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heliads · 23 days

Note

Newt x reader Bridgerton AU. Reader, the diamond of the season, is the Duchess of Hastings. She wants to marry someone who likes her as a person and isn’t after her money. Newt, son of a widowed viscountess, needs to marry to save his family’s reputation because his sister Sonya was seen alone with her fiancé Lord Aris before they were engaged. The anonymous writer Lady Whistledown is Ava, a widowed modiste who has her nose in everyone’s business, and Aris is the only one who knows.

'foxes and hounds' - newt

masterlist

The start of a new social season, although intended, supposedly, to be a cause for joy, feels rather more like a fierce uprising of dread, not celebration. Across the ton, young maidens find themselves new entrees– or, entrants– to the marriage mart. This game of rings and dances, men with ambition and women with more, will end in blissful happiness or deepest discontent. And all will be witnessed by every worthy family from one corner of the country to the next.

If all goes according to plan, an eligible would-be bride will find herself engaged to a man she loves, a man in possession of a handsome fortune and a sterling reputation. If luck slips past her, she’ll settle for someone decent, or someone without any income at all. If nothing goes in her favor, her first year in society will not be her last as a single woman. She will have to repeat her attempt the next year, this time without the glimmering aura of a new arrival, and hope that something within her has changed enough to attract a proposal. Otherwise, she will sink to the bottom of the pile of dance cards, ignored, abandoned, and grown up into a spinster. All that hard work gone to waste.

You’ve heard many young women discuss the marriage mart with nothing short of absolute terror in their voices. A good opening season can seal a girl’s fate forever. Attracting the eye of a worthy man is an impossible task for all but the best of the rosebuds, or so it seems. Most of us will settle for something halfway decent– a tidy sum per annum but nothing extravagant, a man with casual disinterest but nothing harsh. Something that can be shaped into something good, or at least ignored in favor of not being alone. Such is the romance of a married life.

You, however, hope to extract a little more out of the whole affair. As the Duchess of Hastings, you have no need for money. A marriage would be nice, the final touch on the portrait of a successful lady, but you do not require the financial stability of a husband. You have plenty of money and plenty of friends. You will inherit your estate. If you look for a husband, you will look only for love.

One would think, then, that entering your first season among the eligible women of the ton would be bereft of the panic permeating through most of your friends in search of husbands. However, when you line up with the rest of the young women to be presented to the Queen at the start of the season, you find that it couldn’t be less true.

Your stomach is in knots, even as you sweep confidently through the corridor to wait outside the door. The white feather in your hair stands tall and proud. Your dress is crisp and finely stitched, the highest of fashion yet never gaudy. You attract stares wherever you go– from the other girls, envious and jealous and heartsick, from the men, longing and cutthroat and mercenary– but pretend they don’t phase you in the slightest. As duchess, you’ve had plenty of time to grow accustomed to onlookers. You won’t allow them to interfere with you on this all important day.

At last, your name is called, and you enter the throne room, your mother behind you. You keep your steps small but light, and seem to float towards your queen. When the time is right, you sink into an elegant curtsy. The moment seems to last forever, your knees bent, your hands shaking slightly, but when the queen calls you to stand, you look up to find her smiling benevolently at you.

“I believe I have found my diamond of the season,” she announces.

The room erupts in polite applause, and you do your best to smother a smile that’s entirely too giddy to be proper. As you retreat from the room, you gaze at the faces surrounding you, trying to remember which ones look genuinely happy for you and which seem to be identifying a prize pig for the slaughter. When the town gossips all gather later to share their thoughts on today’s proceedings, you’re certain that some of them will attempt to discredit you, saying that of course the queen would choose the duchess as her diamond, but you know just as well as all of them that you deserve the honor today. You were the best of everyone here, and it’s plain to see.

Among all of them, your gaze catches on a singular man, almost lost in the crowd from all the bodies packed together but no less entrancing. What strikes you the most is that his face seems kind, and his eyes sparkle with pride as they watch you go. Pride for you, for your accomplishments. As if he couldn’t be more delighted that you of all people were named the season’s diamond.

Then you’re gone from the room, and the kind man is no longer before you. Still, you puzzle over the encounter long after your carriage takes you home. You don’t believe you recognize him, but that doesn’t mean anything to sway you towards any decision. An image of the young man swims in your mind– short, dirty blond hair, an upturned mouth, dark eyes, his face almost spritely. Clever, for sure.

You know better than to mess with clever men. Clever men are the type to try and twist your mind, convince you that they only love you then attempt to make off with your money. You know full well what marriage to you will offer any would-be suitor. This season, you may be looking for affection, but every man in the room will be after your fortune. The task of finding someone who truly cares for you will be a difficult one indeed.

So, clever men or not, you’ll have to keep your heart under close guard. When the first ball of the season comes to be, you don one of your finest dresses, and firmly admonish yourself to be careful. The game of hearts is not one that you lose. Either you win, or you destroy yourself.

You time your arrival carefully, so as to make the best entrance, and your efforts are rewarded. From the moment you’re announced, all eyes turn to you. Were it not for your extensive experience with being scrutinized in the grand magnifying lens that is the ton, you’d be nervous to have that many people looking at you. Even still, you can’t pretend you don’t feel a small flutter in your stomach.

It gets easier once you sweep further into the room, once people start smiling at you again, when the conversation picks up and you’re asked for your first dance of the evening, which you accept. Your partner is a charming man named Minho– dark hair, witty eyes, an excellent sense of humor. He’s athletic and a decent dancer, and by the time the music stops, you’re back to your usual self again. You can’t stop yourself from mentally sizing up your dance partner. He seems nice, and you wouldn’t be bored around him, at least. His family owns land. Although he’s not of your precise social standing, few are, and he’s close enough to you that it would be a respectable match.

Still– still, you think to yourself, as you move away from the center of the floor once more to consider your dance card, it’s not quite enough. You want love, you want a spark, and you didn’t quite get that with Minho. There are plenty of eligible suitors here, though, and many more balls to come. You’ll have other opportunities to select a match.

A few dances later, though, your feet are beginning to feel heavy and you’re still no closer to finding someone of interest than you were at the start. A good lady of extensive training such as yourself should have no problem dancing the entire night through with a pleasant smile on her face, but you’re still human, still tired, and your charming demeanor is beginning to pinch at the seams before long.

The music for the latest dance ends, and you curtsy to your partner, praying silently that no one else will be looking to fill your dance card for the next rotation. However, when you turn around, you’re greeted with the sight of many anxious faces. Something inside you wilts, perhaps your endurance.

Before the mobs can descend upon you, however, a figure appears in front of you. You sigh in relief to see one of your closest friends, Miss Teresa Agnes. “Teresa! And here I thought I wouldn’t have a single good friend all evening.”

Teresa laughs, her dark hair shining. “I would never abandon you. Certainly not when our diamond is sparkling so spectacularly tonight.”

You smile at her. “I’m not the only one who’s sparkling, Teresa. You look lovely.”

“Thank you,” Teresa says sincerely. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to introduce someone to you. This is Viscount Newt, a good friend of mine. I met him through Thomas.”

You smile to yourself as Teresa turns to beckon someone towards you. Teresa has been harboring a not-so-secret admiration for Thomas since you were all small. This is her first season in the social circles, too, and if she doesn’t come out of it with a proposal from Thomas, you’ll think the sky has fallen. Even now, he’s watching her fondly from across the room, trying to pretend as if he isn’t pining madly while Minho teases him for it.

“Here he is at last,” Teresa says, and all of a sudden you can’t think about Thomas’ case of lovesickness for a second longer, because Teresa has brought her friend before you, and you know him. It’s the stranger from your presentation to the queen. The nice one, the clever one. The one that caught your eye, and then your imagination.

You curtsy automatically, and Newt bows. Once the two of you straighten up, you’re able to observe him more closely. You’d only gotten a fleeting glimpse earlier, but now you can drink in the sight of him, and you do. His eyes are dark, but catch the lights like stars. His mouth has a habit of twitching up at the sides, as if he’s always thinking of a joke but just barely managing to keep it at bay. When he looks at you, he really looks at you. You’ve been stared at all night by would-be suitors, but their gazes never went farther than surface level. Right now, it’s as if Newt can see through to your very soul, and most intimately of all, appreciates it.

Teresa gives you a confused look, and you realize you’ve been standing in silence for longer than is probably courteous. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you say.

“I must return the sentiment,” Newt returns. “Teresa has talked about you many times. I’ve been quite eager to meet you.”

“I hope I’m worthy of what she’s told you,” you say.

Newt smiles again. “I believe you’re even better than that,” he tells you.

Teresa is looking at you with an odd smile. “I believe I’d better let the two of you get to know each other, then,” she says, and sweeps away before you can stop her.

Newt laughs. “She’s been wanting to set us up for ages. For a friendship, I mean,” he breaks in hastily. “Apparently, she thinks we have a similar sense of humor.”

“I look forward to finding that out myself,” you smile.

Newt’s eyes flash with mirth again, delighting you. Behind you, the music picks up again. Newt extends a hand towards you. “Would you mind if I shared a dance with you? Unless, of course, you’d rather sit for a while.”

“I’d love to dance,” you say quickly, and it’s true. All of a sudden, the pain in your feet is gone, as if it had never existed at all.

Newt smiles and takes your hand to lead you to the dance floor. The orchestra begins its melody, and you start your dance. You make a mental note to ask Teresa a little more about Newt later; he dances like an aristocrat, but he speaks so freely to you. It’s nothing like you’ve ever experienced in a suitor before.

Newt arches a brow as he steps through the dance. “Sizing me up, are you? It may be improper of me to ask, but I do hope I’m meeting your requirements.”

Your cheeks heat up. “I’m simply appreciating your mastery of this dance. Nothing more.”

Newt laughs easily. “Of course not. It’s not as if everyone else here is doing the same thing right now. Every dance partner is a strategy meeting. In just a matter of minutes, you’ll walk away knowing if I am a worthy wager, and I will do the same. This ball is full of hounds and foxes, my lady. We all know our parts.”

You glance at him, feeling a curious grin tugging at your lips. “And which am I? Fox or hound?”

Newt returns your proud gaze. “I suppose we’ll find out at the end of the season, won’t we?”

You laugh, feeling oddly triumphant. Newt has this way about him that you find enchanting. It’s almost breaching impropriety with how candid he is around you, but it only makes you trust him more. The dance ends far sooner than you’d like. Newt relinquishes you to the storm of suitors outside, hopefully with just as much reluctance as you.

The rest of the night passes in a blur. Newt is truly the only one that stands out to you. You don’t have a chance to dance with him again, but you keep making eye contact as you dance with other partners. You can practically hear his clever words in your head, catching you in the act of evaluating the suitors in front of you. Fox or hound?

When the ball ends and you return to your carriage for the ride home, you’re blissful, practically dreamy. You’ve had enough time with Newt to dream about it until the next ball, where you’ll likely repeat the same cycle over and over again until the season ends.

However, your golden mood is shattered when your chaperone sits down across from you. Her face, by contrast, is twisted with disappointment. “Do you have any idea what sort of trouble you’re getting yourself into?” She asks once the carriage pulls away.

Still caught up in the heady dream of a merry boy who smiled the brightest when he danced with you, you don’t realize the trap descending around you until it’s too late. “What trouble?”

Your chaperone’s lips purse. “You’re meant to be dancing only with eligible gentlemen, my lady. I should hope that you’d be able to recognize the suitable candidates from the unseemly by now.”

The veil is pierced, and you’re beginning to be brought back to earth. “What are you talking about? I thought I made perfectly reasonable choices with my dance partners.”

Your chaperone shakes her head, a quick, sharp gesture. “All but one. Goodness, haven’t you heard about the trouble with that one family? I can’t believe Miss Agnes had the nerve to introduce him to you, but perhaps the fact that she’s so besotted with Lord Thomas is upsetting her mind.”

Your heart freezes in your chest. “You can’t mean to say that the Viscount is not a suitable bachelor? What else could he be?”

The other woman sighs. “You don’t know, do you? My lady, I would not interfere if I did not feel the need, but I can assure you, his motives with you are purely mercenary. That man is desperate for something to cover up the follies of his family, and you, my dear, are the perfect gilded shield.”

You feel cold. “What follies?”

“His sister, Miss Sonya, was seen alone with her fiance,” your chaperone murmurs at last. “Lord Aris. I would think you would have heard his name, although perhaps not connected it with Viscount Newt. Miss Sonya and Lord Aris were happily engaged, and by all accounts it was a fine union, but they were seen together without a chaperone past dark. Quite the scandal. The Viscount knows it and is eager to get the ton talking about anything but his sister’s misdeeds. Entering into a courtship with you would do just the trick.”

She’s right, and you know it, and you hate it. “He seemed so genuine,” you whisper, and instantly know how foolish it sounds.

Your chaperone, to her credit, is kind enough to take pity on you. “He did,” she tells you, “and you looked happy together. You would be less happy, however, when you found out the truth. I would rather you know now and stay away. Men like that are nothing but trouble.”

You nod solemnly, turning your head to watch the dark landscapes rumbling past. The sun is already beginning to rise, a hallmark of a late night out. It had been a beautiful night up until this, and now the entire evening is ruined in your mind.

“I feel for Miss Sonya,” you whisper. “She was already engaged. They were just talking.”

“She knows the rules of society, and so do you,” your chaperone reminds you. “We all have our roles to play.”

And the consequence of setting a foot outside your role is instant public mortification. Yes. What a forgiving world. You immediately plant your exhausted body in your bed when you return, hardly sparing the time to wash and dress, but the only things to bloom from your rest are troubled dreams of the boy that could have been yours. Now that you know the truth– that Newt was only trying to use you for a better reputation– every interaction with him is tainted.

You’d meant what you said in the carriage, though. You did think Newt was genuine. Hadn’t he laughed more than usual when he was with you? Hadn’t he regarded you with that fierce pride of his, as if he’d finally found a mind that was an equal to his? Hadn’t he watched you with something akin to jealousy when you danced with the other men that weren’t him?

Hadn’t you wished he would only dance with you? And don’t you wish that you could truly do what you promised yourself and marry only for love, never mind the rest? It is a simple dream to think that love is easy. Marriage is not simple, not in the ton, not in your lifetime. Every one of your days will be shaped by the whims of society, even when they take Newt away from you.

When it comes time for the next ball, you do your best to strengthen your spirits before you go. You intentionally avoid him, making sure to always have your dance card full whenever the music ends. It’s easy enough to find a crowd large enough to hide you from him, and yet you still catch glimpses of Newt from across the hall, several partners down, in a carriage many behind yours. You successfully go two balls, then three, without seeing him, but it aches like a knife in your ribs when you think about what could have been.

As it turns out, you’re not the only one wishing you were with him. At the fifth ball of the season, your attempts to distance yourself from the viscount are foiled at last. Newt tracks you down, signing his name on your dance card before you can stop him before leading you out to the dance floor.

“That’s a rather abrupt way of asking a lady to dance, don’t you think?” You ask as you curtsy.

Newt bows. “I felt it was the only way of guaranteeing that you would dance with me.”

“A lady never declines a gentleman in need of a dance,” you remind him.

The music picks up, and the two of you begin your paces. “A lady also never avoids a gentleman as thoroughly as you have at the last few balls,” Newt says. “Were it not for the fact that I know you to be as perfectly agreeable a duchess as there could ever be, I would say that it was personal.”

You can’t look him in the eyes, even with his hands on you, guiding you through the steps. “It’s not meant to work out, my lord. Us, I mean. We cannot forget the rules.”

When Newt speaks again, his voice sounds hurt. “Why not? Forgive me, my lady, but I remember what it was like that first night. You were happy. We were happy, and happy together. What changed?”

At last, you risk a glance towards him, and instantly regret it. Newt’s eyes are filled with genuine hurt. Are you wrong? Did he actually want you as more than a cover-up? “I heard about your sister,” you say as delicately as you can.

Still, Newt flinches as if you’ve hit him. “You don’t know the full story,” Newt says raggedly.

“Then tell me,” you beg him. “I would choose you if I could, but everyone seems to think that you are only interested in me to advance your station. Give me a reason to believe in you, not them.”

“I can’t say it here,” Newt whispers.

“I can’t go somewhere with you alone,” you tell him quietly. “Especially not after what happened to your sister. You must tell me now, or we will never have another chance.”

“Alright,” he says at last. “But you mustn’t breathe a word of it to anyone.”

Once you agree, Newt begins to speak in a hushed whisper hardly audible to you, let alone the other couples around you. “Sonya is deeply in love with Lord Aris, and he is in love with her. So much so to the point that he has been battling a deep rage ever since that awful gossip rag, Lady Whistledown, slightly disparaged her last season. He took it upon himself to find out Lady Whistledown’s identity, and somehow, he did. The only problem is, Lady Whistledown is not someone Sonya would consider a friend. He wanted to warn her about the dangers of being anything less than perfect around that insidious writer, and he didn’t want to waste a moment. He called on her to meet with him as soon as possible. He didn’t think they would be seen, but they were, and of course Lady Whistledown ran with it to discredit them in case they would reveal her.”

You suck in a harsh breath. “It was never anything wrong, then. He merely wanted to protect her.”

Newt nods. “Lord Aris is a good man. He never would have done something like this if he realized how it would backfire. He regrets it daily, even though all he wanted to do was keep my sister safe. The ton knows their characters, too. Neither of them would do anything unseemly. The rumors diminish by the day, and soon, it will all be over. They will be happily married.”

He sighs and looks at you again. “I tell you this to explain myself, and to clear my name. I have nothing to hide from the situation with my sister and her future husband. In fact, it is only because they directly asked me not to spread this information that I haven’t gone public with the identity of Lady Whistledown herself to spare their reputations. I have nothing to fear, my lady. Certainly nothing that would make me risk the happiness of my marriage on a good rumor. I would court you because I have never met anyone like you before, nor do I think I ever will. You are utterly entrancing in every possible way. If you do not wish to be with me in that fashion, I would understand.”

You shake your head quickly. “I do want that, my lord. I want you.”

A careful smile slips across Newt’s face. “Do you mean that?”

“I do,” you tell him. “I have wanted you since the moment I saw you at my presentation. I would have found you no matter what lies they spread.”

Newt grins. “I believe I have decided something important, my lady. About your inner nature.”

You arch a brow as he spins you. “And what is that?”

“You’re a hound,” he informs you matter-of-factly. “Sharp and bright. Brave, too. But, then again, I am a hound as well. We make quite the pair, I think.”

“I think so too,” you tell him. In the days to come, rumors will abound about the viscount and the duchess. At first, there will be surprise across the ton, but then, even the most tenacious of gossips will realize that this makes perfect sense. The most clever of men and the most ambitious of women, bound together in holy matrimony. Even the best of poets couldn’t concoct a story that beautiful.

requested by @thornyrose463, i hope you enjoy!

the maze runner tag list: @blondsauduun, @ellobruv, @retvenkos, @neewtmas, @mayfieldss, @hiya-itsamber, @gods-fools-heroes, @hope92100, @23victoria, @w1shes43, @imwaysthelastchoice, @fadedver, @il0vebeingdelulu

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alice-angel12x · 1 year

Text

Death is always around the Corner

Idia + Death!Reader+ Ö̵̗̭͙̠͍̙̬̦̬̺͙̻̻̰̮́͌̈́͑̅̉̉͆̄̓̉̒͝͝ͅř̵̡̨̡̞̦̩̰͖͚͕͙́̑̎̆̏̐͂̀́͒̿͆̆̆̀̿̐̀͂͊̀͑́̅̈́̚t̴̛̛͖͚͑̽͑̓͋̒̈̈́̀̔́̌͒̆͘͝͠ẖ̵͚̦̫̫̻͔̤͚̺̬̗̥͇̾̈͐̎̿̊̋̄̉͑̅͑̊̊̍́̿̚ͅơ̵̛̹̯̤̟̔̍̋͗͗̾͆̒̏̋̉͐͛̿͆̇̈͆̈́̈́̔͝͠

Riddle, Leona, Azul, Jamil, Vil, Iida, Malleus

Masterlist

Let's set the scene:

So it was finally that time again, I will not let you get in the way of my work Shroud. The shroud company, through blessing or curse from Hades. Made it very difficult to find the Isle of woe to be by mortals, or Death itself. Memories from times of old began to resurface.

" Look at this cute little pie. We would like to thank you all for the gifts on behalf of our son," Zeus smiled. " Oh, so precious. How absolutely heart-warming. I haven’t felt this choked up since I got some moussaka stuck in my throat," Hades said, trying to make a joke. "Don’t look so glum, chum. Come and join the celebrations!" Zeus invited. " I’d love to, but unfortunately, I can’t leave my post thanks to the work you graciously “bestowed” upon me. Love to stay, but sadly can’t!" Hades said as he backed away. "Come now, you’ll work yourself to death!NGet it? To death! I could kill myself laughing!" Zeus laughed as the rest of the party joined him. " Ugh, if only…!" Hades scoffed to himself.

As Hades returned to the underworld, his two minions Pain and Panic came running with news.

"BOSS! BOSS!" Panic cried out.

"What! What is it!? I am Not in the mood," Hades scowled.

"T-T-The Boss! The Big Boss is back!" the two screamed.

"After all this time, this could be a great opportunity," Hades smirked.

The God quickly made his way to a simply room that belonged to the one and only, Death. The room was simple, it had one throne that was placed by the window. That over looked the river of Souls.

"Hey, Death! The Big Boss, Head honcho, Top dog! How've yeah been?" Hades greeted his long time boss and friend. "How was the travel, travel good brought souvenir?"

"Hmm, oh. Hello Hades," Death greeted, snapped out of their thoughts. "You needed something?"

"So I have plans for Mayhem, your favorite," Hades smirked as he went on to explain his plans.

But he noticed that something was different about his underworld friend. The bloodthirst chaos loving friend was not present, instead this sad and mellow person sat before him.

"Um Who are you and you know what happened to Death?" Hades asked.

"Just a new perspective I guess. As for your plan. If that's what you really want I won't stop you, though I'm afraid I will not join you," Death said calmly.

"Okay, no seriously what happened to you. What happened to the King/Queen of terror and dread?" Hades asked.

"I guess like you I'm also tired of ruling the dead and this place," Death sighed as they looked back at the underworld.

__________________

Death would be confided Hades. The only other high being that would associate with them. Even if they were never Hade's first choice.

But Death told Hades about the many changes to come. Like how they plan to eventually get rid of the underworld. Their symbol and trophy to rub into Life's face of their power over said, god.

Hades did not like this much. But he was confident he would take over Olympus before that would happen. But of course, things didn't go that way.

So as not to lose anything else, using the last of his power to hide the remaining piece of the underworld and a few mortal followers. Becoming the Isle of woe.

__________________

Y/n knew that this next series of events might be the only chance to find this isle of Woe. At least for a long time.

So in the middle of the night, Y/n woke Jamil and asked for his assistance.

Y/n informed Jamil what was about to go down in the morning. So they gave Jamil an enchanted necklace to hide him in plain sight. While they took on his form and be captured in his stead.

Jamil agreed to this since he doesn't like the thought of being dragged off to possibly be never seen again.

________________

~~SNAP! SNAP! CRACK! SNAP!!~~

" What are those!? They’re all flying in the sky with their– Wait, are those hoverboards!?"Kalim gasped.

"What in the world…!? Unless there are events, the school is supposed to be protected with a magical ward to keep intruders away," Vil said in a slightly nervous tone.

"No, the Barrior is breaking," 'Jamil' said.

"They’re heading this way. One, two… Incoming! Take cover, everyone!" Rook said to everyone.

"Jamil" quickly raised a shield to protect everyone from the debris and robots falling from a ceiling.

"Are you alright, Y/n?" Deuce asked as he helped "y/n" stand up.

"This is the Hepta Unit. We have visuals on Subjects D and E. Beginning Detainment Maneuvers," The bots said.

" I do not know who you are, but it is absolutely impolite to be barging in through windows! I will acknowledge this as an emergency! On my authority as the Pomefiore Prefect, you are all given permission to use magic against these intruders!" Vil said.

"Wait! Vil, I need you to think carefully," 'Jamil' said quickly. " We are outnumbered, and most of the students here are rookie wizards. You Rook, and maybe myself can last a while, but the first years."

Vil scowled as he realized Jamil's assessment was right, and they would risk a lot if they fight.

"Then what do you recommend we do?" Vil glared but gasped as he watched Jamil raise his arms and surrendered.

" What!?" Everyone gasped.

" They are only after us. If we don't resist no one will get hurt," Jamil said simply, Vil sighed in frustration as he slowly raised his hands.

_______________________________________

As the fiery robotic men loaded the overblot boys into the airship, "Jamil" gave one final look back to the school. Only to see the VDC group running in the distance, trying to reach them in time.

"Jamil" smiled warmly as the airship door began to close. My heart warmed that mortals were trying to save them-... No, save Jamil.

But It was a long Flight, and the most "Jamil" could do was let Riddle rest on their lap. When the boy woke up, he was a bit startled. But "Jamil" Was quick to comfort the boy.

But Azul quickly pointed out that "Jamil" was acting strange. So Y/n decided to let them in on the plan a bit.

So "Jamil " explained how the Isle of Woe is the only place in the world that is hidden from the eyes of Death. It is also the place where many blot monsters are stored.

The boys asked why death would care so much about Blot monsters. With "Jamil" would explain that when a person overblots, for a time they will be joined by a blot phantom.

But eventually, the phantom will consume the victim and store the person's soul deep within it. Leaving the soul in perpetual torment, till the Phantom is destroyed.

-----------------------------------------------

"And you know this how?" Leona glared.

"Cause they told me. So in my plans to get into better standing and redemption. I am willingly being their eyes, and beckon for them to track down," Jamil smirked.

"So that's why you didn't want to fight, Y/n wanted this to happen," Vil sighed in annoyance.

"They also wanted no one to get hurt," Jamil snapped back.

"So how long must we wait for Y/n to rescue us?" Azul asked nervesly.

"Only Time will decide," Jamil said.

"Umm don't you mean 'Only time can tell' ?" Riddle asked.

"No," Jamil said simply.

"So these robots are from the Isle of Woe?" Vil asked.

"They’re S.T.Y.X’s special security unit, Charon. It’s their job to capture magicians who have Overblotted so they could be transported to the Island of Woe," Leona explained, then smirked. " But the fact that not even Y/n can find this place must be a blow to their ego. Score one for mortals."

"I think you mean score one for Hades," Jamil said as he went on to explain the story of Hades, Death, and the Underworld.

Apparently, the story was so Gripping and engaging, the 4-hour flight was over in a flash. They have arrived on the Isle of Woe, with Idia there to greet them. But as soon as Jamil stepped off the airship a wave of cries and howls filled their ears, the sounds that went unheard by everyone else.

"̶w̷҉̧h͘͟y͜͝͏ h͘a͏̵v͢e̸ ̡̀͝y̡o͏u̵͠ ̛̀f̷̨͢o͜r̴̕͜s̷̢a̧͝͏k̷͠en͏̷ ͟u̧̨s̕͡,̡ ͡d͢ea̢͠͡th͟

"̴̕P̸͞l̸͝e̷͡a͝s̵͘ȩ̷,̷͢ ͟w̸̡h̸͡ȩ͏r̵e̛ ̵͝a̶̡re̷͟͞ ̸̡y̸͜o̴u̷͝ ́͞D̵̛͠e͏̀a̴t̢́̀h̷͟?̴͘͠!̡͟"͢

"̡̀͘S͘om̛̀e̸͘o͘n̶̨͜e ͘͟Pl̵e̸̶a̧ś̷̶e ̕͟͜S͢҉a͞v̸e͞ ͏̷M̷͢͝é͢͝!̢͢!̨̕"҉

The voices cried out, it was so overwhelming Y/n almost dropped their disguise. But they composed themselves and held back their tears.

As Idia put the boys through many tests, he noticed something strange about Jamil's vitals. That he didn't have any vitals or basic signs of life. Before Idia could pull Jamil aside for questioning, he was locked in the meeting room with the rest of the NRC boys.

________________________________

Idia began to question Jamil, but he didn't really answer any of the questions. Till ortho pointed out that Jamil had no body heat. So seeing no need to hide, they dropped the illusion.

Revealing Death.

Idia began to panic as he quickly stood, but before calling for hade's level to shut down. His calling device suddenly shut down from low power, and the same with some of Ortho's functions.

Y/n sat down confidently as Idia trembled in his boots, and the others sat in awe and confusion. Vil was just frustrated that he was tricked so easily.

"Y-you can't be here! The Isle of Woe is supposed to be hidden from you?!" Idia panicked.

"You can only hide from death for so long," Y/n said simply as they rested their elbows on the table.

"W-why are you here?" Idia asked slowly.

"I'm here to collect all the souls in Tartarus," Y/n said simply.

"This isn't the underworld, there are no souls to collect," Idia glared.

"That is untrue. Phantoms hold the souls of their victims and those it slaughters. I am here to collect them," Y/n said.

"but that would mean you will destroy the phantoms. But we need them to study and find a way to stop blot," Idia reasoned.

"Those 10,000 and more souls have been suffering for thousands of years. I think it's time to give them an out," Y/n replied as they stood up.

"Demands here, demands there… This isn’t a zoo, damn it. Did you forget what I said earlier? Don’t make me repeat myself again… I!!! AM!!! THE!!! BOSS!!!" Idia shouted as stood in front of Y/n, blocking their path.

"HAHAHAHAHA!!" Y/n laughed, so much so that they had to lean against the table to support themselves. "You almost remind me of Hades. But no Your not my boss, and are you okay with keeping Ortho the first in Tartarus, to suffer till the end of time? You made a machine of him, so why not let the real one go?"

Idia froze as Y/n bore into his soul when suddenly the power went out as the room went dark.

______________________________________________

Things just did not get better, as Y/n learned that Rook and Epel had tracked them down. And the blot phantoms had felt the presence of their doom. So in one last desperate attempt, they manipulated the bot Ortho. To Get Idia down to them.

With this, the isle of woe went into Chaos. The NRC boys went to go collect the thunder staff, but thanks to Y/n there were little to no phantoms standing in their way.

Y/n, in a blink of an eye, was making quick work of the phantom. Ortho was not happy about the lack of challenge to the NRC boys.

But eventually, The boy manages to push the final phantom back to Tartarus. The phantom using Ortho's voice cried out to Idia.

Idia jumped to follow his "brother" to Tartarus, but Y/n in one clean motion slayed the phantom.

______________________________________________

As Idia's memories and regrets flashed in his mind, he slowly opened his eyes to find himself in the void. As he sat up, he heard a familiar voice in the distance, he turned to See Ortho. He was sitting on death's lap as the two were talking when Ortho noticed Idia. Death helped ortho to his feet as Ortho ran to Idia and hugged him tightly.

"Thank you for looking out for me. You’ve made me so happy. But, you can’t be here yet, Big Brother," Ortho said.

"Ortho… Why? I want to go with you. We made a promise, didn’t we? And You," Idia turned to Death. " Why did you save me, I just wanted to follow Ortho."

"Because Ortho and I believe it's not your time yet," Y/n answered.

"You still have comics to read, concerts to watch, and new games to play, don’t you…? You love this world too much to give up on it completely," Ortho added.

"What!? Who said I loved this rotten world!? All that nonsense can just disappear!" Idia said as he began to tremble.

"Not everything has to make sense. You shouldn’t have to give up on anything ever again. You have your future ahead of you, Big Brother. You see, I want you to fulfill the dreams we talked about that day," Ortho smiled.

"Our Dream?" Idia asked.

"I’m sure it will take a long time. You might feel like giving up along the way, but… I know… I’m sure you can go anywhere, Brother. It may be long and tiring, but you’ll get there someday. It’s okay. I’ll be right there with you always. Please, don’t give up," Ortho said as he gave one last squeeze of a hug. He slowly let go of Idia and turned to Death. "Okay, I'm ready to go now."

"Wait, Ortho! Death Please Don't Take Him?!" Idia begged as he watched Ortho grab Y/n's hand.

"Actually I have something special for you, and I want Idia to be there. But he needs to wake up first," Y/n explained.

"Really, I can't wait. Hurry and wake up big brother," Ortho said.

________________________________________

When Idia came to, standing over him was Y/n and some old man. Who was actually Vil? Idia shyly apologized to everyone and said he would probably never return to school.

But Grim and everyone else was not going to let him off easy, telling him to fix ramshackle at least. But the group was spooked to see the ghost of ortho next to Y/n.

"Well before you do anything else I will need you to come with me Idia," Y/n said as ortho grabbed their hand.

"H-huh W-why?" Idia asked.

"To accompany ortho and me when we go to see someone important. And I think Vil will need to come too," Y/n sighed.

"Why am I needed?" old man vil asked.

"To help with your situation," Y/n said. "And the rest of you are free to go back to the school, we will catch up."

"W-wait where are you going?" Epel asked.

"And where is this important person?" Riddle asked.

"In the void between dimensions and the worlds," Y/n answered simply.

"Who could you possibly be taking them to?" Azul asked.

"Life," Y/n smiled

______________________________________________

To be continued...

#twisted wonderland #Falling Pegasus answers #twisted wonderland x reader #twst yuu #death!reader #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland idia #idia shroud #ortho shroud #idia x reader

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theresattrpgforthat · 25 days

Note

Hi! This request was easier to search for, so I see you’ve recommended Hearts of Wulin and Ten Thousand Days for the Sword. Do you have any other wuxia or xianxia game recs?

Have a good day!

THEME: Wuxia Games.

Hello friend, I'm certainly not an expert, but after reaching out to some more knowledgeable folks, I think I have a few!

Jiangshi: Blood in the Banquet Hall, by Wet Ink Games.

This is a collaborative, storytelling RPG about a Chinese family making their living by running a restaurant in one of America’s Chinatowns, circa 1920. Despite societal backlash and anti-Chinese laws, they have turned a profit and their quality of life has recently improved.

Night, however, brings a new terror.

Players take on the roles of members of the Chinese family (mostly from Guangdong province), spanning three generations, who face threats of jiangshi (hopping vampires) at night and racism by day. It has players balancing the responsibility of maintaining their family business with protecting themselves and their community from the dreaded Jiangshi. This is primarily a game about storytelling. Combat is limited, but horror, drama and sometimes comedy are the primary vehicles for driving the game forward.

This game draws quite a bit from boardgaming elements, so I think this one is best played around a physical table, especially since it requires a custom deck of cards. You’ll use these cards to represent the demands of running a restaurant in the day, as well as fighting of a vampire at night. This game is probably on the borders of what I think is considered wuxia, but if you have a horror lover in your group, this might be worth checking out.

Exalted, by Onyx Path Games.

This is the tale of a forgotten age before the seas were bent, when the world was flat and floated atop a sea of chaos. This is the tale of a decadent empire raised up on the bones of the fallen Golden Age, whose splendor it faintly echoed but could not match. This is a tale of primal frontiers, of the restless dead, of jeweled cities ruled openly by spirits in defiance of Heaven’s law. This is a tale of glorious heroes blessed by the gods, and of their passions and the wars they waged in the final era of legends.

Exalted has a number of different sources, only one of which feels close to wuxia, but the stories are certainly expected to give you long, sweeping epics and larger-than-life characters. There are many different kinds of Exalted, including Solars, Lunars, and Dragon-Blooded. Since I’m not a wuxia connoisseur myself, I’m not entirely sure how close Exalted comes to hitting the mark - I’m mostly recommending it because it came up connected to some other wuxia fantasy games when I was doing some searching.

Jiang Hu, by wum1ng.

Jiang Hu is a role-playing game for the wuxia genre. Drawing inspiration from wuxia novels written by luminaries such as Jin Yong and Gu Long, the Feng Yun comics from Ma Rong Chen and the multitude of wuxia movies and television series, this game brings the world of dashing swordsmen, warrior monks, brawling beggars and high-flying stunts to your tabletop.

Players take on the role of Martial Artists fighting against various threats to the lands of Jiang Hu, ranging from evil sect leaders who have mastered forbidden secret martial arts techniques to megalomaniacs seeking to take over the Imperial Throne by force and the blood of countless innocents.

The Worlds Without Number series by Kevin Crawford has its praises sung by many people, especially folks in the OSR scene, and that is the bones that this game is built on. Your character is built from quite a list of skills, which are differentiated between Combat and Non-Combat. You also have a number of secondary attributes, for things such as Armour Class, Evasion, and Luck, as well as a dedicated space on your character sheet for weapons and martial arts. Expect combat to to take up a bulk of your time!

When you roll for your character background, you also get a significant life event that is expected to shape your character’s past, such as having a loved one murdered, or falling into serious debt. Out of all of the games listed here, I think this game is the closest to D&D, what with the “packages” of skills, items and abilities attached to each background.

The Oath, by brushmen.

"We seek not to be born on the same day, but hope to die on the same day." And with such an oath, Yong, Li, and Ming swore loyalty to each other.

When earthly desires tempt them, and devotions threaten to tear them apart, with or without a hand from uncaring fate…

will their oath endure?

The Oath is a collaborative storytelling game for one Game Moderator and three players.

This is meant to be a one-shot, which borrows the Entanglements system from Hearts of Wulin and the character Keys and Tags from Lady Blackbird. Since this game comes with characters already pre-written, it would probably be very good for groups who have very little time, or who want an easy on-ramp to games or the wuxia genre. I like the fact that the Keys give you prompts and directions for your character’s behaviour; it’s strong statement on how the author interprets the genre, but it still gives you, the player, a choice on what elements of your character will be emphasized, and what elements will take up the background.

brushmen also has another wuxia Lady Blackbird hack called The Escort, about recovering from a violent robbery, this one for four players and one GM.

Four Swords, by ehronlime.

This is a tabletop roleplaying game about being young heroes in a wuxia story, made for the #AsianMartialArtsJam.

You start with your First Sword, which you use to challenge other heroes and villains and strive for mastery.

You will then gain three more Swords: the Second a sword of great pride and regret, the Third a sword of mastery and expression, and the Fourth a sword which is no sword.

You will also struggle between the obligations put upon your by others and what you truly desire from the life of a wandering hero.

Four Swords really zeroes in on the combat mastery part of wuxia fantasy. Your characters will grow into mastery, and battle with rigid codes and rules that structure the world you live in. The game is very descriptive, leaving you with only 4 abilities that are meant to broadly encompass what you are able to do. The game encourages characters to interfere with each-other using a mechanic called Vows, and levelling up gives you access to different techniques, which reinforce the competence of your characters as well as the rigid guidelines by which they might improve.

This game was made for the Asian Martial Arts by Asian Creators Game Jam, so you might find some more wuxi-themed games there!

Blades of the Immortals, by Jagganoth.

Blades of the Immortals is a tabletop roleplaying game inspired by xiānxiá. It uses the Forged in the Dark rules engine developed by John Harper, as seen in games like Blades in the Dark and Beam Saber.

In Blades of the Immortals, you will take on the roles of cultivators, striving for your own ambitions, for the glory of your sect, and for the ultimate prize — immortality. You'll viciously struggle for scarce resources, compete for the patronage of powerful and influential teachers, gather allies to your banner, and scheme against your enemies. Your cultivators will wield mystical treasures and supernatural spell-arts, mastering the very laws of the cosmos as their weapons, as they become entangled in centuries-long vendettas between deathless wizard-kings.

This game is solidly focused on supernatural abilities and grand increases in strength. You choose from one of 9 different playbooks, and collaboratively create a faction that binds you all together. The sources listed as inspirations for this game include (but are not limited to) Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation, Forge of Destiny, Aspiring to the Immortal Path, and Journey to the West.

Compared to other Blades hacks, this game reduces the standard number of action ratings, ties character growth to a change in your character’s beliefs, and separates your gear from your playbook. Characters can also level up through Realms, which increases your effectiveness and upgrades your inventory.

Mist-Robed Gate, by Shreyas & Elizabeth Sampat.

There are some things that we value more than life.

There are things we're willing to scheme and cry and fight and die for.

That's what wuxia cinema is about— fighting and dying for the things we care about. That's what Mist-Robed Gate is about.

Mist-Robed Gate comes with a full list of movie recommendations, but includes Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and House of Flying Daggers as key influences. I really like the fact that a key mechanic of this game includes stabbing your character sheet with a knife.

Players create factions first, and then take turns creating characters that represent those factions, with elements that represent the hero’s distinctive personality and style. Players also create the different locations that will serve as the stage for your scenes. Play happens over a series of scenes, as their characters push and pull against each-other, sometimes even making terrible demands (which is where the Knife comes in). If you want a game that has a lot of politics in the terms of actions having large ramifications over big groups of people, and if you want a game that is extremely dramatic, you might want to check out Mist-Robed Gate.

#tabletop games #indie ttrpgs #game recommendations #dnd #asks #wuxia #xianxia

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bbygirl-aemond · 1 year

Text

After You

“Dear brother,” Rhaenyra said, scathing in her arrogance. “I had hoped you were dead.”

Aegon inclined his head and looked down upon his sister, who came before him dragonless and throneless, fleeing from one home to the next, turned away from every door by the very allies she had so mistakenly spurned.

Who had sold even her father’s crown in her desperation.

He had tried to run, once. Had clawed and kicked his way out of his brother’s grasp to escape a dreaded fate.

“What sort of brother steals his sister’s crown?” he had pleaded, begging for them to let him go. Could they not see, he wondered, that the Iron Throne was a curse? Was he the only one who viewed it with not greed but terror?

And then, as his brother had dragged him back towards the castle, he had implored—

“What has Rhaenyra ever done to me?”

The Gods, in Their infinite cruelty, had seen fit to punish him for his naivete.

Aegon leaned forward, the scars on his side pulling taut at the motion. His never-ending agony flared, bubbling up from within him, and it only sharpened his focus.

A hand rested lightly upon his shoulder. And then another, and another. He did not look back to see who it was, for he already knew who he would find.

His dear sister, and both of his baby brothers, and his sweet little sons. Every single one of them stolen away from him because of the woman before him.

What had Rhaenyra ever done to him?

Everything.

He was going to feed her alive to his fucking dragon. And he was going to commit every second of it to memory.

“After you,” he said. “You are the elder.”

At this side, Sunfyre roared.

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itstheendofthegoddamnworld · 11 months

Text

The Dragon’s Spoil (Aemond Targaryen x Rivers! Reader)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Summary: The baseborn daughter with little knowledge of who your Lord father was, your life is caught in the midst of war. The Riverlands are the base for the Greens and the Blacks, dragons loom in the skies, and men die daily, especially within the walls of the cursed Harrenhal. It’s only when a certain one-eyed dragon comes for his retribution. The year is 130 AC and war endures.

A/N: You’re Alys Rivers but with less sorcery and more so just judgement over being a bastard. You’re around the same age as Aemond, maybe two-three years older than him at the time of the Dance.

Wordcount: 2,400

The Dragon’s Revenge

It is known by Commons and Nobles alike that the Targaryens have always ruled the skies.

They had for the last century: when the Old King had his decades of peace, continuing to his grandson, Viserys I. Dragons continued to fly over towns and for that century, the common people stared in both admiration and terror.

Peace did not continue for long, not after the death of the King and its disputes finally sprung forth. Rhaenyra, the King’s eldest daughter and Aegon, the second born but eldest living son from his second marriage had begun their war for the throne, and the people suffered for it.

It didn’t matter what the poor folk thought, not when their opinions were silenced over the sounds of constant clashing steel and the rumbling of dragons roaring above. Wherever war went, the people died for it, and on and on did the cycle continue.

The Riverlands had seen the most of the war, for a dragon appeared from the skies in early 129 AC. The blood wrym circled and landed on the Kingspyre Tower with a screech that shook the castle grounds.

The castellan, Ser Simon Strong, yielded it without the need of spilling blood to Prince Daemon Targaryen and he used it as a nearby base to carry his side’s attacks.

For the next few months, dragons and armies came and went through Harrenhal, your home for as long as you could remember. You had been fostered by the old man and uncle of Lyonel Strong, Ser Simon after the death of your mother, an unknown woman no one knew of. Not much was known about your father too: noble or baseborn too, there was one thing for certain, your looks were undeniably Strong.

The first men's blood was strong in your veins: from the curls that reached the small of your waist, black as a raven’s wing, to your eyes, brown as chestnuts. Squires and maids whispered within the walls of Harrenhal, murmuring of your potential parentage. One of the many kin of House Strong, many whispered it had been Harwin “Breakbones”, the man who fathered Princess Rhaenyra’s children with her first husband, Laenor Velaryon.

Others whispered it had been the castellan himself, Ser Simon, who took pity on his natural daughter, taking her in as a handmaiden. Some even mocked it had been Larys, Harwin’s brother and the Master of Whispers for Aegon’s small council, but those also mocked that spoke that it would’ve been impossible for him to even father children.

Harrenhal was a ruined castle: those who resided in its walls spoke of ghosts, deathly and dreadful, cursing those who was the owner. It was no surprise to you when you had heard of the rumours: of Lyonel and Harwin’s deaths and those that came before.

“Have you heard?” You had been kneeling by the fireplace when your closest friend, Perra came running through into the main apartment, a letter screwed in her hand.

“If you’ve come to tell me this bloody war is not over, I’m not interested.” You chided, wiping away the ash from your calloused hands against your apron.

Perra was from House Grey, a knightly house sworn to House Tully. Brown-haired and long-faced and a girl of ten-and-seven, she was as skinny as a stick and small as one too. Her uncle, Ser Garibald had sworn to the Blacks from the beginning of the conflict and it was without a doubt that Perra agreed.

She grinned toothily, shoving the letter in your face, assuming you were literate. “You will be most pleased to read what just arrived.” As you unravelled the scroll, your eyes darting over the words you were reading. “My uncle brings news. The Queen has taken over King’s Landing. Aegon has not been seen nor his children. The Queen Helaena and Dowager Alicent have been captured.”

“The Greens will not be most pleased to have their Queen returning to claim her father’s throne.” You rejected the letter quickly, handing it back over to Perra.

“This is good news, Y/N. The war will soon be over. Stark bannermen march down, so too will the Arryns.”

It didn’t seem possible that the wounded usurper king was missing but not much was known of his remaining brothers. Daeron remained at large a threat with his dragon, Tessarion, but what about the one-eyed brother, Aemond?

“You forget one thing, Perra. The King may be missing, but he has two other brothers, Aemond and Daeron. And they have dragons too. What would we do with them? Or where could they be?”

“They fight elsewhere.” Perra was too naïve to know such a thing, the excitement and positivity were good to hear of, but you doubted the Greens would leave the capital open so easily. “Vhagar has not been seen with her rider for days.”

Certainly, they will be looking for revenge. You dreaded.

Your conversation was broken when the low, dreadful sound came as a response of caution.

A long, blow of a horn was sounded in the courtyard, and the rush of footsteps and shouts erupted as vast as the sound of battle. Steel and shields could be heard being collected and as Perra rushed to the window to look out, she shouted. “A dragon comes! The Rogue Prince without a doubt.”

How you wish it had been.

The shadow of this dragon was much too large to belong to the blood wrym, looming over the entirety of Harrenhal like dusk. It appeared as if it was an apparition, and fears of what happened a century ago from the first Aegon could happen again.

It had not been Daemon that had arrived, but rather a one-eyed Prince who landed in the courtyard.

The ground shook when the old beast landed, mighty and worn from a thousand battles. The she-dragon growled, hissed and spat as she stared down at those who had gathered arms in protecting the base.

From her saddle, Aemond climbed down, appearing in gleaming armour of black and gold, adorning a helm of similar colours and a long dark plume. He was not mistaken for another Targaryen, for when the banners of a gold dragon on green cloth began to be marched through, you realised the war had not been over just yet.

You and Perra ran as fast as you could, gathering behind the stalls, and observing the entire ordeal go down.

From this close, you saw the Prince, and despite missing an eye, you couldn’t help but marvel at how otherworldly and comely he was from afar. Targaryen women were blessed with the rare beauty of Old Valyria, and so too were the men.

Aemond stood mighty in front of his dragon, and beside him, the new Hand, Ser Criston Cole, aged and haggard and not so knightly as the stories spoke of him. War and hatred had aged him horribly, and he stood with a sour face, adorning the golden armour of the Kingsguard and pin of the Hand.

“Which Strong rules this castle?” Aemond spoke aloud to the crowd that had gathered and when no one spoke or came quick enough, Vhagar hissed impatiently.

It didn’t take long for a voice to be heard, emerging the old man who presumably shared your blood. “Aye, I am.”

Aemond responded coolly towards him, “Ser Simon, I assume? Can you recall to me, Ser, which Master of Whispers sits at my brother’s council?”

“My grand-nephew, Larys, my Prince.”

“And you agree that you share the familiar ties to Strong blood?”

“Aye, my Prince.”

His seeing eye was wide with rage, mouth twisted when he spoke in unwavering patience. “Then pray tell, why have you yielded the castle to my uncle, and kept it as a base for the forces of his whore of a wife and pretender Queen?”

Ser Simon did not yield under the heavy gaze of the Prince, nor with the hot breath of the dragon eyeing him down. He had no hesitation when he stared death in the face, and he must’ve known that he would die this day.

Perhaps in the jaws of a dragon. You thought.

Simon spoke calmly. “Prince Daemon took the castle without spilling blood. I am, without a doubt, loyal to my Queen.”

Aemond tutted, his purple eye glaring in rage, though he remained calm. “You waited daily for a dragon to return and now, one does. Do you yield your castle to King Aegon, Second of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm?”

“Your brother – that cunt of a man – you wish for me to yield my castle to him?”

Aemond was to speak before Criston Cole stalked towards him, ready to unsheathe his sword. “Not yet, Cole.”

The Hand did not answer as he slowly stepped away from Simon, glaring silently. “Yes, my Prince.”

“I will not ask again, Ser. Answer truthfully and you will be spared alongside your kin. My dragon will not burn your walls the same way it did at the hands of my ancestor a century ago. Do. You. Yield?”

“I would never accept the words from a kinslayer.”

Kinslayer. The word was wrought with dread from the simple term, and it seemed to both spook and bring Aemond’s temper to rise. Or neither. Murdering his nephew with his dragon, chasing them along the clouds only for them to meet a death falling into the sea.

Aemond nodded to the honest words, and it took you everything not to grab Perra and flee through the castle gates. You knew that the Green’s forces stood just outside to chase any Black loyalists down.

Or even have Vhagar have a meal if she’s hungry. You shivered. Instead, you stood still, frozen in terror of what would happen if you were spotted.

The next words to come from Aemond’s mouth were wrought with venom.

“Cole. Bring me my sword.”

Men of Aemond’s forces grabbed for Simon, kicking and knocking him to his knees, holding him by the back of his burly arms. The Hand did not say a word, silently moving like a shadow before bringing forth what the Prince had wanted. There were cries in the crowd, presumably from those who were close kin to Simon.

A sword flashed bright silver when it was unsheathed from the Prince, as he stalked his way towards the knelt man.

“Speak now or forever hold your silence, old man,” Aemond asked, his mouth thin and twisted, holding the blade in between both hands. “Do you have any final words?”

“Gods be good to you and your ilk, kinslayer,” Simon spoke with as much pride as his “The Black Queen will come for your head and every Green who chases for her throne.”

Aemond did not flinch when he gave the man a worthy death, swinging the sword with might that it took his head clean off, thudding softly into the soft mud. Shouts and protests were heard in response, but they were deafened by the sound of Vhagar roaring.

You watched as the resigned Aemond brushed off some blood and its matter from the blade with a harsh flick. You could tell in his eye that it was something he shouldn’t have done, but what he had to do next was the next honourable thing:

His voice was laced with heaviness as he announced to his men, “Bring every boy, squire and baseborn of Strong blood to meet my steel.”

You grabbed Perra by the hand, fleeing back the way you came through, down the vanquished halls that had melted away like a thousand candles. Screams from others were heard around you as you hid, but to no use, the castle was surrounded by not only men but an ancient dragon that could burn it all down.

It felt as if no time had passed at all, before Perra was grabbed and thrown into the arms, screaming for you as she was led out the castle. “Perra!” You, however, found yourself running after her, colliding into the back of a heavily-armed bannerman, decorated in the green sigil of a dragon.

“No! Unhand me!” You screamed and hissed as you were dragged the opposite way from your friend, away from the sight of freedom and back towards the courtyard.

Aemond was facing his dragon when you came back to meet him up close, and you realise even despite the way he scowled as he looked you up and down, that he was still comely. You were thrown to your knees, your hands bracing your stumble as they were coated in the mud and blood that decorated the yard.

Aemond eyed you scrutinisingly as if assessing what was wrong with you and what he had to do to be rid of you. After all, you did have Strong blood in you, but he didn’t know that.

“Who are you, girl?” He drawled, but his tone was laced with taunting you.

You dared not to meet his dismal stare, instead, watching the blood-soaked and muddied ground or his muddied boots. “Y/N. Y/N Rivers.” You spoke earnestly.

“A bastard,” Criston Cole hissed, momentarily holding his sword’s hilt to draw it, “would you wish for me to bring forth her head, my Prince? Or she could be fed to Vhagar.”

“No,” Aemond dismissed quickly, too quickly. He was staring at her distantly, and it was difficult to see what he was thinking. His seeing eye was bright and staring down at her with disgust and fascination for her and those of House Strong blood. “No, she will not be fed to my dragon. She is much too reliable. Bring her warm clothes, Cole. I will have better use for her.”

“Yes, my Prince.” Cole relaxed as he grabbed you by the back of your arm, dragging you away from the yard, away from the one-eyed monster and his loyal beast.

You wished for your feet to stop yourself from being dragged away, to accept the headsman’s sword and to have your head beside those you were fostered by.

You looked back in horror, watching as the courtyard grew smaller and smaller, hearing the foreign, unknown words dragonrider spoke to their bonded dragon, the bright flame came from her open jaws, lighting up the pile of corpses you did not stand too close to a second ago.

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #Aemond the Kinslayer #aemond x reader #strong! reader #reader has the surname rivers #aemond targaryen x reader #female reader #asoiaf fic #aemond targaryen fic #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fic #house targaryen #the dance of the dragons

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qqueenofhades · 2 years

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Had an great angsty Dreamling idea - somehow either Hob or Dream gets trapped in Hell and instead of playing the oldest game with whoever is breaking the other out, Lucifer forces Dream to experience what his son had to: to walk back through Hell, his love behind him, unable to check if he's still there. And no doubt Lucifer would pull out all the stops to make the leader look back. I think it'd hurt so much more for Dream to lead too, but either way would be So Painful.

The sky is the smeared grey of ash and soot and a world that never sees the sun, that never feels the touch of warmth or the taste of joy, and endless burned cinders sift down like snow. High on the hill, the dark citadel stands alone, towers buried in the sulphuric clouds, and Dream forces himself to keep to a steady pace, his expression cold and unmoved, even as Squatterbloat snickers and hisses and cracks his whip. "Come on, Dreamlord! Move your eternal arse! You aren't going to keep the Morningstar waiting, are you?"

"Of course not." Dream can hear moaning and whispering and wailing from the catacombs that surround them, shadows flickering just at the edge of perception, weird and wild monsters that have waited an eternity for just such a chance as this. He does not turn his head, he does not look left or right. "Lead on, Gatekeeper."

Squatterbloat looks disappointed that he's being deprived of the chance for some high-quality taunting, but Lucifer must really be impatient, because the demon mutters, clacks his teeth, and speeds up again. They climb the narrow, winding stair, where a freezing wind is blowing so hard that Dream staggers, almost losing his balance. For a terrifying instant, he sees nothing but the endless black-rock abyss and the hordes of chittering, howling, hungry demons gathered at the foot of the mountain, burning torches and beating drums, slavering for blood. If he is so unfortunate as to fall, he will not be getting up again.

In a few more moments, however, the dreadful ascent is over, and Squatterbloat pulls the bell-rope. The torches burn with greenish, eerie flame, the portcullis rattles up, and the Gatekeeper proceeds inside, Dream following close on his heels. "My lady," Squatterbloat announces, in the odious, groveling persona of extreme deference that he adopts around his infernal mistress. "He's here."

"Ah. Dream of the Endless, at last." Lucifer Morningstar turns from where She stands in icy majesty, Her wings black against the white silk of Her robe. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."

Dream has no time for this. "Morningstar," he growls, low and dark as the storms of hell itself. "Where is Hob Gadling?"

"He's there." Lucifer points with one carelessly elegant hand. "You have my word, I have visited no undue harm upon him. Yet."

Dream hardly hears Her. He races toward the dark cage that stands at the far side of the throne room, watched gloatingly by the Lilim, Mazikeen, who doubtless is hankering to practice her torturer's art upon the occupant. Dream reaches out, grasping desperately at -- yes, it's Hob, he is scruffy and dirty and freezing and frightened, but at least he is in one piece and he is breathing, and does not appear to have been used as a demon's chew toy. Dream's voice is more frantic than he has ever heard it. "Hob. Hob, are you all right?"

"Alive, at least." Hob manages a smile, but Dream can see the abject terror in his eyes. "So, any chance of us getting the fuck out of here?"

"I'll attend to that," Dream promises, with one more quick squeeze of Hob's hand. Then he lets go and turns around, facing down the Devil Herself with just as much cold imperiousness. "Our quarrel has nothing to do with the human, Morningstar. Release him."

"Oh, I promised that you would regret the day that you tricked me and stole your helm back, Dreamlord." Lucifer's voice remains smooth as satin, deadly as poison. "You thought yourself so clever, in summoning hope to beat me? So, how powerful is it really, do you think? Do you actually trust in it yourself, or was that all a clever lie?"

A chill goes down Dream's back, which has nothing to do with the bone-deep cold of hell. (The humans always think it's hot, but they know nothing.) He stands as straight as he can, staring Her in the eye, unflinching. "If it is a contest you intend, name your terms."

"Not a contest in the traditional sense, no." Lucifer paces toward him, Her elegant robe whispering secrets to the black-polished floorstones. "I'll indeed let the human go, and you with him. On only one condition."

"And?"

"You must face the same trial that your son did. Orpheus." Her voice drips with barely concealed relish. "You must walk out of hell, Hob Gadling behind you, without ever looking back to make sure that he is still following. If you can manage it, he will be free to return to the waking world, untroubled by me. But if you look back -- well, doubtless you recall what happened with Eurydice. Truly, you should."

Dream opens his mouth, stands like that for a long moment, then shuts it. He feels as if he's been hit by lightning, as if he can't catch his breath, as if he can hardly stand upright or remember his own name. It is, of course, diabolically perfect on any number of levels, a piece of exquisite artistry worthy of Lucifer's craft, but he has never been so terrified of anything, ever. "I don't -- "

"Yes or no, Dreamlord?" Lucifer's voice has turned even more silken, dripping with self-satisfaction. She could not be enjoying this more if She tried, and indeed, it is fitting. Force him to hope, to trust, to put his money where his mouth is, and prove that last time he beat Her fair and square, or replay the oldest and most irrevocable tragedy that he has ever known, that lost his son and his wife and everything else, because -- it's a sad song, but we sing it anyway -- everyone knows how it went. Giving in to a single moment of weakness, Orpheus looked back to make sure Eurydice was still following him out of the Underworld, and then in that instant, forever, she was gone.

"Hey," Hob says, from the cage. "Oy, Dream. Listen to me. We can do it, all right? We can."

Dream still can't muster up a response, even as the seconds continue to drain by. The longer Hob spends down here, the harder it will be for him to leave; even an immortal human cannot resist Hell's baneful power forever. So Dream lifts his head and stares Lucifer down. "Very well, Morningstar," he breathes in a voice absolutely dripping with snow and steel. "Since it pleases you to set those terms, we accept."

"Very good, Dreamlord." Lucifer beckons with the same languid carelessness, and Mazikeen moves to unlock Hob's cage. He falls out hard, and Dream makes a reflexive move to go to him, but Lucifer shakes Her shining blonde head. "Ah-ah-ah. No bending the rules before we have even begun to play. You cannot touch him, you cannot speak to him, you cannot look from the moment your climb begins, from the instant you cross the threshold of my citadel. Is that clear?"

I will kill you, Dream thinks. I will rend even your angelic bones into dust, burn you as you did at the Fall, throw you to your own demons and bid them feast. What he says is, "Yes."

"I'm all right," Hob says bracingly. For a man born a medieval peasant who has now been plunged bodily into Hell, thus to serve as a pawn in the long-running feud between his immortal lover and the literal bloody Devil, he seems to be handling it rather well. That, of course, is just Hob for you. How perverse that Hob's own fate should hang on whether Dream can feel even a modicum of the hope that Hob himself feels all the time, in the worst of circumstances, the darkest of hours. I must do this, Dream thinks, close to panic. I must not fail.

"Well?" Lucifer asks. "Are you ready?"

"Yes." Hob straightens up, wipes the blood off his chin, and gives Dream a long, desperately intense look -- trust me, trust me. "We are."

"Very good." She waves a hand, and the portcullis opens. "Your test begins now, Dreamlord. It ends when you both reach the waking world, or you fail, and Hob returns here, as my prisoner, forever."

"Understood." Dream's voice is ice, but his insides are water. He paces smoothly across the floor and under the gate, and back into the teeth of the scouring, screaming wind. It takes every inch of his self-control and then some not to turn his head, to see if Hob is following him down the narrow, cracked steps, or if he has been blown off to the eager demonic hordes far, far below. One step after another, through the split, sliding rocks, steep and sharp-edged and dangerous. There are a thousand and one perils for a human here, even a deathless one. The demons' roars sound like the susurration of waves on a distant shore, and geysers of smoke and steam jet up through the broken ground. That isn't even to mention the looming prospect of the catacombs, and what Dream already knows will be waiting for Hob in there. At the least, Eleanor and Robyn, the wife and son he lost just as Morpheus lost Calliope and Orpheus. Perhaps more. Hob has had a long life, and a great deal of heartbreak. It might just be Hell's phantasms, poisoned illusions, but those can be very convincing.

The wind is still blowing too hard for Dream to hear any sound of footsteps behind him, and he knows that it will not abate for this very reason. He keeps walking, head held high, even as his nerves are shredded. I must do this, he repeats to himself. I must avenge Orpheus, even as much as I must save Hob. I must. I must.

Dream enters the catacombs, and walks past the cells with the flickering shadows, the whispers, the wails, the weeping. His head aches with the effort to hold it still, to not even turn it the merest suggestion of an inch. Dust and bones and other dark things crunch beneath his feet. Far off, water drips like the tears of a heartbroken lover, and the chill is deep and savage. Fuck, this is impossible for a human to make it through without losing their mind. If he just --

No. No moments of weaknesses, no faltering or failures. Step by step by step by step. If you want to walk out of hell, you're going to have to prove it, before gods and men. His heart is thundering in his ears, his breathing echoes wildly. Step by step by step. It is very, very dark.

On the far side of the catacombs, Dream crosses the plains scattered with wind-bleached bones, his coat whipping against his legs. The slope starts upward, and Dream hunkers down and climbs steadily. Dust stings viciously in his eyes, and for a terrible moment, trying to shield his face, he almost looks back. He can hear a distant, disembodied screaming that probably isn't Hob, but sounds just close enough that he can't discount the possibility entirely. Oh gods. Oh gods, this is torture. Torture beyond torture, worse than anything he ever thought. Orpheus, forgive me. Forgive me.

At last, at the top of the slope, Dream knows that they're close now, they're almost out, he can sense the veil between worlds, and the compulsion to look back is almost overwhelming. It buckles his bones, it rattles his teeth, it twists his chest, it tears at him like skeletal fingers, trying to drag him back down with the dead. Hope, he chants to himself. There is hope in hell, you know there is. It is the very thing that even the Devil Herself cannot overcome. Hope. Hope. Hope.

Up ahead, the veil shimmers. Dream staggers, hands on his knees, desperately careful to not look back even as he does. His mouth tastes like chaff and ash. He is so -- very -- close.

The screaming is louder. It sounds terribly like Hob. Lucifer must have tricked him -- must have sent Squatterbloat or the other legions after them both -- doubt comes in, darkness falls --

Dream of the Endless straightens up and runs for it.

He runs with everything he is, everything he has, arms over his head, eyes closed, so he cannot be tempted even for a moment, but still does not even make the motion. He has no hope, not really. He does not know how. But he has Hob, and Hob is hope, and he asked Dream not to fail him, and Dream cannot, he cannot, he cannot. He feels something shimmer, then part and tear, and all at once --

Warm, humid air hits him, and a scatter of rain, and then the sound of traffic rumbling down the road nearby, and Dream sprawls headlong on very hard concrete. Even for an Endless, it hurts to fall on it, and it hurts even more when something heavy lands directly on top of him. They roll over and over, sending nearby rubbish bins flying. The bins are helpfully emblazoned with LONDON BOROUGH OF CAMDEN -- it's here, they're back, they're in the waking world, and they --

Fuck, is it Hob or is it something much worse? What came out of Hell with him, what is here, what has been unleashed -- if Lucifer broke Her bargain, or tricked Dream more than even he knew-- what if it was just a demon that looked like Hob, and Hob himself is long, long gone --

"Dream," a rough voice is gasping, and dirty hands are clutching at his face, and Dream stares up to see Hob Gadling, in the flesh, grabbing at him desperately. "Dream. Fuck. Fuck."

Dream sits upright, as Hob pulls him, and they clutch hold of each other right there in the alley, shivering and shaking and sobbing so hard that they barely make a sound. Hob's arms wrap around Dream almost twice, and Dream fists handfuls of Hob's filthy shirt, and they kiss once and then again, again, not caring who might see them or about anything else at all. It tastes like salt and smoke and sulfur. "Is it -- " Dream can barely get the words out. "Is it you?"

"Aye, love." The London sky is cloudy, as usual, but Hob Gadling's smile is brighter than the sun, brighter than life. "It's me."

#patchworkgargoyle #ask #dreamling #dreamling ff #AS I SAID #SO RUDE #SO VERY RUDE #(thank you a+ bless)

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everythingwasalreadypicked · 4 months

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Titans win au or smt

Warning: a 13 year old dies

Alabaster shifted from one foot to other, trying to relieve the ache, not that it did worked. His vision was getting blurry, his spine was on fire. He hadn't consumed anything for almost a day. Perhaps more? The council meeting had started somewhere around mid-noon yesterday and he hadn't left the side of Kronos's throne since, hadn't been allowed to. He had no idea what the time was. They were still arguing.

His mother sent him a brief sympathetic smile from upon her throne and went back to ripping apart Hyperion with her words. If he didn't know it would anger his lord, Alabaster would hold onto the throne's armrest to stop his legs from wobbling.

His head snapped up as the throne room's doors bursted open. A scrawny child with torn clothes and a thin jacket stood at the entrance, cursed loudly when they realised where they got in. Alabaster's throat constricted; the child couldn't be older than thirteen, might even be one that he had took captive, the faces had all started to blur together months ago, he wouldn't know. They probably found an opening to escape and took it, and gotten lost due to not knowing Othrys's layout.

'Run' he mouthed. Above him, as the top of his head barely reached the edge of the armrest, Kronos shifted. Alabaster stilled as he felt a hand placed on his head, standing at attention.

"What’s the saying, what the cat dragged in?" Kronos hummed, "An intruding rat."

The kid made a peeping sound, clearly terrified, eyes darting across the council members frantically. They held their dull blade between Kronos and them, chest raising and deflating rapidly as they breathed out loud.

"My lord," Prometheus raised his hand, "if I may?" He didn't wait for an answer.

"If we can not call mortals rat.. Of course some of them may be quite like them but I'd want to inform that I've worked hard on them and—"

Prometheus shut his mouth as Kronos raised his hand. Alabaster sighed quietly at the relief of the pressure on top of his head being gone. How nice of Prometheus to draw all the anger at him in his attempt to boast about his creations. Hopefully Kronos would remember that and take his frustrations out on Prometheus this week? Call him selfish but Alabaster didn't have a desire to inquire his lord's wrath.

"I am not a rat!" The kid cried out. "I will- I will get out of here and we will end your reign!" They pointed their blade straight towards the main throne.

An intense dread filled Alabaster up as Kronos tilted his head. "How cute... How naive. Demigods," he sighed, " always the same. Always acting like I didn't warn them: Pledge loyalty or die."

A few of the Titans chuckled. Alabaster's gut twisted as the kid inched on themselves, trying to back away, only for the doors to close with a crackling slam.

"You're a demigod!" The kid begged to him. "Why are you doing this? Why are you helping him?"

The kid was young, as young as his littlest sister.

They wouldn't be the youngest person he had killed.

"Torrington!" Kronos bid, waving a hand as if bored.

Alabaster pulled his sword out of his scabbard, watching the kid's eyes grow wide with increasing terror. He took a step forward—

Alabaster stared at the dark marble floor mortified as he collapsed to all fours when his knees gave out. The low chattering cut off. He could feel the scrutinising eyes on him. Kronos broke through the silence.

"Up." He commanded, like you would to a pet.

Alabaster helped himself up with the intricate carvings alongside the throne, but shamefully swaying on his feet even after that. Kronos clicked his tongue, and pushed him down to his knees with his two fingers. Near the back, Atlas howled with laughter. Alabaster stayed put, bowing his head, averting his gaze to not see the pure unadulterated disgust in the kid's eyes.

A gust of power breezed through the room. After a loud thud, and the following silence, the argument over the sacrifices re-began. Alabaster lifted his head slightly to see the kid's crumpled body near the wall, laying in a pool of their own blood.

At the sound of finger snapping, Alabaster rose to attention once again.

They had won the war, both of the camps were gone. His mother finally had the throne she deserved. He was as miserable than he ever had been.

I'll elaborate if someone asks or maybe later but for now ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

#pjo #pjo au #ethabaster titans win au #(but ethan betrayed kronos long ago)#alabaster torrington #kronos pjo #tw death #hecate pjo #prometheus pjo #my writing

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lovelyladyabsinthewrites · 2 years

Text

A Good, Mean, Dog

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Baratheon!Reader

Warnings: none really, obvious age gap but to be fair i think he’s supposed to be slightly younger in the books

Words: 2921

Summary: The Princess and the Hound. What a story that would be.

Sequel: The Doe That Chases the Hound

You gaze up at your ever radiant mother. To all of Westeros she was a great beauty and to her enemies, a force to be reckoned with. Regardless, Cersei Lannister was your mother. She showed contempt for everyone except her children. Call the woman what you will, but Cersei loved her children fiercely. Including you, the only dark haired child among heads covered with fine, golden hair. The only sign that you had come out of Cersei’s womb were your vivid green eyes; Lannister green. You would’ve liked the golden hair of your siblings, then you wouldn’t get odd looks when all four of you were together. None were more scrutinizing than the ones that were received from your uncle Jaime. There appeared to be a question in those emerald pools of his, a question he never verbally asked. He’d offer you distant smiles then would go about his business. Because of this standoffish behavior you preferred your stunted uncle Tyrion, much to your mother’s chagrin. He was much more kinder than Jaime. Your mother didn’t like you spending so much time around her dwarf brother. She told you many times if you wanted to learn something to go to Maester Pycelle, not you drunken uncle. You didn’t like Pycelle for various reasons; one of them being that it always looked like his wrinkled gaze was concentrated on your bosom. Besides, you were looking for a surrogate father-figure. Much like your mother, Robert Baratheon treated all his children equally in the manner that he didn’t pay you any mind either. He wasn’t the fathering type which unfortunately led the terror that is known as Joffrey, run wild and for you to try and fill the void. Cersei claimed very often that Tyrion killed her mother, your grandmother, but you knew that Tyrion didn’t do it knowingly. He had been just a newborn. Newborns didn’t spring from the womb with a dagger in hand. Your mother, you knew, was very stubborn and unreasonable.

In the dark cellars under the Red Keep, you found yourself exploring with your uncle as he showed you a room filled with skulls. Not human skulls though; dragons. They varied in size and there were a few that you could hold in your hand.

“As the centuries went on, the Targaryens chained their dragons up. But dragons need freedom and large areas in order to grow. Without those, the dragons that were able to hatch never grew any larger than a cat.” Tyrion waddled beside you as your fingers felt the smoothness of the skull. With torch in hand he ventured further until you came across a dragon skull that nearly reached the ceiling. You stare at it in awe. “Now that, my dear, is Balerion. They called him the Black Dread. He was the largest dragon to ever live in Westeros. Do you recall the other two dragons which rode with him to battle?”

You think for a moment. “Meraxes and. . . I want to say the other starts with a ‘V’. Um. . . Vhagar?”

Tyrion nods. “Very good.”

“If his skull was this big, imagine his wing span!” You grin which makes Tyrion smile at your enthusiasm. Growing sad at the thought that you would never see a live dragon with your own eyes, you put down the small skull that you had been holding. “Why didn’t they see that captivity was killing them?”

Tyrion regards you kindly and pats your hand. “Because men are selfish creatures. Without dragons, the Targaryens were just like everyone else.” Leading you out of the dark room, you wince at the light.

“Balerion was the one who forged the Iron Throne, right?”

“That is correct.” You continued to speak of dragons, enjoying your leisurely stroll with your uncle. That is until you bumped into your brother.

“You shouldn’t waste your time with the likes of the Imp, sweet sister.” In a condescending manner, Joffrey looks down at his uncle. “Shouldn’t you be in a whore house drunk off your dwarf ass? I’m surprised you’re still sober.” Joff sneers, his lips curling in an unflattering manner while his sworn sword looms behind him like a menacing shadow. The Hound, they called him. Your brother’s loyal dog. There was only one other man who stood taller than Sandor Clegane and that was his brother Gregor whom was called the Mountain for that reason. They were both equally terrifying; Gregor more so than his younger brother.

“That’s not very polite Joffrey. You are to be future king and a king should not speak like such a rotten brat.” Scowling at your younger brother you wished your mother had had the nerve to spank him to correct his terrible attitude. However, Joffrey was her golden son; one who could do no harm. She was blind to the monster he was.

His cheeks turn red. Now he’s glaring at you. “Once I’m king I can do whatever I want. Remember that. I won’t have to listen to a stupid woman like you.”

Fingers twitching, you took a step forward. He instinctively backs away, fear shining in the pools of moss that were his eyes. Joffrey knew you weren’t afraid to strike him. You had done it once before, but your mother quickly gave you a good scolding.

“I-I’ll tell mother.” He squeaks.

“Go ahead. She’ll tell father and he’ll just laugh at you again.” You noticed Sandor watching with slight amusement at the altercation. You wondered if he would try to stop you if you went through with slapping him.

Your uncle clears his throat. “Now children, we must learn to get along.” He holds your hand and gazes at you warmly with his mismatched eyes. “Thank you for defending me, but I can handle Joffrey’s quips. I’m sure your mother would not be pleased to find out that her children were quarreling again.”

“Uncle. . .”

Tyrion kisses the back of your hand. “I must go. I have other business to attend to.” He glances back at Joffrey and the Hound before he leaves.

“What is there to possibly talk about anyway with that misshapen creature?” Joffrey spat.

You shoot him a withering glare. Without answering you turn on your heels in a huff and walk away. But that’s not the end of it. Joffrey continues to follow you.

“I wasn’t done talking to you.”

“Well I was. What’s wrong? Don’t you have some poor animal to mutilate?” You say over your shoulder. He must be bored. And a bored Joffrey is never a good thing.

Ever the loyal dog, Sandor follows after Joffrey as the blonde haired prince continues to pester you. When Joffrey opens his mouth to reply you cut him off.

“Don’t you ever get tired of following him around like that?” You address the question towards Sandor, completely ignoring your brother.

Instead of letting Sandor answer, Joffrey pipes up. “He’s my dog. He’ll do whatever I say without complaint. I think he’ll even hit you if I told him to.” You knew it was meant as a threat but you let out a loud scoff making Joff turn red again.

“They must pay you an awful lot to follow around a twat like my brother.” You hear Joffrey inhale sharply as the Hound lets out a chuckle. You knew you shouldn’t have said that word out loud, it wasn’t lady-like. If your mother heard you say it she’d know immediately where you learned it from and would probably ban your Uncle Tyrion from the Red Keep.

You look over your shoulder and smirk at your brother’s fish-like expression. “Perhaps you should be wearing the sigil of House Tully, Joff. You look like a trout right now.”

If looks could kill you were sure you’d be dead already. It gave you immense pleasure to see the utter hate on your brother’s face. Head held high in triumph, you left him to fume.

“(y/n)!”

You’re surprised at who is calling you. Robert Baratheon is outside enjoying the weather while under the shade of an awning. You try to ease the look of shock off your face. “Yes father?”

A meaty hand motions for you to where he is. You’d heard that your father used to be incredibly handsome. Now, however, you found it hard to believe. His face grew red at the simplest of physical tasks and his large belly showed how much he enjoyed the finer things in life.

Several Gold Cloaks, including your Uncle Jaime surrounded him. The only time King Robert was ever alone was when he was with his whores.

You flush at the thought when you approach him. He looks up at you with deep blue eyes; Baratheon eyes. “Good gods where has the time gone. You’re a grown woman now. Your mother used to turn heads as well.” Whenever he spoke of his wife it always held a scornful undertone. “You didn’t even notice, did you?”

Your eyebrows scrunch. “Notice what?”

He laughs. “Bling and beautiful. Many men would value that in a woman.”

Anger licked the walls of your stomach. He knew nothing about you. You were definitely not blind. You knew what he did behind closed doors.

King Robert points to where you had just been. There were a few guards walking about. Nothing unusual about that. “They were staring you down like a succulent piece of meat.”

You blush and that makes him laugh louder. Fingers curling into your palm, you continued to feel ridiculed by him.

’Blind and beautiful.’

“Best way to stop that is by marrying you off. You’re old enough for marriage, right?”

’Fat bastard doesn’t even know how old I am.’

You nod.

He settles back into his cushions and takes a long gulp from his chalice. Wine dribbles down onto his beard. “Been thinking about setting you up with Ned Stark’s eldest boy. I think he’s about your age. Your mother wouldn’t have it though. Says it’s not necessary to marry two children off to Starks.” Robert Baratheon shakes his head. “What does she know?”

You’d have to thank your mother later. You didn’t want to go to the north. You’d heard how cold it gets over there and how dreary it was.

Robert heaves a sigh. “Children are such a hassle.”

’Then why are you talking to me?’

“Off you go then. Be more wary of your surroundings next time.” He pats you on the shoulder and shoos you away. Sadness enters his speech. “Wouldn’t want you to end up like Lyanna.”

Yes. Lyanna. The woman he still yearned for after all this time. The one he’d started a war for.

Kidnapped, raped, and killed.

Definitely wouldn’t want to end up like her. You left your father so that he could gorge himself on more wine and food.

You bounced slightly on top of your mare, smiling as you heard Myrcella squeal in delight. Watching as she had her horse take another jump, her gold tresses flying in the breeze. Under a grove of trees your mother clapped. She looked even more lovely when she genuinely smiled. Tommen followed behind Myrcella on his pony. The bars had to be lowered since the pony couldn’t jump too high. You and your sister cheer for your baby brother as he jumps the hurdle. Joffrey rolls his eyes while on his own mount.

“That was nothing.” He scoffs and to prove his point he has the stable hands set them at the highest bar. He jumps them easily and grins cockily. You pretend that you didn’t see and continue to lavish Tommen with praise.

“You’re going to be a great joister Tommen!” Myrcella chimes in.

Tommen’s round face blushes, but he’s smiling from ear to ear. You wished Joffrey had turned out like Tommen. Your youngest brother was to sweet for words and you loved him dearly. Every so often you would wake up to find him curled up beside you in your bed.

“Yes, I can see it now! I bet you’ll unhorse Uncle Jaime some day.” You nod.

“He’s too fat to joist!” Joffrey argued, hating that the attention wasn’t on him.

That’s when Cersei spoke up. “Don’t say mean things like that Joff. He’s your brother.”

Upset he got off his horse and stomped off to the sidelines, not before fixing a glare toward you.

You wanted to stick your tongue out at him, but your mother was in sight. So, instead you had your mare trot tauntingly in front of him. “Don’t be like that Joff. You’re just cranky. I think you’re overdue for your nap.” You turned Blue Moon away from him. Perhaps it was your own fault for antagonizing him further then turning your back on him, but the next thing you knew you heard something hit your horse; making her shriek and rear up on her hind legs. You hear your mother scream as you struggle to regain control of Blue Moon. Once she has all four hooves back on the ground she’s charging blindly in all directions and scaring the other horses.

All around you became a blur and as you duck your head trying to stay on her. You catch more of your mother screaming for someone to help you. Galloping beside you, you’re able to discern them as the Hound. He makes a grab for your horse’s reins and curses when he can’t reach. On top of his own horse he lunges again and successfully grabs hold. Blue Moon resists at first until other stable boys go to calm her down. Sandor’s strong arms lift you out of your saddle like you weighed nothing and sat you in front of him on his own horse.

“You’re alright now.” He whispers to you.

You didn’t even realize you had been shaking until your back pressed against his chest. Thick arms cage you in as he turns his horse around to where your mother and siblings stood. Alarmed guards had also flocked to the yard, quite useless as they were now. The Hound gets off first and helps you down. You look at his face, his dark eyes making your skin heat up. The scar that plagued the right side of his face in full view as he made sure you were safely on your feet. You felt like a doll when he handled you.

Cersei rushes to you, fear having drained the color on her face. “Are you alright? Did you get hurt?” If only everyone else could see this side of your mother. The fretting hen. Next to her, Myrcella looked to be on the verge of tears.

Urging a smile onto your face you say “I’m fine mother, thanks to Sandor.” You shoot him a grateful smile that has him turning his face away. He mumbled something incoherent and went back to where Joffrey stood. Joff’s nose scrunches and he turns away.

You notice your mom staring after Joffrey as well, her face unreadable before she turns back to you. Her palm cups your cheek. “Let’s go inside for the evening.”

Obediently you follow her back inside. After supper you made your way back to your room, tired after what had happened that day. Behind you are the subtle sounds of footsteps thumping behind you. You half expected it to be Tommen but they sound too heavy.

“Here to escort me to my room?” You ask once you see it was the Hound. “Might as well. I’m partly worried that Joffrey will pop up from the shadows and kill me.”

“So you knew it was him.” It wasn’t phrased as a question. He had seen Joffrey throw a rock at Blue Moon’s rear. You hadn’t seen him do it yourself, but you had expected as much. When you nod Sandor growls. “That little cunt.”

You chuckle. “Careful. Don’t want anyone to hear you call the future king that.”

“What a terrible king he’ll be.”

“Gods help us all.” Like last time when you smile up at him he turns his face away so that you saw the side of his face that was damaged. “Thank you again for today. Really, you saved me while everyone else was scratching their ass.”

Sandor laughs. “A lady like you shouldn’t use words like that. You’re a princess.”

“Would that make you my knight in shining armor?”

That perpetual brooding face of his returns as he looks at you with serious eyes. “I’m no knight.”

“No. I suppose you’re not. You’re better than a knight. You’re a dog.”

He appears taken aback by your statement. You didn’t know why but his confused expression had your heart pounding. When you reach your room you bid him good night, not before asking him what he wanted in return for saving you.

“I don’t want nothin’.” He merely says.

Why was your heart racing? “Not even a kiss from a maiden fair?” You partly said it as a joke, half hoping he’d actually want to kiss you.

He eyes you warily, unsure of how to respond. “This isn’t a face made for kissing maidens.”

You knew many others in his position would take up the offer in seconds. Either he didn’t find you attractive of he truly wanted you to preserve your virtue. Trying to hide your disappointment you shrug your shoulders. “Suit yourself. My offer still stands whenever you want it though.”

Alone in your room you slump to the ground, your hands touching your burning face.

The Princess and the Hound. What a story that would be.

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invisibleanonymousmonsters · 1 year

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chapter vii – gust & flame

Eris Vanserra x Reader

Eris Vanserra has been a prisoner in his own home since the day he was born. He has done what he had to in order to survive and protect the few he loves. And he is playing the long game. Waiting, waiting, and waiting for the right time to make his move, to usurp his wicked father and become High Lord of Autumn Court. But things become even more complicated when a human girl drops into his life. Perhaps Eris can wait no longer to take his throne.

Word Count: 2,900+

Warnings: torture, abuse, spoilers for entire ACOTAR series

masterlist

When Eris winnowed back to Autumn Court, he felt as though he was going to vomit. To see Y/N reaching out for him – ever so subtly – and then not being able to respond in a manner she deserved…

It felt worse than all of other the terrible, dreadful things Eris had done in his past.

For hundreds of years, he was able to ignore the guilt and pain of wearing his mask. But as soon as his mate appeared, Eris had never felt like a worse male.

“General,” a voice stepped out from the shadows of the woods.

Eris' most trusted sentries knew this was where he would winnow upon his return.

But Eris now saw the distress in the male's gaze.

“What is it, Cormac?” He snapped.

“High Lord Beron…he arrived to the camp unexpectedly.”

Eris swore internally. “When did he arrive?”

“Just an hour ago,” Cormac answered swiftly. “We informed him that you wished to scout an area – and that you requested to do so alone, to not be slowed down.”

Smart. It was just vague and realistic enough that perhaps Beron would buy it.

Cormac whistled and Eris heard the sound of his hounds sprinting to their master.

Two horses also came trotting behind the pack of dogs. Yes, Eris could travel faster by winnowing. But to scout an area meant to slowly observe on horseback. His men were trained well in deceiving their High Lord to protect their true master, Eris.

“We had no idea when to expect you back, so it felt as though it was the only excuse which would bide us time until you returned,” Cormac explained as both of them mounted their horses.

“You did well, Cormac.” Eris answered, looking at his sentry. “But we both know that it will most likely not be enough.”

And then he dug his heels into his steed and raced back to camp. His hounds followed after their master with a nervous energy.

It would take a few hours to return to camp. By then, it would be early morning.

___

Eris immediately recognized his father’s most loyal guards lingering about the camp. Despite Beron’s level of power, he still held a close circle around him at all times, readying for an attack on him that almost never happened.

But there was a part of Eris that felt glee, knowing his father constantly lived in fear.

Eris jumped off his mount and walked with purpose to where he assumed his father waited for him.

Beron waited in a newly produced tent. Bigger than Eris’ or any others at the camp. Typical that his father demanded such an unnecessary extravagance for only just visiting.

As soon as Eris’ entered the tent, Beron turned from the war table he stood in front of.

Tension immediately filled the room. All the males became quiet and waited for their High Lord reign terror.

“And where have you been lazying about?” Beron growled.

Eris stood straighter, head slightly bowed, with his hands politely held behind his back. “I thought my men had informed you: I was scouting an area a few miles out.”

There was no attitude or sass in his response. But even Eris’ most believable lies seemed to infuriate Beron for no reason. It was as though the High Lord hated to fail at finding something in his son worth punishing.

“Your orders were to insure our armies are ready for battle, shall it arrive at any moment,” Beron hissed.

“Yes,” Eris responded. “And I had confirmed already that they are.” He cleared his throat. “But my duty is also to protect our borders. And my men reported suspicious activity in the south-east woods.”

“And?” Beron barked as he stepped into Eris’ space. “Are your sentries so ill-equipped that you do not trust them to manage such duties without you?”

Eris ground his teeth and took in a deep breath. “I thought you would prefer I risk one life over a dozen. We cannot afford to lose our numbers. And seeing as you have many other sons to replace me as heir, I imagined you would not care if my life was lost.”

The next second, Eris was brought to his knees with a power he could not supersede. Next, a whip of flame wrapped itself around his neck, both choking and burning his flesh. Eris could not help but hiss at the pain.

“You dare belittle me in front of my own army?” Beron hissed, dipping his face so it was only inches from Eris.

But the High Lord wasn’t expecting an answer clearly, for Eris was being choked so harshly that not even a sound could escape his throat.

The soldiers around them shifted their weight and tensed. Some averted their eyes, but others knew better and didn’t break eye contact with the scene before them.

Everyone in Autumn Court was familiar with these punishments. They were so obviously a message from their High Lord. If he would administer such tortures to his own son, his own heir…everyone else could easily imagine what Beron would do to them.

“I expect you to follow the orders I give,” Beron continued. “And if I question your actions, you are simply to reply with an apology and an admission to what a useless son you are to me and this court. Am I understood?”

Eris’ eyes watered with the pain of the flames skewering his neck.

Most days, he would take the pain and submit to his father. This game was long and felt never ending. But Eris knew the close came with making Beron believe his heir was far too scared to ever even think about usurping him.

But then Y/N’s face flashed in Eris’ mind...

She was so strong. He might not know her – not truly. But from the short moments he has spent with her, he knew that she was brave and resilient and stood up for those weaker than herself. She had saved the other women and children who had been captured with her that day in his forest. She had risked her own life to save a child that was not her own. She looked into Eris’ eyes as she told him her family and coven had been taken from her, yet she continued to fight for her own life after everything had been taken from her.

“Am I understood!?” Beron repeated his question in a shout now.

And he loosened his whip of flames just enough so that Eris’ could speak.

“You…made me… the g-general of your armies for a reason,” Eris gasped. “I stand by my decisions.”

But those were not the words to speak.

Beron’s eyes flashed with disbelief, but only for a second. Then it was replaced with an evil glint and his lips formed into something resembling a smile.

“Yes, my armies.” Then Beron’s whip of fire didn’t just wrap his son’s neck, it now wrapped around his entire torso as well, making it impossible for Eris to move at all.

Beron sneered. “And I believe you need reminding…son.”

–––

Y/N was eating breakfast with Azriel, Cassian, and Nesta when she felt it.

She had a giant scoop of oatmeal halfway to her mouth when she dropped it and the spoon clattered to the table.

Y/N hissed and both her hands flung to grasp her neck, as if it were burning.

“Are you alright, Y/N?” Nest rushed out, with a surprising amount of concern.

“I…don’t know,” Y/N whispered. “Suddenly, I just felt this…this burning.”

But when she pulled her hands away to look down at them, they were not engulfed in flames like she had expected.

“Something – No – Someone is in pain,” she gasped.

Y/N was so preoccupied with the feeling, that she missed Nesta and Cassian sharing a knowing look. Azriel shared the same realization as them, but he wasn’t look at them. Instead, his concerned gaze never left Y/N. He was his usual stoic self, but it was clear that his eyes were filled with concern.

“Y/N?” Nesta asked seriously.

She was finally distracted from the phantom pain and looked up at the three of them, all sitting across the table from them.

“I have been wanting to show you something for awhile now,” Nesta continued. Her eyes flicked to Cassian, and he gave her a nod of approval. “A place for people like us…”

“People like us?” Y/N repeated.

Nesta nodded, “If I simply showed you, you would understand.”

“This is where the three of you so frequently go off to?” Y/N asked, still confused and trying to figure out what the phenomenon she just felt was.

Nesta nodded, also throwing in a forced but sympathetic smile as they all stood from the table.

Cassian walked alongside his mate.

But Azriel waited for Y/N to follow. His frame was stiff with concern and his shadows seemed to be hovering closer to her than himself.

It was clear that Y/N's and Eris' bond was abnormally strong. Y/N being human made it even stranger. She seemed to be oblivious to having a mate, yet felt Eris' pain more than any other mates the Inner Circle knew – not even Rhysand and Feyre's.

Y/N’s hand was preoccupied with ghosting over her neck, wondering how those flames could’ve felt so real.

Had she finally started to go insane?

Y/N silently followed the two Illyrians and Nesta up a set of stairs.

It wasn’t until the wind greeted Y/N so kindly that she finally looked around to where she had been taken.

There were female fae – some High Fae, some not – standing and sitting around stretching. As soon as they glanced at Cassian and Azriel, some perked up, tightening their posture. Others stopped conversation completely.

Two of them, one with bright red hair and the other with dark skin, waved brightly at Nesta, who lingered at Y/N’s side.

“Valkyries,” Nesta explained to her in a quiet voice.

“I-I-I don't know what the means?” Y/N asked.

“A group of female warriors who became extinct 500 years ago during the War,” Nesta explained darkly.

“Extinct?” Y/N repeated. “Then what am I looking at?”

“A resurrection of the females who came before us,” Nesta shrugged. Then she fully faced Y/N and smirked. “Ask your wind, why don’t you?”

Y/N glared at her, but still did as she suggested. Closing her eyes, the wind answered all her unasked questions. “These females,” Y/N murmured swiftly, “have suffered…greatly. They are here to remember their strength, their courage.”

Y/N’s eyes fluttered open. “You wish for me to train with you?”

Nesta smirked, nothing but genuine now. “Yes. Cassian said your coven used to.”

Y/N’s jaw dropped and she looked at the female fae warming up now. “Yes, b-b-but nothing like this.”

Nesta gripped her shoulder with one hand encouragingly. “You saved my nephew, Y/N. Therefore, I know there is strength inside you…same as us all.”

“But I am just…a...a mortal,” Y/N quickly reminded her.

Nesta’s eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms. “Feyre was just a mortal when she broke a 50-year curse that no other fae could destroy.”

Y/N had no rebuttal to that. She had heard the story of Feyre's journey from mortal savior to High Lady fae. It seemed something of legends and it left Y/N in awe that she had befriended the hero such a story.

“Just watch today, if that makes you more comfortable,” Nesta shrugged. “But you have just as much of a right to be here as any fae.”

And Y/N did just that.

She found the wall right at the entrance of the training ring and leaned against it. Eventually, she slid down and sat, watching the training drills closely.

She noticed how Cassian and Azriel were patient, but stern with their training. The females did not fear them, but admired and respected the two Illyrians.

It wasn’t until they broke off into groups and a handful of females grabbed bows that Y/N perked up.

The wind snatched at her face, urging her to stand.

Y/N did so, on shaky legs.

Aware of the other groups doing different drills, she moved silently until she joined those practicing archery.

Azriel was giving a loose lesson of how to handle the bow as he eyed Y/N’s silent entrance. He made eye contact, but didn’t stop his talking. When he was finished, he tilted his head slightly and looked at Y/N almost with suspicion.

“Care to try?” Azriel asked Y/N, offering her the bow.

Y/N eyed it a moment before confidently taking it from the Illyrian’s grasp.

Then, in one fell swoop, Y/N had snatched up an arrow, raised the bow, and fired it off.

The small group gasped, impressed to see that Y/N’s arrow had landed perfectly in the center of the target.

Y/N turned to see that Nesta and Cassian had paused their training to watch as well. Cassian had a proud smirk on his lips. Nesta was smiling brighter than Y/N had ever seen in the short time she’d known her.

When Y/N turned back to the group, she found Azriel watching her with amusement, but also silently questioning her hidden skill.

Y/N bowed her head, suddenly remembering why she had this skill at all. “My mother used to say a woman’s greatest strength was knowing how to attack from the shadows.”

Azriel realized it made sense. If Y/N grew up in a coven, always on the run, they did not have the strength to fight the evil men who so often hunted them. If they could safely defend themselves at a distance, archery was their best bet.

“And the wind?” Azriel asked, once the other females had started practicing.

Y/N smirked. “My shots are more powerful. And I rarely ever miss.”

“You have quite the friend and ally on your side,” Azriel hummed as he crossed his arms to observe the Valkyrie pupils.

“I asked the House for a bow and arrow, but she wouldn’t give me them,” Y/N mumbled, remembering how she begged the sentient home for a weapon those first days here.

“Perhaps she worried you would be a threat to us all,” Azriel teased.

After the archery, Y/N joined the rest of the training. Despite her earlier concerns, none the drills were something that a human couldn’t also execute. And Nesta was right to believe that her past training with her coven gave her somewhat of an advantage.

The other females were kind and treated Y/N as an equal, not seeming to be deterred at all by the fact that she was a mortal. Y/N assumed they would find out sooner rather than later that she was also a witch. But for some reason, she didn’t think that would deter them either.

After training, Y/N spoke with the two that had greeted Nesta so brightly: Gwyn and Emerie. Y/N had noticed the latter’s wings immediately. But it didn’t take long for her to also see that they didn’t seem to be functional in the same way that Azriel's and Cassian’s were.

Through casual conversation during their post-training stretching, Emerie had mentioned owning her own clothier ship in Windhaven.

And it had sparked an idea for Y/N.

_____

Eris could hardly winnow back to the Forest House he was weak.

This was not the worst beating he had received from his father. But it had not reached this level of violence in quite some time.

Beron was stressed, that much was clear. And he would continue to take it out on those closest to him until he got what he wanted.

Eris already had a steaming bath waiting for him in his personal quarters, a small miracle that his servants had provided him.

With a snap of his fingers, he had lit the dozens of candles that surrounded the drop-in tub that could fit a small family.

Some of his injuries would fully heal. Others, were so harrowing that Eris knew they would scar. It wouldn’t be the first time that his father left a permeant mark on his body – and it wouldn’t be the last.

Eris had only been soaking in the tub for 10 minutes when he heard the spark of magic right next to his face.

A note.

Without even looking at it, Eris knew it was from Rhysand. No one else dared communicate with him in such a way.

Eris’ nostrils flared as he reached for the letter.

Even this small movement shot pain through his entire body.

Not that I truly care, but Y/N felt something today. I assume it was your pain. If forcing you to stay for dinner exposed you in any way…that I am sorry for.

Eris frowned at the words. Y/N had felt his pain? Cauldron. He hoped it was just a slight echo of his sensations, nothing like what he felt when she and Nyx had been attacked.

But if his pain became her pain…Eris would find some way – any way – to sever their bond. Anything to keep her away from his own suffering.

That was why Eris surprised himself by producing a quill from nothing and writing a response on the back of the note.

Is she alright? Has she been hurt because of it?

There was no use in hiding that he had been tortured. Eris was well aware that Rhysand and his inner circle had all made the correct assumptions about the abuse Beron executed in his court. Most High Lords knew to a degree – some even witnessed it for themselves.

All that mattered was that Y/N had not also been hurt because of him.

Rhysand’s response was swift:

Azriel and Cassian said she felt it at breakfast. I believe she was mostly scared and confused. But she is fine. No injuries sustained.

Eris didn’t respond. What more was there to say?

–––––––

Hopefully people are still engaged and caring about this fic. I know it's slow and steady. But I hope you'll find it worth it in the end.

What do you think Y/N's idea was after talking to Emerie?

How do you feel about Y/N training with the Valkyries?

chapter viii

#eris vanserra #eris x reader #eris acotar #eris vanserra x reader #inner circle #acotar #a court of thorns & roses #autumn court #beron vanserra #night court #azriel #cassian #valkyries

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innerchorus · 11 months

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Accidentally skipped class today due to nerves/spiked anxiety, decided to read a fic to pass time, problem was the fic was horror (very well-written! the author was excellent at building mystery and tension— I only felt as gripped back when I watched Summertime Render but anyway back on track—) and didn't help at all with the nerves, couldn't put it down either but I think my anxiety might be worse, but anyways that's not what I wanted to say, what did I want to say? Oh yeah! The fic's horror “monster” or antagonist/villain gave me Thoughts™ about... about the creations of Team Zahhak. Okay, less coherent thoughts and more... vague feelings of repulsion and dread. But still. I'd imagine this would be what the ArSen cast felt whenever they encounter one of those creatures or a sorcerer or Zahhak himself. (Particularly for the clan who are more sensitive to this kinda stuff)

Oh I love horror! (One day I swear I will plan out the 'Zabul Fortress + zombies' AU that I've been thinking about on and off for years...) But yeah, seeing Zahhak's creatures for the first time is definitely a shocking experience and I do think in general they evoke a level of disgust and revulsion even after Team Arslan get used to fighting them.

The Team Zahhak mages specifically do have a kind of malicious presence that other characters pick up on. As you've noted before in the manga (but also supported by some novel scenes), it's no surprise that Farangis is particularly perceptive to it, and those who have the honed instincts of a warrior will sense them, but even normal people seem to get a sense of unease and 'wrongness' etc when they are around.

(Personal headcanon time: Hilmes is remarkably bad at picking up on this. It's partly to do with him becoming desensitised from spending time with Team Zahhak from a young age, and partly because of his tunnel vision focus on revenge and obtaining the throne.)

Zahhak's aura is like that of the mages x1000 and can easily induce terror in those who aren't mentally prepared to face it.

#arslan senki #the heroic legend of arslan #team zahhak #zahhak #hilmes #hope you're feeling better btw!

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rohirric-hunter · 1 year

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A benefit with what?

#lotro #i have. no idea where this came from #benefits i had applied include: gundabad battle lore #gundabad warding lore #gundabad edhelharn token #gundabad light-oil #and bow chant: gundabad breach-finder #'star-glass' seems to be a reference to the light of earendil but my light of earendil was normal and also i was in throne of dread terror?#(which im disappointed but not surprised to report that i still cannot solo)#anyway no clue what this is or where it came from #did not appear to have any effect on my gameplay

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rinixo · 1 year

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test my worth (in blood)

Din Djarin/Reader | 3.1k | Rated M | afab reader, no y/n, Mand’alor!Din Djarin, emotional hurt/comfort, descriptions of death, descriptions of fear, anxiety, and panic, allusions to death in childbirth, marriage proposal, Din’s POV

Having people to love makes the thought of losing them harder than he had ever experienced before.

Continuation/follow up to thrones and people and cities

a/n: this felt like it belonged more in this AU versus its own stand-alone fic, so here is a continuation of Mand’alor!Din and Scholar!Reader.

read on ao3

Though the rain was falling harder than he had ever seen before, the night was oddly silent. The only sound was those of his boots as he walked slowly down the dark hallway, and the blood rushing in his ears from the pounding of his nervous heart.

Ahead of him, a golden light flooded from a familiar doorway. He could see shadows of blurry figures in the room, hurrying back and forth. His body was telling him to go to that room, that there was where he needed to be, but every step felt like he was wading through black sludge, thick and heavy.

A breathless cry of his name made him try to hurry, his heart feeling like it was going to pound out of his chest with fear, but the hallway seemed to lengthen with every step. Cries of pain and terror began to echo out of the room as the light turned from glowing gold to a deep, bloody crimson. The cries grew louder as he got closer, and he tried to call out to her, to tell her he was almost there, but no words came out.

Then, with one last horrible, wrecked cry, all was silent.

Din opened his eyes to early morning light streaming in from the tall vaulted windows. A light sheen of sweat covered his body, and his heart was still pounding from the dream – the same one that had haunted his sleep for the past week.

A rustle in the bed next to him made him turn, and when he saw your face, still blissfully asleep – safe, alive – Din let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Rising from his prone position, Din groaned roughly, rubbing his eyes and trying to forget the horrors his mind had inflicted on him again. The dream was different every time, but they all had the same theme – something terrible was happening to you, and it was because of him.

This most recent one – the long dark hallway, your cries of fear and pain, and the horrible flood of dark red that woke him before he could see into the room you were in – was the worst by far. The fear of experiencing them was starting to wear on him – he would lay awake until sleep finally took him, and what little sleep he did experience was restless.

After a quick jump in the refresher, Din dressed himself for the day, putting on his armor carefully as not to wake the delightful creature still peacefully asleep in his bed. He had finally convinced you to move fully into his chambers just over a month ago, and for a while it was every inch the intimate, domestic bliss he had come to crave. However, that bliss had slowly turned into dismay.

He wouldn’t call himself particularly superstitious, but something about these dreams left a cloud of dread hanging over him. The realist in him told him that it was just the stress of leading Mandalore getting to him, that these dreams didn’t actually mean anything, but there was still an edge of dread and anxiety that made his throat dry every time he thought about it. It was beginning to impact his waking hours, making him more tense and on edge than he had been in a while.

Seeing that Grogu was already awake and nowhere to be seen – no doubt already waddling his way towards the kitchens for breakfast – Din finished preparing himself for the day and slinked quietly out of the room. He felt guilty for leaving you to wake alone, but after waking from such a horrid experience he wasn’t sure if he could look into your eyes without alarming you.

The palace was still quiet in the early morning hours. Freckled light streamed in through the stained glass as Din walked slowly down the empty hallways. He had no particular destination in mind, lost in thought.

The dreams had started once he had started seriously considering broaching the topic of asking you to become one with him. Din knew he wanted to be yours and you his for the rest of this life, and all the ones to follow if he had any say in it. His clan felt complete, and when he thought of his future, you were there alongside him – making the concept of losing you even harder. His sleep was filled with visions of you being hunted, hurt – because of your connection to him.

The concept of clan, of family, was of utmost importance when it came to the creed, and he would love nothing more than to share vows with you, but he knew that it wasn’t something you just rushed into, especially for someone like you who hadn’t grown up Mandalorian. He was also not a fool and knew that eventually his clan would grow, whether it be with adopted foundlings or the children he desired you bear for him. Having people to love and potentially lose sometimes paralyzed him with fear.

The idea of you being injured or dying filled him with sorrow. How could he protect you from something like this? Dreams weren’t an enemy he could defeat with blaster fire. The only solution he could think of was to not be with you at all, and that hurt just as much as the idea of you dying.

He paused in front of a shattered window, looking out through the jeweled glass to the sun peeking through the spires of broken buildings. His vision re-focused from the outer distance to the remains of the stained glass portrayal of a helmed figure, holding a hammer.

The Armorer was someone Din respected deeply, and he still valued her counsel despite technically being higher ranked. She was one of the few people who still addressed him as ‘Din Djarin’ and not ‘Mand’alor’, something for which he was grateful. He took his role seriously, but it was nice to not feel so important all the time.

The clang of the forge echoed familiarly as he approached the corner of the royal compound the Armorer had claimed as her own. The smell of hot metal and plasma filled the air, and he found the Armorer at her workstation.

“Din Djarin,” she called out in greeting. “Come to commission another suit of armor for a foundling?” There was a tinge of well-intentioned jest in her tone. “Or perhaps a betrothal ring?”

He was surprised at her candidness. He knew his relationship with the young scholar from Naboo wasn’t a secret, but few actually brought it up in conversation, at least not to him. Even though Mandalorians were warriors, they were not immune to gossip.

“So you approve?” he asked. He supposed if he were to consider anyone living as a mentor or parental figure, it would be the former leader of their covert. Though distant, she had guided him through most of his adult life.

The Armorer paused. “My approval is not necessary, is it? You are Mand’alor.”

“I still value your input,” he pushed back gently. “And I thought Mandalorian’s didn’t use things like betrothal rings.”

“It is not unheard of,” the Armorer replied simply. Din sat on a crate, watching the master at her craft for a few comfortable seconds of pause. The Armorer could be vague at times, but he did not detect disapproval from her.

“You are troubled,” the Armorer broke the silence, not once breaking a stride in her work at the forge.

As perceptive as always, Din mused. “Yes. I come looking for guidance.”

“What is it that torments you?”

“I have been having dreams,” Din confessed. The Armorer continued to work, waiting for him to continue. Slowly, Din began to explain the visions that had been plaguing him. Talking about them still made his heart hurt, but he also found that confessing them out loud gave him some kind of odd relief.

He finished his recollection, waiting for her response. The sound of sizzling metal and clanging tools echoed through the humid air.

“You are not accustomed to being made vulnerable, Din Djarin,” the Armorer began. “You, like many other Mandalorians, have closed yourself off to the concepts of desire, love, and possession. Both for yourself, and towards those who would ask the same of you.”

“Vulnerability is an enemy. We fight, we plan, we gild ourselves in armor in order to protect ourselves from the consequences of being vulnerable. Building walls, hoping they are impenetrable to our enemies, to those that would weaken us. Your bond with the foundling Grogu started the process of breaking holes in your defenses. You chose to show vulnerability in order to save him. And now you are facing more holes, more paths.”

She dunked a red-hot piece of beskar into a cooling liquid, and steam poured into the air. For a moment she was lost in the cloud, before emerging again, a glistening piece of armor in her clamps. Turning, she faced him, and through the helmet Din knew she was staring not just at him, but through him.

“Dreams are often just dreams. If you avoid the source, they will only get worse and you will end up losing her in one way or another.” She turned back to her forge, making it clear she was returning to her craft and that she had given him what wisdom she could. “The armor of the creed served its purpose. Unveil your heart to those who can help mend it.”

Several hours later, Din found himself in his private hanger, doing some minor repairs on his starfighter. He had ended up here after leaving the Armorer, pondering what the wise woman had said. Having her of all people be critical of the creed hadn’t been what he had expected, but the more he thought about it, he knew that she was right.

His fears were the result of his desires breaking through the layers of emotional armor he had built up over his life. They were an attempt to protect himself from heartbreak and loss. He had thought he had known what it meant to be Mandalorian, but his journeys had shown him that what he had thought was a straight road was actually a stream pouring from a mountain spring, branching into countless other paths until it all ended up in the same oceans.

He knew what he wanted the destination to be, and how he got there was ultimately up to him. And if he had the choice, he’d like to have you there with him, at the end.

“There you are.” Your sweet, quiet voice broke through his contemplative reverie. He turned to see you standing under a stream of late afternoon sunlight, hands clasped lightly behind your back.

The sight of you still did not fail to make his heart thrum, and seeing you cloaked in the golden light made coherent thoughts leave him. “Yes,” Din stuttered.

You tilted your head, offering him a small smile. “What are you doing?”

“Just…some maintenance,” he murmured. You came up next to him, looking at the hull of his ship.

“This is your ship? It looks familiar,” you mused, running a hand softly over the shining exterior.

“I’d think so,” Din replied, thankful for the chance to talk about something mechanical. “It’s a modified N-1 starfighter. Handmade for the royal guard and personally commissioned by the Queen of Naboo.”

He watched your brows raise, lips pursed in humored interest. “How did you come by such a ship?”

Din circled around slowly, opposite his beloved on the other side. “A mechanic on Tattooine,” he explained. “I admit – I was hesitant about it at first, but this ship has treated me well so far.”

“Queen Amidala was one of our most beloved monarchs,” you pondered. “Do you know much about her?”

“No,” Din confessed. “Only that she had an eye for starcraft.”

“She was elected Queen just prior to the Clone Wars,” you continued. “And then during the conflict, she was elected Senator after the former Senator was elected to the seat of Chancellor.”

“She was known for being brave, and kind, and intelligent. She put the well-being of her people over her own safety. And she was the one who helped repair relations between the Gungans and the Naboo. Many young Naboo grow up hearing tales of her, idolizing her.”

“Did you?” Din asked. He watched you smile and shrug.

“A little. Her story always made me sad, though. It doesn’t have a happy ending.”

He watched as you examined his ship, soft hands tracing the edge of the cockpit window. You had once confessed to him that you had never learned how to fly a starship.

“Years of staring up at the stars, and yet I can’t bring myself to take myself to them. Silly, isn’t it?”

“A little,” he had replied.

You turned to look at him from where you were sitting on the edge of his bed, changing into your sleeping clothes. He teased that you should just forgo them all together as they ended up strewn across the floor by morning anyways.

“Maybe it’s subconscious,” you continued. “My way of keeping pieces of the galaxy a mystery.”

He had crawled across the span of the mattress and kissed your exposed shoulder. You smelled like the herbal soaps you loved to bathe in. A sweet mixture of floral and spice that had come to permeate his bedsheets and his daydreams. He could drown in it and would thank you for the experience.

“Do you prefer happy endings?” Din ventured. You shrugged again.

“Sure. Doesn’t everyone?”

“I suppose,” Din said flatly. “But it’s not always…realistic.”

He watched as you frowned at him through the glass. “I guess so.” Standing, you walked around the nose of the starfighter to stand near him again. The light was slowly fading as the day turned to dusk, and he allowed you to take one of his gloved hands gently in your own, a worried expression on your face.

"You have been distant, recently,” you commented softly. He let out a sigh, knowing that he needed to tell you the truth about how he was feeling. Leading you over to a workbench in the hangar, he took off his helmet and placed it down on the surface. He could vaguely make out his surly expression reflected back at him before he turned to face you again. He watched as your eyes drank in his face – you had commented once that him wearing the helmet made the times he took it off feel special. He had never really considered himself special, but he did enjoy the way it felt to have your attention focused on him.

“You make me feel vulnerable,” he explained. “I am not used to having things I care about losing. And sometimes, when I sleep – I dream of you coming to harm because of me.”

Your soft features hardened further into your frown as he continued.

“My life is not one of peace. You are in danger just by virtue of knowing me. If something happened to you- I don’t know what I would do.”

“Do you think me to be weak?” You inquired, and he shook his head.

“Not at all. But I have many enemies, my love. Mandalore has many enemies. And they would not hesitate to hurt you as well.” He chanced a glance into your wide, glittering eyes. He could see the thoughts rolling around in your head.

“When I was first told that I’d be leaving Naboo, I was afraid,” you confessed. “I had never been off Naboo before. And Mandalore – Mandalorians – have a reputation.” You looked up at him, a glimmer of humor in your eye. “You have a reputation. Even I had heard of the fearsome bounty hunter who had reclaimed the seat of his people decades after it had been brought to ruin.”

Din allowed you to take his hands softly. He watched as you pulled off his gloves, and gently placed your smaller palms against his own.

“When you touch me, I don’t think about the blood you’ve spilled,” you murmured. The sensation of your fingers against his own made a shiver run down his spine. “How could I, when these hands hold me so tightly? Any fear I feel is gone when you say my name, when you look into my eyes like you’re seeing the stars for the first time.”

Din raised one of your hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss to your palm. “I would do anything for you,” he breathed. “I would claim a thousand planets if it would keep you safe.”

A smile graced your lips. “I know. But you don’t have to. I am safe, here. I have never felt safer than when I am with you.” You pressed a hand to his chest, over where his heart lay thumping beneath the armor. “This is where I want to be.”

“Even if it means you could get hurt? Or worse?” Din didn’t know if he could bear to hear your answer.

“Yes,” you pressed firmly. “You would claim a thousand planets to keep me safe, and I’d die a thousand deaths if it meant living just another day here, at your side.”

“I want to live all my days at your side,” Din rasped. “I pledge myself to your service, your happiness - because it is my happiness.”

Your smile widened, and you leaned into his grasp as his hands came up to cup your face. “Careful,” you mused, “Those almost sound like wedding vows.”

“They do,” Din confessed. “And they could be. They could be.”

He watched as you closed your eyes and nuzzled into his embrace. “You could be my bride,” Din continued, stroking the soft skin at your cheekbone. “My wife. The mother of my children.”

Your eyes flashed open at that, and there were a thousand unasked questions in the way you looked at him. “Truly?” You whispered. “You would pledge yourself to a scholar, a non-Mandalorian?”

“I would pledge myself to a woman,” Din corrected you. “A woman who is smart, and brave, and intelligent. A woman who is more than I ever thought I would have. Or deserve.” At that, he ducked forward to claim your mouth with his own, delighting in the way you melted against him.

Your hands came up to wrap around his neck, and you sighed into his devotion. If he could swallow your breaths and bring you into him, he would. If he could be swallowed and devoured by you in turn, he would. Nothing since finding Grogu and becoming Mand’alor had felt as right as kissing you did.

“Will you share vows with me?” He murmured against your mouth, breaking away to ask. You nodded quickly, chasing his lips with your own.

“Yes, yes,” you croaked. It was both an answer and a plea – a plea to continue kissing you, and he was more than happy to oblige.

#din djarin x reader #mando x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #mando #din x reader

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buttercup--bee · 1 year

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Burn my Desire II

Summary: Aemond Targaryen frightens you, his fearless brutality keeping you at bay. That does not, Gods forgive you, halt the yearning you feel for him. (2/?)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen/Female!Reader (Lady Ashford)

Warning(s): Heavy Implications Towards Sex; Past Childhood Abuse; Unhealthy Relationships; Emotional Manipulation; Dubious Consent; Minors DNI;

Note(s): Thank you so much to @sroka-zlodziejka, and forevermore a thousand thank you’s to @stardewbat - who literally helped get this story moving agian. Without them, I’d still be twiddling my thumbs, I swear to god.

Main Masterlist ~ Series Masterlist ~ Ao3 ~ Playlist ~ Next

I do not give permission for any of my works or their included components to be copied, translated, and/or reposted, even with credit.

When told you were to wed Aemond Targaryen, nothing but dread had filled you. Not much was known of him at the time of your union, only that he was deadly, temperamental, and had a dragon worthy of proving it.

Under the fear, the blatant terror, you had wondered. For why would House Hightower give up Viserys’ second son all for the womb of an Ashford? Once, you had believed they would search for a match worthy of Aegon himself, given that they had followed the Targaryen practice of intermarriage. Instead, you were gifted to your Prince husband, and are all the more dreadful for it.

Aemond’s title as second son was of no offense when Targaryens themselves only spared members of their family out of kindness, not duty. Many eager Lords looked to him as an equal to Aegon.

Allegiances sworn centuries ago did not grow well under the guise of dragon’s breath—but it still sprouted nonetheless. You suppose those who are chosen as new members of house Targaryen, are far too scared to poke holes in all their flaws.

Why, your father had lit up as bright as the sun on your family’s banner, when Otto Hightower asked for the betrothal on Aemonds behalf. You had not shined as he did.

In fact, you’re certain if it had not been for the shadows cast upon your face then, many would have witnessed the solemn fear cloaking you.

At present, the moment is as vivid in your memory as the day it happened. Fresh and lively and all too easy to remember.

It makes for common nightmares. Sordid, twisted tales that mirror the viper’s pit you’ve been left to rot in. Mother always did say you were not made for court. Even as a young child, she had done all she could to keep you home, away.

Away from prying Lords and Ladies who wished for nothing upon you but their self-satisfaction. Hopeful, as they always are, for word of torrid affairs within their court.

Your particular situation did you no favors. Lady Ashford made Princess Targaryen; no attributes, secret talents, nor a history worthy of the royal family. Just…you.

Some see it as a disgrace to those who petitioned their lovely, young daughters as a proffer of loyalty. A desire to hold the same strength as house Hightower does—to be inducted within the family for all it’s worth.

A reward for their devotion towards the current King.

Aegon, the fool he is, is more than content to recompense any Lord who piques his interest. No doubt the high Lords who denied Rhaenyra as Queen did so out of want for power, not because they believed Aegon to be Viserys’ chosen heir.

The King did have the benefit of being born a man; an acceptable replacement for a ‘mere’ woman.

Sometimes you imagine Rhaenyra seated atop the throne, head held high, her crown as sharp as the melded blades of Westeros’ fealty.

Other times, when you are brave enough for indulgence, you envision her fury as she takes the heads of those who betrayed her. Oddly enough, you can never bring yourself to have Aemond present in these fantasies.

You fear him, and yet you cannot reconcile with the meager idea of his death. To do so leaves your rabbits heart pittering in your stomach—warped and twisted.

It’s an attachment you cannot decipher. When you think of Aemond, you do not exclude the shield his name carries. Any harm that could have been inflicted on you, namely by the King, dissipated when Aemond draped a cloak of obsidian and gold atop your shoulders.

Perhaps it is gratitude, or something akin to its relief, that masks your dread around the dark Prince? Yet, you must recognize you did not feel this strongly for him, not until what had happened in his solar.

You try to forget, to abolish the memory from your mind until it is burnt to ashes—to dust.

Every night, when you are settled and smothered in fine cottons, you involuntarily relive the entire encounter all over again without your consent. His large hands hot against your hips, mouth pressed tight to your nape, and his aroma; dragon hide you can do without, but the floral soaps had been a welcome surprise.

It’s one you wish to experience once more despite yourself, though he has not asked for your presence since then. Not in such solitude. Your anxieties of approaching him overpower your underlying need to inhale him the way he had done to you.

Is this all it took? A fragment of affection and you were content? That should not appease you—you force it not to. The last thing you wanted was to approach him for a single touch, a caress to ease your anxieties.

But Aemond Targaryen is not a creature of comfort. He is burnt steel, rage, and death. The possibility of him taking you to bed, without a choice, snaps at your mind. One favor for another.

A beast lies in wait within your husband; as one does in all men. It savors the metallic bite of youth, submission, complete and utter control. Your maidenhead, a terrible voice snags at the back of your mind.

Gods, you wished for your mother. For her embrace and guidance. This is too much.

You're torn from your contemplation when a guard at your back announces another's entrance within your area of leisure.

Not a sound escapes your throat when Alicent Hightower waltz inside the gazebo; shoulders pulled back, jaw tense, hands clasped atop the emerald brocade of her skirts —

“You’re here,” she gleams, visibly relaxing when her gaze settles on you. It is an average sight; on your lonesome with only a book or needlework to keep you company, “leave us.” She commands, your personal guard hesitates only seconds before exiting.

“May I join you, good-daughter?”

Declining your good-mother is not an option, whether you wish to or not. Without a word, you put your bookmark in its place, and close your tome with a nod. She sits beside you, reeking of apples and honey and lavender.

Ser Criston Cole stands at the entrance of the gazebo you occupy, hand tight against the hilt of his sword. The sight always makes you ill at ease.

The Queen mother exhales, smiling briefly before averting her attention from your own. An uncommon interaction on her behalf. She has never avoided your patient inspection as she does now, her confidence lacking, and what appears to be remorse sagging her smile.

Before you can pend on its appearance, her expression morphs into one of mild tranquility.

“How are you faring?”

You are consumed in questionable silence, a frown tugging at your plush lips. Every so often she inquires about your mental health. No doubt to ensure you do not give reason to name yourself a hostage. The Reach, regardless of your marriage, has barred itself in a civil war.

Small Lords and civilians alike pledge for Rhaenyra, while the mighty remain loyal to Aegon. Soldiers have been abandoning their posts to fight for her, and you do not blame them.

Though, you cannot allow them to ever hear of your opinions. Neither can the Small Council. A single word from you, even a whisper of doubt upon your station, and many will take it as a sign. One that you are certain the Greens wish to avoid.

With a small, pliant simper, you answer, “I am doing well, Queen mother. Thank you.”

“Good,” she sighs, “I rarely see you anymore, with how often you are present in Aemond’s chambers.” Her laugh is as light as a bell, although forced, unsure.

As are you. In his chambers?

With a mild gape, you clench your book tightly. Why would he tell her that? You haven’t visited his rooms in almost a month. Do you explain this to her, or allow Aemond’s farce to remain? There must be a reason as to why he’d deceive his own mother. Dark Prince or no, you have never met a man as devoted to his sire as Aemond is.

For him to withhold the truth from her—that you spend most days isolated, reading or sewing or sketching—is astounding. You do not have much time to absorb what has been exposed to you, only instinct perseveres in your confusion.

“Ah, yes,” picking at the leather binds of your tome, you proceed, “he has been…attentive, as of late.”

Alicent, pleased with your answer, beams. It takes everything within you not to peek over at the Kingsguard, his brooding form a heavy shadow cast over you both. Would they speak of this later? Mull over your every word until they are satisfied that you are indeed no threat to them still. That you are ever the rabbit you came as, and have yet to shape yourself into anything dangerous.

You are doubtful you could become something more than collateral. A pawn you have been all your life, and there are few ways to climb out from the deep end without hurting others. If you truly wished for power, for absolution, you wouldn’t know where to begin, or if it's even possible.

Seven hells, the Gods know you don’t have the stomach for what they do. The people they hurt. Destroy.

Fire and Blood.

In the distance wildlife twitters, salt filled winds find rhythm in surrounding foliage, the ocean smooths over sand and kisses stone; it is empty, vast, lonely. Familiarity lies there too, rivulets of it trickle in your every crevice, every fold. Cold absence is to you what an old friend is to another.

A sweet embrace that chills you to the bone, and yet it is the only thing you can depend on. The only consistency that you have grown accustomed to. It torments you just as much as it gives you solitude.

At least you have some idea how your life will go on. No mystery or incertitude. Only what has been planned for you.

They crave obedience, a malleable piece easily swayed to their whims. Someone who will aid in their ascension to the throne, without the potential loose ends that might come from another—deceitful, power hungry, cunning—none of which you are.

Alicent is all and none of those things, as if she happens to fall into heaps of chaos by-weekly.

Many within the castle walls whisper of her cruel wit, but never of her desperate reach for protection. Smallfolk and servants alike murmur of her devout beliefs in the Seven, and the love she holds for her children, but even they do not see her as a creature of greed—even if the Blacks would have you do so.

You want to. Want to play folly and witness her acting the cretin; the monster. But most nights, you only see a mother—a child herself who labored heir after heir—unknowing what to do with her children, and is lost for it.

The very woman accosting your thoughts lays a graceful, near delicate palm atop your forearm.

She tightens her hold. Just enough for it to be considered forthright, comforting even. It has the opposite effect.

“I see much of myself in you,” she expels in a deep breath, discontent sprouting in morsels across her personage. You aren’t given time to acknowledge what she's said, her admittance anything but sweet, “which is why I must be blunt.”

You open your mouth to defend yourself, your lie a curse upon your lips, but she charges forth without a care for your interjections.

“You are a dutiful wife, my darling,” she begins, complexion made of steel, “but that duty does not end behind closed doors.”

Her comment slowly sinks within your mind; hot lips, strong hands, abdomen twisted in a nameless heat. It had left your thighs slick, your center had throbbed. You’d never experienced that before, and you fear Aemond will pull it from you once more.

Alicent clasps her hands, the motion brings you up for air—returns you to reality. “My son has offered a kindness I did not know he had,” she admits, a small wisp of pride laxens her posture, “but the wants of a Princess are beneath the needs of a Kingdom, let alone Aemond’s concerns for your comfort. It is your obligation as his wife to produce children, and it is his to ensure that it is done.”

What softness she has dissipates, her gentle coercion replaced by reverence. By a Queen.

She stands then, tall and narrow and divine. Your hummingbird's heart slips into tempo, overstrung and bleeding.

“You shall visit him tonight,” she scans the title of your book, the way you pinch into its gaudy flesh and frowns, “it must be done.”

The evening comes to you in a fog.

You feast alone, a blessing and a curse fit inside a thimble of apprehension. The entirety of it is spent picking at what little you can swallow, and when you are finished, no time is wasted in preparing you for the night.

Steaming, pearlescent water fills your golden tub to its rim. Orange slices, rosemary, and Myrish oils smother your body—the scent is overwhelming, but not unpleasant. It's almost nice enough to lose yourself in. The silence is flecked with wanton peace; desire for security, comfort, perhaps affection. You think of nothing and everything.

Of lilacs and lavenders and sapphires.

Strong hands. Hot lips.

“Rosemary will suit you.”

Startled, you slip further into the water, milky bubbles splashing against the stone floors. With bruising force, you halt your descent from beyond your chin, fingers grinding against solid gold in distress.

Aemond stands not far from where you are seated. Close enough to see the tops of your breasts, that you know. He makes no effort in hiding his appraisal, licking his lips as he takes in what has been exposed. He does give you the faint honor of being quick, diffident—for a husband needn’t take his wife nor her purity into account when she is his. Aemond doesn’t seem the type to take pleasure by force. Not with you. Not yet.

He finds your eyes, all but demanding you submit to his presence. It isn’t intentional, you think, as a man like him reeks of fire and blood. A heavy presence that hinders your forethought.

The Prince is draped in obsidian finery: expensive leather, lightweight brocade, and seamless stitching. It is a stark contrast to that of his Targaryen features. Porcelain laid bare in an endless inky, black sea.

Cotton swells at the back of your throat, occluding moisture, and your tongue suddenly feels twice its size. Candle light illuminates his silver-gold tresses, the dragon glass dagger at his hip, and you can create a clear portrait within your mind of his sapphire eye gleaming, as the rest of him does.

It’s glacial, collecting warmth and imbuing it with rage. A heavenly jewel from the Gods for an undeserving, wicked man.

Dark Prince. Kinslayer. Usurper.

Realization pours down your palate. Thick like molasses, without the telltale sweetness to soothe your dubiety. You were meant to go to him. To be paraded through the Red Keep like a gift—a threat. More were to come into this war, if that was what the Blacks wanted. And you were meant to be the messenger.

Did Alicent speak to him as well, or had he come of his own volition? It is one thing to be invited to his solar, and another for him to put aside responsibility in search of your resting quarters.

Why was he here? Gods, how long has he been standing there?

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until he takes a step, then two, arms still locked behind his back. His shoulders seem somehow broader for it, generous chest cutting sharply into his trim waist.

Mouth parting, you draw your knees up as far as possible. “My Prince,” you address, demure, gentle: a lady’s armor.

“Husband,” he corrects, “would you like my assistance?”

Your skin prickles, cheeks scalding in embarrassment. There are no handmaid's present, and you do not wish to exit the tub without a robe to shield your modesty. Aemond has not seen you bare—he has yet to see much of you in general.

However, being well aware of your demands as a wife urges you to comply. It may be a suggestion, but you know what you are meant to do tonight. He was to see you regardless of your comfort.

I can do this, you shiver, fingers numb with exhaustion, he will be quick.

Slow to answer, Aemond’s jaw clenches, a groove of concern entrenched in his pale complexion. It doesn’t fade as it does most times, remaining steadfast in its earlier visage.

His baritone echoes throughout your chamber, velvet smooth and singed in flame. “I shall fetch a handmaid for you.”

He turns on his heel, beginning towards the door.

Alicents' saccharine, though candid nature slithers upright in your mind. A reflection of Aemond’s hostility, his banal affliction towards family, and sharp tongue. You have seen what it means to upset Aemond Targaryen from afar. You don’t want to tempt fate, and discover Alicent is a fury unspoken for.

“Aemond,” you manage to eke out, compliance heavy against your sternum. You’ve never said his name before. Not aloud.

Dense footfalls come to an abrupt stop.

Lower lip threatening to quiver, you suck in a breath, “Some help would be much appreciated.”

It is a slow descent, his gait calculative; Dragons do not think of consequences. They burn and bleed and destroy. Hunt the weak as they do the brave. Aemond reminds you of such a beast, authoritative, domineering, and dictates the lives of the smallfolk and lords alike. All powerful. All consuming.

Heavy cloth bristles behind you, the thick smack of him straightening it out. You bite your lip when he stops beside the basin, cerulean linen held high. Chancing a glance his way, you find him looking the other direction.

Gulping, you slowly stand, shivering as you do. The stone is cold, and you hiss at the sensation while securing the robe around your figure. Aemond flickers your direction, acute interest blatant.

No warning is given when he strides forward, knocking your knees from under you, and pulling you into his chest in a single heave. In an effort to keep your balance, your arms swing around his neck, and you nearly shout under the duress of it.

His body is lithe; solid against you. Agile fingers—smoldering, brokered in flame—crane over the plush expanse of your thighs, melding beneath your weight. Your nails nip at his neck, though Aemond does not react. He is brisk, easily hauling you from one end of your personal chambers to the next.

Stupefied, you allow him to set you down.

The robe is displaced, unveiling your left shoulder, the swell of your breast; your damp legs shimmer as they too are revealed under a shaft of moonlight. Aemond does not move, for a time he just stares. You don’t know what to do under his scrutiny, but you don’t dare interrupt whatever it is he has lost himself in.

You’re on fire. A blazing inferno shaping sinew and bone into hollow ornaments. The sensation pours down your palette and solidifies, tension sprawling from your head to your chest, and coalacing at your center.

Whatever it is, the sensation is familiar. Pitted shame flocks to your sternum, corralling its everlasting tides to your person. It bridges your thighs together, a sweet strain despite your loathing towards it.

You know that if you were brave enough, you could discover exactly what it is you feel. What leaves you clenching around nothing, slick and buzzing.

Involuntarily, you do just as the mere image would dictate. Squeezing oneself shut tight around nothing, is for a lack of better words, abhorrent. Are you meant to yearn for more than…what is said you should want? You are not completely absolved of your education on your marital expectations.

What is meant to happen where you reside, lord husband only inches away—inches?

A breaths width away, Aemond pilfers the oxygen from your diaphragm when he cusps your chin in a vice. A whimper—no, not a whimper, not anything—your mouth outlines what you wish to make into reality, but no sound follows. You try again, urging some variable of sentiment to escape you. Whether it be a gasp or whine needn’t matter, only that it does.

For if this is what rendered you silent, this act of belligerence, would he not take it as exceptional? For as long as you have shared his name, he has not laid a hand on you, and has left you unharmed. You wish for that to remain unchanged, as hopeless as that might be. To remain intact, wherein your mother had been put to ruin, is heavy on your mind then.

Lord Ashford is a punitive man, and has an unrestrained endearment for discipline. His severe teachings have left their mark upon your skin, a reminder of what your mother had been forced to endure all her life. A life she never truly lived.

It feels wrong, the way you react to your husband, his mishandling of you. A voice, timorous, accuses you of being a traitor to your mother and what she had endured until death.

That does not ease the flare inside your chest, how it slithers up the back of your throat, let alone the way you lean into his clutch. Aemond hums, an all too common habit the Prince must have produced at a young age. One that always, without fail, disarms you.

It reverberates alongside your heartbeat, trembles under your loss of cohesion. You are silk to his steel, a petal to iron. Complaisant, tensile, submissive; at his mercy. That is what is coveted in a wife, is it not? What you were taught since girlhood.

Pallid lilac is swallowed whole by his pupil, onyx clouding the once vibrant Targaryen shade steadily. It’s saddening, tragic even, watching something so beautiful and rare fade away in real time.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, you blink up at him from under your lashes. His leer traces your plush mouth, his tongue peeking out to wet his own as his thumb draws a harsh line from your chin to your lower lip. Once more, he cranes your head to his pleasure, and you are reminiscent of Alicents caution a last time.

“Kiss me.”

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