riches? No. The climax after edging him ten times would make him learn that. What was the justification? 
You hadn't realized your chest began to pant, alarming the Prince beside you to look over in concern. You felt sick at the sight. His perfectly chiseled marble face staring at you with his amethyst eyes twinkling with rising worry, and you rolled off the bed, stumbling. Your body shook, shoulders tensed to your ears as your fists trembled, pacing aimlessly across his room. Succinct gasps left your quivering lips, tears welling in your eyes but refusing to fall. 
Aegon watched with horror as you ran back and forth across the length of his bed chambers like a caged animal. He had no idea what to do, trying to call out to get your attention but receiving no response. Your hands go to your ears, trying to block out the sounds of a near-silent room as you hiccup. 
Suddenly, the ground beneath Aegon shuddered with a bone-rattling shake, quickly glancing down and then up to see the dust from his ceiling falling to the floor. An ear-bursting roar boomed through the entirety of King's Landing, causing the filled cups of his room to vibrate in their place. He felt the stone floor shake again with the moving of the dragon's footsteps, no doubt belonging to Cannibal. 
Aegon ran to you swiftly at your dragon's second room, seeing the edge of orange flames and smoke rising in the sky from his opened balcony doors. He knew of the bond a rider and their mount possessed, having witnessed it with his own Sunfyre when he too was upset, but never at this length. Cannibal was wild and still barely tamed, unaware of the social norms humans had that the others of his species understood. More roars sounded, but softer this time, as if they were in the distance. Aegon ignored them, focusing on trying to pry your digits that had wound themselves into your braided hair, your scalp blanched and roots nearly showing. 
He said your name first, attempting to gather your attention from where it had run off, but that didn't work. Nothing worked. No amount of cooing and soothing, as one would do to a child, made it past your deaf ears. Aegon began to narrowly mirror your panic, his eyes wide as he searched desperately to find a way to calm you down. He had never seen you in such a state, nor anyone else for the matter, and felt the sting of tears gather in his eyes. 
"Please, speak to me," he beseeched, voice thick with fear. "I've no clue how to help you." 
Your pacing ceased when your slippered foot caught on the misplaced leg of a stool, falling to the ground with a strangled yelp that Cannibal seemed to mimic. Aegon took this time to fall onto the floor next to you, gathering you into his arms as you flailed and booted like a lamb stolen from its Mother. Before he could think better of it, Aegon slapped his hand over your mouth, recalling how he saw a stableboy do that with a spooked colt. 
You squirmed and wriggled like a wounded rabbit caught in a snare, screaming like one into his palm as your blunt nails scratched across his cheek. Aegon ignored the stinging, using every ounce of strength he accumulated from training, brawling, and fucking to hold you down, nearly escaping him twice before he laid you underneath him, arm wrapped around your stomach on the icy stone floor. He pinned you there until your struggling ceased, the rapid flaring of your nostrils coming to a halt. 
When Cannibal's midnight wings flapped in the air, Aegon knew you were calm, feeling secure enough to release you with the gentle draw of his hands. He let you rest there for what felt like ages, scrutinizing every involuntary twitch of your muscles lest he have to repeat himself. The call of Arbor Red was firm in his veins, but he disregarded it, shuffling until his back hit something to rest on. 
The first words out of your mouth were not what he expected, sounding so small and defeated, causing him to pause before he understood briefly. "I must fix my hair before Princess Helaena arrives. Do you have a brush?"
Aegon silently nodded before he realized you could not see him, your cheek still pressed into the floor and facing away. "Yes," he answered aloud, bumbling over to his rarely used oak vanity. 
He handed the silver brush as you sat upright and took apart your maids' handy work, fixing the style into something more straightforward and placing the pearl pins accordingly. Aegon observed with caution, keeping at least ten paces from you as if you were a rabid beast. You didn't fault him for it, nor dislike it, simply too numb to feel. 
"Is it all right?" You startled Aegon, him taking a moment to realize that you were speaking. 
"Of course," he nodded eagerly though you couldn't see, and you hummed in assent. 
"The servants should be near done setting the table. We should wait for Helaena and the children there," you stated blandly, rising from your kneeled position and smoothing your dress. 
Aegon agreed noiselessly, leading you to his solar as cautiously as he could, watching for any sign that he might lose you again, but there weren't any. Ony the cold countenance of apathy that he had only seen once before when staring at the severed head of your kin. The expression haunted him to this day, guilt rising in his throat like the burning feeling of acid, taking an armchair a respectable distance away. 
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Masterlist of Series
Once again, I'd like to thank you for your patience during my break. I lived in my George R. R. Martin era, but don't worry; this series won't take 27+ years to finish XD. For some reason, this post won't let me upload my full taglist, so I did it as a reblog in case you wondered why it's different. According to my idea chart, we're a little under halfway through the story, but honestly, it doesn't even feel like it. There are so many things ahead. It's just mind-boggling. Like, there's one point where shit hits the fan, and it's like, "whaaaat". I want to spoil it because it's crazy, but I shall keep my lips sealed. Anyway, thank you so much for reading this chapter and continuing this journey with me!!
Also, did you like my Miss Congeniality reference hidden in there? XD
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sleeplessdreamer123 · 11 months
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Fanfic Idea! (ABO Lucemond, where Lucerys had a son before Aemond)
Lucerys stared at the new child blankly, his heart devoid of love or joy when the screaming babe was placed in his arms. He had only held her for a few moments, before giving her up to one of the nursemaids, using the excuse that she was tired and needed rest. Well, it wasn't really an excuse, the labor was rough, his eyes were drooping, but it still felt like he was using an excuse. He didn't want to see this new addition to the family.
It had been years, ever since he was forced to bear the crown as queen, to keep balance with the greens. He hated this, but it was better than forcing his poor Aegon to marry the daughter of their mother's killer. He still remembered the screams of Aegon, the first time he made such a noise ever since they were forced to witness their mother's death.
"NO! I won't do it! No! No! No! Don't let them make me do it, Luke, don't let them make me!"
So he had to do it, he had to make the sacrifice. It was a good think his husband has already long died in the war, otherwise he would have no way of helping Aegon now.
When he woke, the room was clean, the babe was placed on a small bassinet next to his bed, sleeping soundly. He could only look at her for a few seconds before looking away. He couldn't, he couldn't look at the child without the guilt of knowing he had no love for her.
After his husband's death, his family's demise, after the war, after being forced to marry Aemond, he thought he had long lost his ability to love the way he used to. He was so sure he wouldn't feel love again. But then it happened. The familiar burst of energy and warmth from his chest, and it had only happened when-
"Muña?"
Lucerys turned his head, and the feeling came back. He gestured him to enter, and he ran to his side, quickly getting on the bed. He was in his nightclothes, Lucerys noticed absentmindedly. He gestured him to his side, and when he did, Lucerys held him tight, inhaling the soft scent of his hair, relaxing him well.
His son, his sweet boy Corlys II. It was a hard pregnancy, the supposed joyous occasion ruined by the war, ruined by the very news of the death of his husband mere moments apart.
He was heavily pregnant when he was forced to marry Aemond, yet Aemond still accepted the alternative solution, to the disgruntlement of his side of the war. When he gave birth to the sweet being in his arms, he felt so much joy his heart felt it would burst. He named him Corlys II, in honor of the man who continued to support his claim even after he was declared omega, who stood by him in everything, who chose a good husband for him who loved him dearly, and who stands beside him now, his unofficial Master of Whispers.
He felt something after so long that he could barely look at anyone else for so many moons, only having eyes of Corlys II, only thinking of his sweet boy. He was addicted to the feeling. The feeling of love he never thought he would have again.
So after a year or so, when Aemond wished to consummate the marriage after waiting for so long, he agreed, thinking that maybe more children could heal the empty hole in his heart.
But it didn't. When he held his twins, he didn't feel the familiar swell of emotions, he didn't feel the joy and the heaviness of love. Instead he felt nothing. So much of nothing and he scared him. It scared him how much he felt nothing for his own flesh and blood, it scared him so much he couldn't bare to look at them for the first few weeks. It was the same with the third child, a girl. He had hoped he would feel something, anything, but it was just the same emptiness of the heart and it burned him so.
And now, a fourth child with Aemond, and nothing. Only Corlys made him feel love. And he's sure his other children were catching onto it. He felt guilt, so much guilt for not being able to love them the way he loved his firstborn, but he doesn't know why, nor does he know how to learn to love them, because he never needed to learn before. Love came naturally to him, it was an emotion he could have easily given years ago. Now, though, now it seems he only have enough for one person.
He tried his best not to make it obvious, included all his children in everything, did everything with them, but tried to force himself to love them, but he couldn't. He just couldn't do it, and he had felt like he was going mad with guilt. How could he not love them, innocent ones that they are? Has he changed that much? Did the war ruin even this?
He felt himself crying, and he knows he needed to stop, Corlys was looking at him worriedly, looking like he was about to cry too, but he can't help it. He couldn't stop the sobs, the tears and the guilt he had for years finally forced him to explode. He hugged Corlys tighter, and he felt Corlys cry too, and that just made him cry even more. Then the new babe he didn't even name yet must have woken up and sensed the sad atmosphere, because she began crying too.
Lucerys wasn't surprised Aemond entered the room mere minutes later, sure that the guards must have told him he was crying senselessly with the children. Aemond sent for Corlys' nursemaid and sent him back to his room despite his protests, the newly born babe was also taken away. Now it was just Lucerys and Aemond.
And Aemond, heartless man that he was, wrapped his arms around Lucerys' shoulders as he allowed Lucerys to cry his heart out. This was the first time he has ever cried out outside of his labors, the first time he had allowed himself to mourn and cry. The endless guilt was the straw that broke his back, and in that night, all the guards outside could hear was the cries of their queen, and the soft, coaxing words of their king.
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I made Lucerys' husband as ambiguous as I could. I'll let you chose whoever he was.
So, any thoughts? Any declarations?
Update:
Part 2:
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ripthomasthorne · 6 months
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i actually think my favorite storyline in s5 is robin and sophie it's just so sweet and sad like... poor girl lived her life lonely in a foreign country married to a man she didn't love with only her nursemaid for company not even knowing that she had a friend who cared the entire time. robin was her oomf... but they weren't moots
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see-arcane · 9 months
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“Patience has remained one of my few virtues since the start, but we have stalled the inevitable long enough, Maker. Rise and come with me. If you cannot, tell me so, and I shall bear you out and play nursemaid if I must. Our business requires privacy. If you insist upon lingering amid your new friends, I can remove them all in quick measure. They are all of them but twice as hale as yourself. A poor threshold, it seems. Did you put all your effort into my own hardiness to counter your frailty? Tell me, Frankenstein.
“This grows tiresome. Rise now, or I will make myself busy elsewhere on the ship. Do you doubt me?
“Fine. I shall go while you rest. Your latest companions can greet you in a cold pile upon your waking.
“Has illness made you deaf? Up, man! Is bloodshed all that will turn your head to face me? Open your eyes and look at me, Maker! Look at me! Answer me! You will answer me, you will answer to me, you—you—
"…Why are you cold? How can you be so cold beneath the covers? What friends have you here that they would let one such as you freeze? Come, up, I shall make us a fire upon the ice. Open your eyes, Frankenstein. Frankenstein.
“…Father?”  
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impishtubist · 3 months
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HELLO I would LOVE to give u a temeraire prompt. Perchance some hurt!Tharkay, any era you desire, with the fun bonus of extremely protective Temeraire?
My first Temeraire prompt! 🥺🥺🥺🥺 And it's Tharkay whump! I am so blessed.
I'm setting this on the Allegiance during the journey to Australia.
----
“Do you suppose,” Tharkay asks dryly, “he means to let me out anytime soon? Only the supper hour has come and gone, and I do not see why I should be deprived of a meal simply because Lieutenant Marchand could not keep his fists to himself.”
“Laurence,” Temeraire says, “Tharkay is correct. You will fetch him some food, yes?”
Laurence surveys the scene in bemusement--Temeraire, coiled tightly around himself on the dragon deck, and Tharkay, caged in by his forelegs. 
“Best do as he says, Will, or he may toss you overboard as well,” Granby says--lightly, because the unfortunate lieutenant had eventually been fished out of the ocean by a grumbling Iskierka before being confined to his cabin by Riley.
Laurence secures food and wine for both himself and Tharkay, and Temeraire consents to unwind himself long enough for Laurence to slip through, before curling protectively around them both. 
“You are well?” Laurence asks as he lays their meal out on the deck between them. 
“Quite well,” Tharkay says from where he is lounging against one of Temeraire’s forelegs. The bruise has spread, covering his cheek and curling around an eye, but he seems to be in good spirits. “Though I confess, the bed in my cabin is a much more appealing prospect than sleeping on the deck tonight.”
“Of course you will not sleep on the deck!” Temeraire says. “You will sleep in my foreleg, as Laurence does.”
“Ah, of course, how could I be so foolish as to think otherwise?” Tharkay says, and Laurence is glad that he merely seems amused by Temeraire’s antics. 
Nonetheless, he says, “Tenzing, I do apologize--”
Tharkay waves it away and accepts a glass of wine from him. “I have always wondered what it would be like to have a twenty-ton nursemaid. Although he will need to consent to let me go to the privy at some point.”
“Laurence will accompany you,” Temeraire says, and Laurence chokes on his wine. Tharkay thumps him on the back. 
“I will not!” 
“That,” Temeraire says stiffly, “is no way to treat your nest-mate, Laurence.” 
Now it is Tharkay’s turn to cough and sputter. Even so, Laurence can hear Granby’s laughter over the commotion, and feels his face flame. 
“Temeraire,” he hisses, “do keep your voice down, my dear, and you mustn’t say such things, they are--well, they are indecent to speak about, and perfectly untrue--” 
“I do not see what is so indecent about it. It is not as though Tharkay is able to give you an egg, thus avoiding the awkwardness that Captain Riley put poor Harcourt through--”
“Temeraire!” 
“Am I not, Temeraire?” Tharkay catches Laurence’s eye and winks, damn him. Laurence can only gape at him. “Perhaps we should try, Will, just to be certain.” 
“I acted in haste earlier,” Laurence says darkly, referring to the moment when he punched Lieutenant Marchand in retaliation before Temeraire swept him overboard. “Apparently, he did not hit you hard enough.” 
Laurence finds himself expelled from the protective circle of Temeraire’s forelegs after that, and is forced to bed down with Granby and Iskierka for the night.
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yuesya · 8 months
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Big yikes on the twin au, love the angst, I have so many ideas, what if a nursemaid or smthn spirited her away, what if he stopped midway through and saw her new eyes, so much angst wooooo
Ok so for once I'd just like to say that I am not the person who came up with the angst this time LOL.
Even if a nursemaid took pity on the poor girl and tried to take her away, they wouldn't have made it very far. The Gojo Clan is serious when it comes to their long-awaited Six Eyes/Limitless child. There would probably be another corpse added on to the situation, in this case.
Another alternative though...
...
... since Muneyoshi smothered his daughter. Pressed a pillow over her face and held it there until the infant stopped moving. That's a natural death, and not one where Shiki was killed via a cursed tool or some cursed technique.
Cursed spirit AU??
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kuwdora · 2 months
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parable of the hostages witcher book canon Tissaia/Francesca, background Tissaia/Rita rated M, ~1900 words canon divergent AU angst, injury recovery, references to past suicides.
After Tissaia is rescued by Francesca at Thanedd, she finds herself at a crossroads.
Tissaia convalesces on the veranda with her mug of tea. This was no infirmary at Aretuza, and the Temple of Melitele was humble in the shadow of Dol Blathanna’s palatial beauty that has been ravaged by the hands of men and time. The valley below is a vision of autumn’s reckoning; mountain slopes dappled with trees of ochre and crimson and desiccated leaves idle in the dry riverbed.
The silence is a deafening pressure in Tissaia’s ears, but she doesn’t miss the sounds of the coast.
She loses herself, staring into the slowly-changing valley as the sun drags itself across the sky. Behind her the footfalls jostle Tissaia from stillness. It was time for the nursemaid visit. Something that happened every other day because Tissaia was, as she was told, a priority in the Queen's busy schedule. These visits had been infuriating and exhausting as Francesca attempted to litigate the events of Thanedd.
Francesca arrives with her ocelot companion trotting ahead of her. The small feline pads over to Tissaia and scents her chair and blanket with its face and gives her a silent stare. Tissaia remains still and unblinking, idly tracing the roundness of its ears and spots with her eyes.
"Good afternoon, Tissaia," Francesca says.
How Tissaia longs for peace.
Gone was the young student Tissaia had known at Aretuza. Gone was her colleague, her friend, and the lover who had cared enough to insert herself in Tissaia’s life time and time again with a regularity and casualness that Tissaia had come to appreciate. But that was before Thanedd.
Here was Enid an Glenna, the Daisy of the Valley. A leader to her people. As poised and incisive as the woman Tissaia once intimately knew, but she was still Francesca to Tissaia.
The mid-afternoon air was still quite warm but Tissaia adjusts the blanket in her lap. The circulation in her lower body was still quite poor and she was forced to wear layers regardless of the temperature. Tissaia had expended her Chaos and nearly depleted her life. It left her body in shambles. The amulet Francesca’s healer had donned upon Tissaia reduced the inflammation in her joints and helped regulate her body temperature, but it could only do so much.
She had considered tossing the amulet aside and reopen the bandages before Francesca or her servants could return.
Tissaia was—is—is, she keeps reminding herself—the oldest sorceress on the Continent, and for the last few weeks she has felt every one of her years. But Tissaia knew, as her eyes roamed the openness of the valley, her eyes drawn to the craggy line of mountain and yellowing grasses, she would not allow herself to be found in such a state. Wearing clothes that were not her own. In Francesca’s home. Being attended by Francesca’s servants. No, Tissaia would not open the bandages. She couldn’t. She was trapped.
The ache lingers in her chest, that loss of her dignity.
Francesca settles in the chair beside Tissaia and the ocelat slinks away and settles on a rug to bathe in the afternoon sun. In Francesca's lap was a box with elegant handles and elven knotwork burned into the wood.
“I have something for you.” read on ao3
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lifeofbrybooks · 2 months
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III. Goose
Darian was jealous of a damn goose.
He scratched at his palms, tugged his sleeves past his wrists and swallowed the bitterness all the way down as he watched the head cook carry the chosen bird into the kitchen. The rest of the flock were paraded out of the courtyard, presumably back to wherever they came from to enjoy their second chance at life.
They were supposedly the lucky ones, though Darian couldn’t help but think how being the second-born son of a king was probably a lot like being one of those geese. Not even good enough to be chosen first for slaughter.
He wanted to laugh at his make-believe misery, but Mother was watching. Watching him with the same amusement he was allowing the geese. He returned her fond smile and took her elbow like the dutiful son he was trained to be.
“Feels like we should take the poor thing down to the Lupanar for a pint first, doesn’t it?” Darian whispered into Mother’s ear just to hear the soundless huff of laughter escape her lips as she cleverly led them around the heat of the kitchen and through a back hallway.
“Hush.” She swatted at his chest but couldn’t completely hide the lingering smile. Any other day, the victory would send him on a quest to repeat the triumph until her shushing became more than a suggestion. On this day, it only made him long to laugh alongside Alarik.
But Alarik was at the docks welcoming diplomats from Elysia with Father. That is what a first-born prince did — pretended to be a king until he was one. Meanwhile, Darian got stuck choosing which goose would meet a butcher’s blade. He didn’t want to be king. Never envied Alarik for that burden. He just wanted his brother to be his brother a little longer.
When the two princes were younger, a nursemaid told them a bedtime story of a goose that laid golden eggs. Darian wanted nothing more than to have one of those eggs. He pulled his riding boots over his sleep trousers and pleaded with every tear he could muster to begin the search. The nursemaid had no choice but to tell the truth. In a world where there was magic, there was no such thing as golden goose eggs.
Darian had woken up several mornings later to Alarik’s cupped hands shoved in his face.
“Dari! Dari!” Alarik nudged his side hard with a bony elbow that was truly uncalled for anytime of the day but especially before breakfast. “He found one! He found one!”
Darian sat up, his curiosity the only thing keeping him upright as the sleep still settled deep in his bones. “It better be good.”
Alarik’s reply was opening his hands to show off the bright gold shell of an egg.
“But … H-how?” Darian stammered, and the smile on his brother’s face stretched so wide it stole away all his other features. He stared at the golden eggs with widening eyes and a newfound sense of awe. He looked back up at Alarik, demanding, “Where?”
“Sir Janosik found the goose while riding patrol last night,” he said, letting the egg rest gently in Darian’s palms. “It’s all yours.”
All he could manage was a bowed head and a small, “thank you,” that didn’t nearly sum up the excitement pressing against the dam he had built in his chest.
If Darian hadn’t been six years old, maybe he would have realized the egg left gold smudges on his fingers or the flecks of paint on Alarik’s neck. But all he cared about at the time was the childish buzz of rekindled wonder that made him feel as if he could fly and the spreading warmth of being trusted to hold something so fragile.
Their father used to joke that Darian was Alarik’s first subject, and it never once bothered the younger son. He would always be Alarik’s first and most loyal subject. He just missed the days when his brother belonged to him alone and not an entire kingdom. He longed for days he wasn’t jealous of a goose for being chosen first for slaughter.
Day 3 of using @nosebleedclub’s February prompt challenge to flesh out my fantasy novel / goose
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