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legitalicat · 3 months

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Out of Time

Chapter 1 - "Along Blackwater Bay"

AN: This dedication has been removed. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoy your works.

If you love this header go check out zaldritzosrose for more amazing work! She is tagged on the series masterlist and on my welcome post!

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Summary: Princess Y/N Velaryon awakes on the shore of Blackwater Bay confused, hurt, and alone. She is found and escorted to the Red Keep, where she learns the circumstances surrounding her awakening.

TW: memory loss, reader is AFAB, talks/descriptions of injury, first person POV because I suck at any other POV I am sorry

Word count: 3.7 K

I awoke on the shores of King’s Landing, the water from Blackwater Bay rushing up my lower legs. My heart was pounding as I sat up. There was no reasonable explanation as to how I ended up here. Last night I went to sleep in my bed, feeling rather warm and fuzzy from the wine I had consumed at dinner.

The early morning light was shining through the mist that was coming off the water. Slowly, I made my way into a standing position. My black dress was torn around the hem, soaked from the sea water. My muscles were sore and my bones stiff. Every breath I took felt as though I was being punched in the left side. I was near certain my brown hair was wild, no longer in the neat braid I most commonly kept it in.

There weren’t any citizens on the shores this time of morning. For many, they would have already went out in their boats to begin their fishing for the day. The others, it was simply too early to start the day. However, I did see two city watchmen doing their rounds on the docks.

“Excuse me!” I shouted to them, waving my arms. They approached me, their gold cloaks shining in the sun. I recognized neither of them.

“Princess Y/N?” One asked as he stopped in front of me. I nodded softly. “Come with us.”

I could not really tell which guardsmen they were. They were in full armor, donning a helm and chainmail covering all but their eyes. Being roughly the same height as each other, that wasn’t even helpful to determine who I was following. However, I knew that nobody wearing golden cloaks would bring any harm to me. My stepfather would have their heads if my mother didn’t get to them first.

So, I made the only decision I could make in this instance. Silence laid over us like a thick fog as I walked with them through the city streets. One in front of me, one behind me, their hands on the swords at all times. We went to the barracks at which point they told me to stay in the front room. The one that had walked in front of me went off , I suppose to inform his commander of this situation, while the other man stood in the room with me. It was not long before there were a few other watchmen and even a serving girl to sit with me.

Nobody dared to speak to me other than what was necessary. Even when I threatened them with my status, first born child of the heir to the Iron Throne and betrothed to her heir, so that one day I would be Queen, did not loosen their tongues. None of my questions were answered. All that was said was that my mother would answer any question I had.

They spent longer than I thought necessary preparing a carriage to take me up to the Red Keep. I was almost certain I heard their commander send a small group of men to shut down the streets between here and the Red Keep but that couldn’t be right. Never had the streets been closed because of my travels, as there had never been a time that I was in danger. Once he received word that all the streets were closed and nobody would be looking to the street, I was put into a carriage.

My ride to the Red Keep was done with the singular maid in the carriage with me, one watchmen controlling the carriage, and three others riding around on horseback. They weren’t brought to my precession until after I was already in my seat. And still, nobody spoke to me. I could only glance out the windows at the city to try to see the citizens of King’s Landing, but it seemed though I had heard the Watch’s Commander correctly and the men did completely empty the streets.

It was midday by the time that the carriage stopped in front of the door to the keep. The door was opened and I was offered a hand to help me out. It was the first protocol that had been kept in my presence. And now that I was on the ground, I finally saw the first people besides the Gold Cloaks and the maid.

At the top of the stairs stood my mother, my step grandmother holding her hand tightly as they both looked at the carriage. Queen Alicent had always been a forceful presence in my life, demanding things of my mother and father that were crude and unfair. Though she never liked my brothers, I seemed to be near and dear to her in a way that not even her own daughter was. One could almost convince me she viewed me separately from them as though I were anyone but my mother’s daughter.

Flanking each of them were their respective sides of the family. My twin, my betrothed, Jacaerys stood beside my mother. He was more shocked than I had ever seen him when we made eye contact. There was Lucerys beside him, who looked older than he should as he was a man grown, and the same could just about be said about Joffrey. The other two boys on my mother’s side could’ve only been Aegon III and Viserys II, my two baby brothers, but they were not babies. They were easily nine and seven respectively. It shouldn’t have been possible. It was only last night that they could have easily fit in my arms, now they were half my height.

When I looked to Alicent’s side, Aegon and Aemond stood beside her with Helaena further back. Her three children, Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, and Maelor stood hand in hand beside of her. Again, everyone looked older than they should, older than when last I saw them.

My step father Daemon and my step sisters Rhaena and Baela were not with my mother, but the maid whispered to me that they were visiting our grandparents in Driftmark. She gave me no answers to any other question.

Out of everyone, there were three people that desperately wanted to break free from the crowd. Obviously my mother was trying to hold some decorum, some sort of semblance of what it means to be a Targaryen, even though I could see her inching closer. Jace was completely frozen with shock, the pull that existed between us not enough to motivate his feet. Then there was Aemond, who seemed to be willing to disregard all things that could be considered proper as he took the steps two at a time to close the distance between us.

His arms were around me before I could blink, and despite the physical pain when he touched my side, it caused a comfortable feeling in my brain that soothed something inside of me. I returned his affections, desperate for some sort of connection. As much as it had always annoyed my brothers, Aemond and I were very close growing up. He and I were the last to get dragons, the last to fulfill what it means to be a Targaryen. It binds you in ways that you can’t explain to anyone else.

“Byka zaldrīzes,” he whispered to me. Little Dragon, the name he gave me the moment he claimed Vhagar, to assure me one day I would have one too. “How I have missed you.”

“I don’t understand, Aemond. Why is everyone acting as though I am not real? One would think I died.” I asked him, loud enough so that my voice would carry.

“You have been gone for nearly six years,” my mother said. I pulled myself from Aemond’s grip to look at her.

“What?” my voice was cracked under the pressure that was building in my chest. “No. No. I was just with you all last night. I would know if I had been gone.”

Then I turned my gaze to Jace, who still looked as though he has seen a ghost. His inability to come to me, the way he watched me like I was about to dissolve in the wind, not even commenting on Aemond’s grasp on me, it told me all I need to know. The words were true and I had missed out on six years.

But I needed him beside me. He was my brother, my twin, I have existed for as long as he has and will continue to exist as long as he does. We were written in the stars, always destined for each other. We had given each other everything as we knew we were to be married one day.

“Issa dārys,” I called to him. My king. He will be my king one day, a good husband and father to my future children. We will rule the kingdom together, side by side. We’ve known this for our entire lives, and once we could really understand it, there was no turning back.

He slowly descended the stairs to me. Our eyes stayed glued to each other as he closed the distance. My body yearned for him. He was my other half; we were not two separate entities, simply just two pieces of the same soul.

When he was within arm’s reach of me, his ability to show restraint faltered. He grabbed me by the face and kissed me, all regard for propriety out the window. But it wasn’t as though I minded. I belonged to Jace, I always had, so it was only natural that I returned his affections. Propriety be damned.

It was less than a minute, rather tame compared to all other kisses we’ve shared, but the moment it was over, I become increasingly aware of cracks forming in my heart. His forehead resting against mine, I could guarantee I was home. I was safe as long as we were together.

My mother had informed me that I was not to be alone for the coming weeks. When we were alone in the room I had growing up here, she held me to her and cried. She insisted on me having a bath before I see the Maesters. A few of her most trusted maids helped me out of my dress and into the bath. The way her face contorted in mental anguish, tears forming in her eyes, as she looked over my body was something I would never forget. A glance in a mirror showed I had bruises and scars scattered across my body, including over my ribcage on the left, and a busted lip I was unaware of until now.

“If it brings any comfort, I do not remember it happening,” I said to her quietly as she sat beside the tub. There was a failed attempt to prove to her I was okay as I went to pour water over my hair, but the stretching motion caused enough pain I lost my breath.

“It causes me more worry than anything,” she told me. Her voice was fragile in the same way a flower is, soft and delicate, able to be broken in one move if anyone chose. “But it is nothing you need to fret over. We shall have the Maesters examine you and treat you, in a few weeks it will be as though this didn’t happen.”

Mother asked the maids to go inform the Maesters of our need and then sent one to bring me food from the kitchens. I think it was in equal part that she needed to feel useful but also needing to just be alone with me. There was no part of my brain that could even fathom what she had been feeling for these years.

She caught me up on all of the happenings in our family while she washed me. The night I had gone missing, my grandsire was greeted by The Stranger. She lost the babe she had been pregnant with within a few days of that, a girl that was named Visenya. It was an impossible amount of grief to deal with in such a short time and all I wanted was to take away all of her pain and suffering.

“Did Otto not try to put Aegon on the throne?” I whispered to her as she took her time gently washing my hair. She refused to let it wait for the maids, insisting that five years is long enough for someone else to care for me.

“He wanted to, but when I sent Alicent a letter informing her of your disappearance, she halted her father’s plans,” she told me. “Nobody, not Aegon nor Aemond, cared for the throne after you were gone.”

“But why? She has hated you for as long as I can remember. They have hated us for just as long. What difference did I make?” I asked.

“Oh sweet girl, they have never hated you. I cannot say how they felt about your brothers, nor can I deny the resentment Alicent and I have felt for one another. You, however, have been loved throughout it all. You were the light of your grandsire’s life, Alicent has adored you from the moment she laid eyes on you. Aegon and Aemond both used to beg for your hand. You, darling, take after your father.” She ran the water through my hair, rinsing all of the dirt and oils from it. I ran my right hand through it, as that was the only arm I could lift so high without crying, and it felt much cleaner than it had before.

“Which father?” I spoke, barely above a whisper, standing with her assistance.

“Both Laenor and Ser Harwin loved you dearly, as they were both loved by you. You enchanted them from the moment you made your entrance into the world, and you did so until they died. You are both of them, the best of them, in a perfect package.”

I could only nod. Jace and I knew from a very young age that Laenor was not our blood. He claimed us all the same, cared for us as much as he could. Ser Harwin, though, made every difference in our lives. Even if Luke wasn’t completely aware, our father spent every moment he could watching over us. He trained with the boys every morning, attended my lessons as much as possible, trained me in swords in the eve. He was there for Luke’s birth, was there within a few hours of Joffrey’s. And the love he held for my mother, to be willing to love her from a distance and sire children he could never claim…it was admirable.

“Jace never married,” I stated. It was not a question, but an observation. I knew far too well that if he had, he would never have put the shame on his wife that would’ve been given to her when he kissed me so publicly.

“The two of you share a special connection. He could not bring himself to agree to any marriage proposal until we knew one way or another. He said that he would only be with his other half unless there were no other options,” she spoke softly. She helped me into a new dress, a beautiful sea green color to represent House Velaryon.

“So, until my body washed ashore somewhere?” I asked, a ghost of a laugh coming through. I could see a frown slowly creeping onto her face. “Mother, I’m sorry. I can’t Imagine how difficult the last few years have been.”

“You are back now, my darling girl. That is what matters,” she told me, sitting me in the nearest chair so that she could braid my hair. “Aegon asked me to annul his marriage to Helaena. Their’s was not a happy one, I do not wish that upon any of my family.”

I was grateful for her gentle touch as she worked carefully with my hair. It wasn’t as though my mother had ever been rough with me, but there was a gentleness that she always seemed to have whenever we were sick or hurt.

The first time Jace flew on Vermax, he pulled me onto the saddle. We both returned blistered and aching. Yet once it hit midnight and my fever had fully set in, it was realized I had an Infection because I wasn’t wearing proper dragon riding clothes and my skin was rubbed off until I was bleeding. She sat by my side for nearly a week then. She prayed to nearly every god, even the ones she had no faith in, and she was so soft with me you would think she was a mere common woman instead of the future Queen.

“And Aemond?” I asked her once she pulled her hands away from my hair.

“Refuses to marry. He has wanted to marry you since the two of you attempted to run off to Dragonstone when you were children,” she chuckled. “If I did not know you, I would say that was his idea.”

“In my defense, we had been speaking about the Valyrian traditions that have been lost. He and I were going to marry in the tradition of Valyria and then Jace and I would marry under the Seven,” I told her, a smile on my face.

I was approximately five years old when that became our plan in life. Aegon the Conqueror had two wives, so I would have two husbands. Of course, whenever Jace was told about this plan, he vehemently denied me. He said he would give me everything that I would ever need when he was king.

“He was hoping that Jace would find a new bride, so that when you came back he could have you,” she told me, taking my hands in hers. “Before you ask, yes. He was certain you would come back. He spent nearly a year searching all of Westeros for you on Vhagar. He only returned at the request of Helaena.”

“What do I do, mama?” I whispered. “It has been so long, so much has changed. Little Aegon and Viserys won’t even know me. Is Vhaela even alive?”

Vhaela was my dragon. She had been a wild dragon that approached King’s landing near six moons before my eighteenth nameday. She was the most gorgeous shade of amethyst, her scales glittering in the sunlight whenever I flew her. She had rested on a mountain not far out from the city and I snuck out of the castle to get a closer look. Never had I known of a dragon who was so calm and regal when being approached. It was like she was royalty and she knew exactly what the difference between us was. It was this confidence she carried that lead me to attempt to claim her, and she graciously agreed to a partnership with me.

“Vhaela is in the Dragon Pit. She enjoys flying when Aemond and Jace go, I believe she feels close enough to you through them to allow them to care for her. As for your younger brothers, we did not let them forget. They know you, not in the same way they know Jace, Luke, and Joffrey, but you are not a stranger to them,” she assured me. Her voice did not waiver in this. It was instead supported by a firmness that could only result from a confident truth.

She turned me to face her directly, hands starting to squeeze mine. The look on her face was so tender, so comforting, I wasn’t sure what to do except let a few tears leave my eyes. It all felt so overwhelming, and there was no certainty as to what I should do.

“You wished to be betrothed to Jace at a young age. Do you still wish it?” she asked me quietly. “Or does your heart desire another?”

“I love Jace with my entire being,” I told her firmly. It was everything I could do to ignore how my heart began racing.

“Save for the piece of your heart that has long been held by Aemond.”

My head dropped. There was nobody that I had ever told of my affections for Aemond. He had never exactly been subtle, that I would admit. A year before Luke’s claim to Driftmark was questioned, my Grandsire the King had requested my appearance at court. He wished to spend time with me. And during that time, Aemond and I grew as close as we were as children. Maybe even closer.

But that did not matter. Those were the adventures of a young girl. I was promised to Jace formally when my family came to King’s Landing. Any affections that I had for Aemond was left behind in that moment.

The kisses that we shared In the library or in the gardens were innocent. The nights spent in my chambers, talking until the sun comes up. We absolutely did not do anything that was considered something that could ruin me. We did not make each other come undone for hours every night.

“That was a girl’s exploits. I belong with Jace, we were brought into the world together and together we shall always be,” I said while trying to keep my voice steady as hers. Yet, when it came to the overwhelming truth of Aemond and I, I was never steady. And so I turned away from her, withdrawing my hands from her touch. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her stand.

“I only wish to see you happy, to marry for love and not for duty,” she told me, taking a flower from a vase nearby and sticking it in my hair. “Allow yourself to court both of them. There have been many changes during your time gone. When you have been made completely sure, I will not question your mind again.”

Before I could say anything in response, knock on the door echoed through the room. The Maesters were here to examine my injuries. Instinctually I turned to face mother, who silently promised me she was not leaving. With a deep and painful breath, I was able to nod and allow them inside.

#dividers by benkeibear #aemond targaryen x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #out of time

160 notes · View notes

dango-milk · 1 year

Text

to make them love me (and make it seem effortless)

pairings: aemond x fem! Targaryen! reader / original female character

word count: 15,046

genre: fluff, angst

content warnings: TARGCEST, age gap, mentions of death, mentions of childbirth, swearing (aemond has a potty mouth)

additional notes: we interrupt your regular genshin x reader viewing by bringing you this (big) little thing I wrote for aemond targaryen. he had me in a chokehold until I finally relented and. this is it.

expect a couple more works on this pathetic little meow meow and an eventual update to an ode to heartbreak!

read this work on ao3

“I don’t understand,” Aemond says in disbelief, pushing his helmet’s visor out of his face as he attempts to decipher the contents of the note. “How could I have not been informed of this earlier?”

Ormund shrugs. “Perhaps the tourney masters thought it best to rearrange the lists. More signed up for the games than they thought.”

“Their poor planning does not justify an inconvenience on my part,” Aemond scoffs. “I am a Prince of the realm. I should be placed higher up on the lists.”

“Never mind that, cousin,” Ormund attempts to console him. “It is your first tourney, after all—”

“—and yet it is one we all look forward to seeing.”

The two look up to see Aegon sauntering into the hall, grinning from ear to ear as if he’d just been privy to a particularly humorous joke. Aemond rolls his eyes as he shoves the note into Ormund’s hand.

“Why so tense, dear brother?” Aegon nudges Aemond playfully. “I only speak the truth. You’ve never really thought much of tourneys.”

“Some of us like to keep most of our thoughts to ourselves,” Aemond shoots back, as he fiddles with his armor. “Where’s Helaena?”

“Back in the castle.” Aegon jabs his finger behind him. “All the shouting was getting to her, so Mother had me escort her back.”

At Aegon’s words, Ormund’s expression lit up in realization. “Perhaps it was the Queen behind it!”

“Shut up!” Aemond hisses, at the same time Aegon asks, “Behind what?”

“Er…” Ormund scratches his head, lowering his gaze in response to Aemond’s murderous one. “Behind, er, the Princess’ nameday tourney.”

Aegon scoffs. “My mother can hardly be credited for my sister’s nameday tourney. We all celebrate our namedays for days at a time, with tourneys and feasts galore.”

He glances around, taking in the sight of the contestants and squires milling about the area. “Though our sister’s nameday tourney has, indeed, piqued the interest of all. How strange.”

“Hardly,” Aemond mumbles. “She comes of age today.”

“Ah!” Aegon claps his hands. “Our beloved sister comes of age today, yes. I wonder just what the prize is for this tourney.”

“Surely, His Grace would not decide who Princess [Y/N] marries based on who wins today’s tourney?” Ormund says, blissfully unaware of Aemond slightly wincing at his words.

Aegon frowns. “Have you never picked up a history book, cousin?”

“Have you?” Aemond retorts.

“Of course I did. I never said I read them, though.” Aegon sniffs. “It’s not usual, but it’s certainly not new. Tourneys are simply pageants in all but name. See for yourself.”

The trio turn to see a tall, sweeping teenager, with locks the color of night and skin like copper parading about the hall, his bronze armor chased with red, a spear piercing the sun on its front.

“Qoren Martell,” Aemond whispers, a sense of dread washing over him.

Aegon hums. “Came in right at the last second, as they were drawing up the lists.”

Ormund turns to Aemond, holding up the note he had been reading earlier, an expression of understanding dawning on his face. Aemond fidgets beneath his armor, hating that Aegon had a point for once; there really wasn’t any other plausible explanation for Dorne to finally start taking an interest in the Crown’s affairs.

Aegon looks over at him, seemingly contemplating his next line. He decides instead to clap Aemond’s back, sending him forward. “Oh, don’t worry, brother! The Dornish don’t mind sharing their lovers. They seem to enjoy it, in fact.”

Aemond turns and walks briskly away from his brother, Ormund hastily trailing beside him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Of course, Aegon had to press further, keeping up with Aemond’s pace in a couple of long strides. “Oh, but I think you do,” he says. “If there’s anything the Dornish get right, it’s their outlook on bastards. I’m sure Prince Qoren wouldn’t mind if [Y/N]’s children turn out to have silver hair and a remarkable resemblance to a certain other Prince—”

Aemond stops abruptly to stare Aegon directly in the eye. “[Y/N] is not you. You would let our sister disgrace herself and put the stability of the realm at risk?”

Aegon towers over him, smirking triumphantly. “You and I both know that’s not any of your concern.”

“Then you do not know me.” Aemond turns away again, walking towards the edge of the hall where the tourney field was being set up. Hordes of people continued filing into the stands, some of whom were dressed to the nines despite the sun beating down upon them like a drum. He glances at the King’s Box, watching as the newest arrivals, the Velaryons, occupy their seats next to Rhaenyra and her children.

A mix of gasps and cheers sound from the smallfolk as a shadow passes over them, coupled with a familiar-sounding roar. Aemond squints up at the sky, and his heart practically leaps at the sight.

The voice of the Master of Revels announcing your arrival is all but drowned out by Silverwing’s proud roar, as you land her atop the King’s Box, jostling the people inside. Rhaenyra grabs the end of Lucerys’ coat to keep him from falling off trying to look up at you, while Lyonel Strong steadies a visibly surprised Viserys. Aegon lets out a hearty laugh at the sight, and Aemond could not help but join in.

It’s only when the she-dragon lowers her neck does Aemond finally get a better look at you. You’re grinning from ear to ear, and the only thing that could compete with the brightness of your smile was the glint of your silvery hair in the sun. Your dragon climbs down the Box, much to your family’s chagrin as they grip the arms of their chairs to stay steady.

Silverwing dips herself to the ground of the tourney field, allowing you to dismount and pat her neck before you wave to the crowds. You don a black dress chased with blue (which Aemond presumes is for your late lady mother, who was an Arryn), with the Targaryen three-headed dragon embroidered on your front.

“A fly might make its way down your throat if you don’t close it,” Ormund murmurs in Aemond’s ear, and he only sniggers as Aemond elbows him in the stomach. When your eyes meet his, he prays his ears aren’t as red as he thinks they are.

“Seven blessings on your nameday, dear sister,” Aegon says, pairing the mock reverence in his tone with an exaggerated bow.

You only snort as you remove your riding gloves. “Save your courtesies for someone who actually believes them.”

“Now, is that any behavior befitting a lady who has just come of age?”

You deliver a playful punch to Aegon’s midsection, which he just barely dodges.

Ormund bows. “I wish you a happy nameday, Princess.”

Aemond fidgets nervously, silently cursing both Aegon and Ormund for getting to greet you first.

You smile warmly. “Thank you, Ormund.” When you turn to look at Aemond, you reach out to push his visor out of his face. “Finally joining the lists today, eh, Aemond? I never thought you were interested in jousting.”

Aemond opens his mouth, but no sound leaves it. Behind you, Aegon raises his eyebrows, giving him a look that says, Say something!

“I…decided to test my skills today,” Aemond manages.

Aegon silently gestures for him to keep going.

“…and I thought your nameday would give me extra luck,” he adds, now feeling the blood rushing to his cheeks.

You laugh, reaching over once again to pat the front of his armor. He wonders if you can feel his heart hammering underneath the cold metal.

Aegon clears his throat, glancing at something behind Aemond; in his periphery, he sees Qoren Martell hovering around the group. Ormund, miraculously, gets the silent message.

“If you would excuse us, Princess,” the Hightower lord says, slapping the back of Aemond’s armor. “As his loyal squire, I have a duty to get Prince Aemond ready.”

You nod in understanding. “I will pray for your opponents,” you say solemnly, and a genuine smile finally breaks out onto his face.

“Will you allow me to escort you back to the King’s Box?” Aegon says in his mocking tone once again, and you wrinkle your nose before dropping your hand into his.

Ormund pushes Aemond in the other direction. “Come now, my Prince,” he says. “You’d better get ready if you want to win the Princess’ favor.”

“I’ve been put in the lower lists,” Aemond reminds him miserably, while keeping his eyes trained on Qoren Martell attempting to strike up a conversation with you.

“What of it?” Ormund scoffs, suddenly sounding confident. “It just means you’ll score more victories. Makes the final one all the more sweet. Just trust your training, and you’ll have Qoren Martell on his fat Dornish ass before you know it.”

It seemingly only takes a split second for all the air to leave Aemond’s lungs when he crashes into the dirt. Though his armor had taken the brunt of his fall, pain shoots all over his body like tendrils of lightning, ironically leaving him feeling momentarily weightless.

He manages to roll onto his back, gasping for air and staring up at the sky above. The ringing in his ears subsides enough for him to hear the triumphant shouts and the shocked gasps of the crowd, as well as the neighing of his distressed horse. He blinks the stars out of his eyes, and after remembering seeing a Bolton squire die from a lance to the throat, he checks himself for any injuries. To his relief, he seemed to be physically fine.

“My Prince! Aemond, cousin!” Suddenly, Ormund was hovering over him, distress and clear fear in his eyes. “Speak to me, are you alright?”

“I’m…” Aemond coughs, feeling his lungs constrict, then relax. “I’m fine.”

A tourney master joins Ormund. “Will you continue with a contest of arms, my Prince?”

Ormund helps Aemond sit up, and he catches a glimpse of his sword lying off to the side. He blinks again, and his vision finally returns to normal; he sees his opponent (who, by the stag on his armor, Aemond surmises is a Baratheon) jumping off his horse and running over to him.

You fool, Aemond wants to shout. If your opponent wished to continue, you might have benefited from the distance.

But he glances over to the King’s Box, where members of his own family were peering over at him, awaiting his decision. His mother leans over the railing the furthest, so much so that her ladies were trying to restrain her.

He does not see you.

Aemond sighs and shakes his head, and the tourney master nods.

“Prince Aemond forfeits! The winner of this round…”

“My Prince!” The Baratheon boy tosses his helmet to the side, sticking his hand out. Aemond clicks his tongue, but accepts the gesture, allowing his opponent to pull him up. “It was an honor to tilt against you, Prince Aemond. I hope to be given the opportunity again.”

Not likely, Aemond wants to snap back. But he only gives the boy a brief smile and a respectful nod, before turning away.

“Do you need help?” Ormund offers.

“No, be quiet, keep walking,” Aemond commands, keeping his head held high. He nods and waves to the crowds shouting out their congratulations to him, deliberately ignoring the pain he was starting to feel in his left leg.

As soon as he was out of both the public and his opponents’ sight, Aemond finally gives in, grabbing the wall for support as he reaches down to tug at his armored leg.

“Aemond!” Ormund throws one of Aemond’s arm over his shoulders. “Sit down, I’ll call the maesters.”

“No, no need,” he hisses in reply. “Just help me get my armor off.”

“But you might have twisted or broken your leg, I—”

“If I had twisted or broken my leg, you’d think I’d bloody well know, wouldn’t I?” Aemond snaps. “You’re my squire, act like it. Just take off the damn armor.”

Ormund blinks. Aemond feels a twinge of regret over the venom in his tone, but elects not to say another word. He instead works on the buckles of the metal, all the while trying to swallow down the growing lump in his throat and blink away the stinging in his eyes. Ormund finally assists him, detaching the parts away and allowing Aemond to stretch his limbs out.

The humiliation weighs over him even as he climbs into the King’s Box. Ser Criston Cole is the first to greet him, and after looking over him to find no serious injuries, pats Aemond’s shoulders. “You did very well, my Prince,” Criston assures him. “Don’t lose heart. You’ll get your chance one day.”

Aemond offers him the same tight-lipped smile he’d given his opponent, and keeps it on as his mother hurries over, worry painted all over her face.

“Are you alright?” she fusses, pushing his hair out of his eyes, looking as if she was about to demand he remove all his clothes in front of all who were present. “The lance—I thought it went through—”

“His armor took the blow, Your Grace,” Ser Criston says. “The Baratheon squire’s lance splintered against it, yes, but there’s no harm to him as far as I can see.”

A Baratheon squire. Aemond’s jaw locks in anger; he, a Prince of the realm, had lost to a Baratheon squire of all people.

Alicent sighs. “You scared me, deciding to enter the lists out of nowhere. Perhaps you should wait until you’re a little older before—”

“Why did you place me further down the lists?” Aemond hisses, keeping his voice as low as possible (but failing to contain the anger in it).

Alicent frowns. “What?”

“I was supposed to tilt against the likes of Qoren Martell,” Aemond whispers furiously. “I am the son of the King, in line to the throne, brother to the Princess to whom this tourney is dedicated to! Why wasn’t I placed where I was originally supposed to be?”

“I am not liking your tone, Aemond,” Alicent warns. “Remember that you are not of age yet. This is a vile, cruel game where men attempt to kill each other for sport. Be grateful that you were even allowed at all to compete.”

Aemond opens his mouth to protest, but Alicent gives him a look so scathing, whatever argument he had promptly died in his throat. He grunts in displeasure and pushes past her, ignoring his father's Council members congratulating him as he goes.

He finds his seat regrettably next to Aegon, who at the sight of him, bursts into uncontrollable laughter. Aemond surges forward, only to be stopped by Rhaenyra's outstretched arm.

"You did well, little brother," she says, though all Aemond hears is the underlying distaste that she seems to reserve solely for him, Aegon, and Alicent. "But settle your scores with Aegon later. I'd rather not ruin my sister's day with any of your antics."

Aemond removes her arm from his path, sauntering forward and dropping into his seat, taking care to crush Aegon's foot underneath his. A heavy hand finds its way onto his shoulder, and he turns to find its owner, a scowl on his face ready to greet them—

"Well done, my boy," Viserys says, a smile on his lined face. "Next time, you'll win. I know it."

One could almost take your words for affection, old man, Aemond thinks, as Viserys pats his shoulder again before settling back in his seat. Still, he manages a polite, "Thank you, Father," before turning back to the tourney still playing out beneath him.

It takes a while for him to realize that you were sitting right across him, already turned to face him with your signature blinding smile. You reach out to pat his interlocked hands. "Father's right," you tell him. "You'll win next time. If you focus on your training."

"I will if you will," he blurts, before he could stop himself.

"Ha! I feel I'm much better at riding a dragon than wielding a sword."

The moment is shattered when Lucerys (who Aemond just realized had been sitting on your lap the entire time) begins to wave your wreath around wildly, causing you to turn away from Aemond to keep your nephew from falling to the ground.

He watches as, to nobody's surprise, Qoren Martell wins the tourney. The Dornish Prince urges his horse forward towards the King's Box, and asks for your favor. Rhaenyra nudges Ser Laenor, the two sharing knowing glances as you stand with Lucerys in your arms and balanced on your hip, instructing the boy to toss your crown of red and black roses into Qoren's hands, much to the delight of the spectators.

In that moment, Lucerys’ curly brown locks no longer suspiciously remind Aemond of the Commander of the City Watch standing right next to Ser Laenor, but of the man staring adoringly from below as you and Lucerys wave to the crowds.

Aemond stands, mumbling an excuse in his brother's ear, and leaves the Box in a hurry.

Having to watch as Viserys deliberately has Qoren sit next to you during your own nameday feast had irritated Aemond beyond measure, given that he could do nothing but pick furiously at his own food as Qoren regales you with tales of his House and region. It had seemed like forever before the King had finally gone to bed, and even then his torture ended bitterly with Qoren bringing your hand to his lips.

Rhoynar scum. He scowls as he slams the door behind him. Your lot come from vagabonds at sea with no real homes. Our blood is the blood of Old Valyria, the blood of kings and conquerors and warriors. She rides the Good Queen’s dragon. What in the Seven Hells could ever possess you to think you could have her?

Aemond opens the window to his room, allowing the cool breeze of the Red Keep to wash over his agitated figure. Aegon’s teasing, Ormund’s obliviousness, and Qoren’s audacity had given him a migraine like he’d never had before, yet he could not find it in himself to sleep it off.

Of course he was fond of you, that much was certain. He’d always looked up to you, asked for your advice, took great comfort in the fact that your dragon had not been born to you either. It had always been his crutch for when he laments his lack of a dragon, what with Sunfyre hatching in Aegon’s cradle and Helaena claiming Dreamfyre shortly before her tenth nameday. Ultimately, though, Aemond supposes he hadn’t much to go on about you other than the fact that you took the time to get to know your half-siblings, unlike your actual full-blood sister.

He’d mulled over the idea of claiming Vermithor, who at this point was the only known dragon that had yet to be claimed after the death of Jaehaerys. He would imagine himself flying alongside the Good Queen’s dragon atop the Good King’s, and what a poetic ending that would be for all his troubles.

A knock comes at his door. “My Prince, I apologize for the late hour,” one of his servants calls out to him. “Princess [Y/N] is here to see you.”

Aemond’s head whips around. “Send her in,” he replies almost immediately.

The door swings open to reveal you, still in the same dress he’d seen you in that morning, the only difference being your hair now let down; a silvery waterfall, not unlike his own.

He turns to face you, heart hammering in his chest.. “What…what do you want?”

“I came to check on you,” you reply. “You fell hard earlier, I didn’t get a chance to check how bad it was.”

Aemond chuckles dryly and gestures for you to sit. “ “How bad it was”, huh?”

“Our family is more than fond of tourneys,” you remind him. “We’re just about the only ones that are not. I would be lying if I said I was not surprised that you changed your mind today.”

“I’ve not changed my mind.” Aemond picks at his sleeve. “I don’t give a shit about tourneys. Never have and never will.”

You laugh, and though it is a quiet sound, he tries to fool himself into thinking it’s more genuine than the ones you’d shared with Qoren. “I’m glad to hear it.”

He sits there with you in silence, and for the first time all day, he relaxes. It’s nice, he thinks, to simply be in your presence, where no one—not even himself—expects him to do something to impress you.

Being with you was enough.

That said, the thought of you leaving for Dorne forever leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Namedays are always a time for celebration,” you begin. “I confess, however, that my nameday…always comes with a tinge of sorrow.

“I went to the Sept with Rhaenyra this morning. It’s always been a habit of ours on our namedays. It’s really less of us praying to the Seven for good fortune, it’s more of…finding comfort in the silence. It…it’s where we hear our mother and siblings the best.”

He nods in understanding.

You tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, staring off into the distance wistfully. “Father’s always been good at putting on a mask,” you continue. “He’s good at it, too, probably from all the years he’s had to do it. But today would have been Baelon’s nameday, too. And today was also the day when Mother…”

You duck your head.

Aemond leans forward to capture your hands in his. Despite his own misgivings with Aegon, he had to admit that it was difficult to imagine a life without him. He would have been the heir, forever put against Rhaenyra. Forever put against you, one of the few of her true kin.

You squeeze his hands gratefully. “In any case,” you say. “I am glad you’re no longer interested in tourneys, otherwise I would not have brought you this.”

You produce a box from the depths of your skirt and slide it over to Aemond. He clicks his tongue in mock disapproval. “It’s your nameday and you’re the one giving out gifts.”

You wave your hand dismissively. “I have a whole mountain of them in my apartments, very few of which I would actually care to have. I take far more pleasure giving things to you.”

Aemond shakes his head, finally relenting and opening the box. Glittering among the plush dark velvet was a sapphire brooch, as blue as the waters of the Narrow Sea, sitting in a bed of pure starlight. He lifts it from the cushion and sits the gem in his palm gingerly, admiring its weight and the way it glints, even by the dying fireplace.

“The sapphire was my mother’s,” you explain. “One of many I’d inherited from her. I had it re-cut and set.”

Aemond swallows thickly. “I…I can’t take this. If it was from your mother, then you should—”

You interrupt him by closing his fist over the jewel, holding his fingers down with a firm grip. “I want you to have it,” you tell him firmly. “We are one House now, no matter what others say. None may divide us. Keep this with you as a reminder, you hear me?”

You stare at him with such intensity that he has little to do but agree. You pat his hand and rise from your seat. “Think of it as my favor,” you say, and he doesn’t miss the slyness in your tone. “You have no need to fight in tourneys or any sort of battle to earn it. It will always be yours, Aemond.”

Words he’d been keeping buried for months were bubbling on his tongue now, tearing down the walls that he’s had to construct all his life to keep them from destroying what he has with you. Resistance seemed futile now, now that you had bid him goodnight and turned to leave his room.

“Don’t marry him.”

Your hand had been on the door at his words, and you do him the considerable honor of pausing in surprise before turning again to look at him. “Aemond?”

“Don’t marry him,” he repeats, desperation now leaking into his tone. “Qoren Martell. You were never meant to marry a Dornish, even the first of them, so…”

He wrestles with his words, and you seem oblivious to his agony as you stare, clearly waiting for him to finish. He inches closer and closer to the brink, and there seems to be nothing tethering him to reality anymore, save for the erratic beating of his heart.

You purse your lips, and the expression on your face is something he can’t read—did you think him foolish for telling you not to do your duty? Or did you perceive his desperation as an act of childish jealousy, a brother imploring his sister not to give anyone else the time of day?

What did he think his words meant?

You do not give him an answer. “Good night, Aemond,” you whisper, and you slip quietly out the door.

Your betrothal to the heir to the Dornish throne had begun to sound less like a rumor and more like a given fact, with the endless whisperings fluttering about the Red Keep like irksome flies. Viserys certainly did not do much to silence them, and Aemond had the misfortune of hearing him discuss potential dowries with Rhaenyra.

He had to admit that it was an ideal match, and certainly one he would have considered seriously were he in his father’s place. Any king who would bring Dorne into the fold would be credited with something even the Conqueror could not have done, further cementing his place in Westerosi history. Aemond often dreams of having his name written down in the history books, never just as an afterthought or a simple second son, but of a warrior king who made the Seven Kingdoms truly one, with a queen by his side who would cast a shadow over all who would succeed her.

But like his position in life, all his dreams had to occur in the darkness of the wings; the only good thing about it was that, given their unlikeliness, he was free to dream just a little bit more.

In a surprising turn of events, however, he’d received the news that you had suddenly mounted Silverwing and taken off. At that moment, Aemond truly curses the lack of a dragon—he could have just gotten on and tracked you down, not go through the humiliation of asking Aegon (or any of his kin, for that matter) for a favor. He would have had to explain why it was so important for them to take time out of their day to find out where you had gone, because beyond you being a Princess of the realm, he had no other reason (that he’s willing to admit, at least).

Even Helaena, whom Aemond had realized could see things before they happened, offered no help in this matter. She had even expressed confusion at the very notion, much to his frustration.

So, he turns to his last resort.

Jacaerys looks up from where he was cleaning his armor, clearly surprised to be addressed. “She isn’t at Dragonstone,” he tells Aemond. “She could be anywhere, for all we know.”

“She didn’t tell you anything?” Aemond presses. “No notes, anything?”

Lucerys fiddles with Aemond’s gauntlets, and for a brief moment, Aemond sees you in his little face. “I think she’s gone to Daemon.”

“Prince Daemon? Why would she…”

“It’s just a guess,” Jacaerys says, scratching the back of his neck. “The last we heard of him was that he was in Pentos with the Lady Laena. They’re our only kin living beyond Westeros, and [Y/N] was always fond of Lady Laena.”

Of course. Aemond wants to smack his forehead. It made sense. You, Rhaenyra, and Laena had always been so close. But it wouldn’t have been his first guess, not when a marriage proposal didn’t seem too far behind…

Jacaerys’ and Lucerys’ guess seems to hold merit, as the small council receives reports of a silvery dragon flying east. It’s only confirmed when you finally write to your family, stating that you were indeed exploring the Free Cities and would be staying there for an indefinite period of time.

Funnily enough, your message had arrived at the Red Keep the same day the Dornish party did.

The excuse given had been that you were sent off as an envoy to the southern Free Cities to ascertain the peace, following the Triarchy’s defeat at the hands of the Daemon-Velaryon alliance. Aemond had to restrain himself from laughing in the throne room at the Dornish lord’s baffled expression, as well as the irritation that Viserys had kept well-hidden beneath his kingly persona.

That same night, he’d received a raven from you, carrying a brief message and a couple of trinkets you had collected on your travels thus far. It had been as if a giant weight had been taken off his shoulders, and in the privacy of his own room, he finds himself running his fingers longingly over your handwriting.

But your letters begin to stack on his desk, the gifts you bring him start to collect dust on his mantle, and every day holds less and less promise of you finally returning to King’s Landing. He’d thought you would finally return shortly after Rhaenyra gives birth to her third son, but aside from a written note of congratulations and a messenger bringing gifts, you never do. Aemond finds himself sitting by his window every night, deluding himself into thinking a bird flying over Blackwater Bay or the occasional cloud would be Silverwing, bringing you back to him.

But you don’t, and he finds solace only in his lessons and his training, stealing glances at the sky whenever he has the chance. He’d thought your absence would finally rid him of thoughts and desires unwanted, but all it is is a thorn in his side; a dull ache that flares up every now and then, much like his old leg injury.

When news of Laena Velaryon’s death reaches King’s Landing, and as he sits next to his mother on the ship, his thoughts were only of you, and if you had already been in Driftmark for a while now. He should have known better when he sees no silver dragon sitting amongst the gold, blue, grey, and red amongst the rocks.

After giving his condolences to the Velaryons, Aemond walks around aimlessly, the disappointment sinking in with every passing second. Politicking thinly veiled as courtesies seem to follow him everywhere he goes, and he eventually finds respite in Helaena’s presence, though it would seem she had not noticed his.

Of course, Aegon had to come and disturb it, only to repeat what he had been complaining about for weeks.

“We have nothing in common,” he grumbles, gesturing to Helaena.

“She’s our sister,” Aemond replies curtly, as he has done many times before.

“You marry her, then.”

“I would perform my duty, if mother had only betrothed us.” The words weigh heavily on Aemond’s tongue.

Aegon scoffs. “If only.”

“It would strengthen the family,” Aemond parrots what he’s learned in his lessons. “Keep our Valyrian blood pure.”

“She’s an idiot!”

“She’s your future Queen.”

Aegon lowers his goblet, and from his periphery, Aemond can see his brother watching him carefully. He keeps his gaze on Helaena muttering under her breath, waiting for Aegon to call him out for the double meaning in his words.

Fortunately, he doesn’t. “We actually do have one thing in common,” Aegon says, as he throws the rest of his drink back and reaches for the next, his eyes lingering far too long on the serving girl. “We both fancy creatures with very long legs.”

Aemond only shakes his head in resignation, feeling a surge of pity for Helaena. It’s the first time he actually feels relieved that you had left before you’d gotten any offers of marriage; he dreads the thought of you being doomed to suffer the same fate as Helaena.

A dragon’s cry pierces the air, and Aemond looks up sharply. He rushes to the edge of the courtyard, listening as best as he could with the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below.

He scours the skies and searches among the dragons already resting nearby, to no avail. His shoulders sag; perhaps you weren’t coming, after all.

But that same cry persists, even as the sun begins to sink into the sea. Aemond has never heard a sound like it before—this one was a melancholic melody, like longingness taking flight above the waters of The Gullet. It isn’t long before his attention is drawn from searching for you to searching for the source of the sound instead, somehow feeling as if it was calling out to him.

And then it happens.

A clear and piercing trill that he initially chalks up to one of the other dragons, had it not been for Rhaenyra looking up, surprise painted all over her face. Aemond follows her gaze, and even in the setting sun, it’s clear as day—

He momentarily forgets himself and runs over to his half-sister, tugging on her sleeve. “It’s her, isn’t it?” he asks, unable to contain his excitement.

“It is,” Rhaenyra replies, pure relief in her tone. She glances down at Aemond, and it’s perhaps only then does she realize the peculiarity of the situation; he doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever had a casual conversation with her. Aemond lets go of her sleeve, clearing his throat and taking off in the other direction with his head spinning.

It takes a while for you to show up, but when you do, you’re soaked to the bone, with Laenor Velaryon’s arm wrapped around your shoulders and his other arm around his squire on the other side. The whispers come to a standstill, partially at the sight of you and partially at the sight of the future Prince consort looking as if he was about to follow his sister at any second. You must have found him, Aemond thinks, about to keel over into the water.

At the sight of his father, however, Ser Laenor steadies himself and limps away, leaving you in the middle of the crowd. No doubt you feel all eyes on you, but you straighten and walk to your father, who now looks as if he’s ten years younger again.

Aemond doesn’t get the chance to speak with you, not while you remain glued to Viserys’ side, leaving only to speak with Rhaenyra, Daemon, and his daughters. You’ve not changed at all over the years, save for your hair, which you had cropped short (presumably for it to not get in the way of your flying), and for your gait, as a certain confidence exudes from you as you walk or simply stand. But you were still you, much to his relief.

His thoughts take him back to the strange cry, which rings out well into the night. It’s only until his mother commands him to go to bed that he realizes Viserys has long left and you are nowhere to be found. He waits for his mother and siblings to head into the castle before heading down the stairs, down where you had come bringing your good brother.

He doesn’t have to search long for you—you’re right there on the beach, your head tilted upwards as if in silent meditation. The sand crunches underneath his feet as he closes the distance between you two, and just as you’re within arm’s reach, he stops.

And he waits.

When you finally turn, you regard Aemond with the same smile that had greeted him on your nameday all those years ago, tinged with just a bit of sadness. He wonders if you get your seemingly eternal warmth from the late queen; whatever the case, he certainly has never felt it with any of his siblings, even the one you share all your blood with.

“You’ve gotten tall,” is the first thing you say to him. “You’ll probably be as tall as Daemon.”

“I’ll be taller,” he promises, and your smile grows wider, only for it to drop just as quickly. Aemond remembers the very reason you had come, and the history you shared with Laena. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

You turn back towards the beach, and Aemond moves to stand next to you. “It is our loss,” you correct him. “Laena was kin to you and me both.”

Aemond nods in response. You duck your head and sigh deeply, the grief you feel leaving you looking aged. “I left Pentos the day before she died,” you whisper. “I promised to be back for the birth, but…”

“They say she went into labor early,” Aemond says. “You couldn’t have known.”

You keep your eyes trained on the ground. “I don’t think I could have borne to see it,” you continue in a shaky voice. “She died trying to birth a son, and my mother—”

You choke on the last word, and for a moment Aemond fears you would start crying. He reaches for your hand, and you squeeze it gratefully in response.

But you don’t, and instead take the time to be silent and count your breaths, all the while holding onto his hand like an anchor. When you raise your eyes to the sky once more, he sees all the stars reflected in them.

When you speak again, your voice is steadier. “You remind me of her, you know. Laena.”

Aemond struggles to find an answer, one that would insult neither you nor the deceased. You seem to sense his hesitation, and you squeeze his hand again. “Our dragons weren’t born to us,” you say, confirming his thoughts. “Though I became a dragonrider earlier than she did. She cried the first time I mounted Silverwing, and cried again when I took her up years later.”

“The second time…out of fear?”

“At first, I suppose. But she was laughing, too. Always a wild one, Laena was.” You sigh. “You’re just as spirited as she was. Fearless. Bold.”

“If I were fearless and bold, I’d have a dragon by now,” Aemond grumbles.

“It isn’t that easy, I fear,” you tell him. “I’ve spoken to scholars and warlocks and magicfolk of all kinds in the Free Cities. Some of them are of the opinion that dragons are not as willing as we might imagine.”

“We’re a family of dragonriders. One dragon-less member is hardly enough to discredit that fact.”

“Our Valyrian blood is the exception, not the rule. Had we been so confident in its mere presence, I daresay we ought to have more dragonriders around.”

“Especially with Aegon,” Aemond offers.

“Especially with Aegon, yes,” you chuckle. “It may well be that our blood is a contributing factor. But dragons have minds and hearts of their own. Some say they are even more intelligent than we are. The right is not freely given, Aemond. It is earned, it is fought for, it is taken.”

You turn to face him then, and it’s only when you do so does Aemond realize he has indeed grown taller; he no longer has to tilt his head upwards to properly meet your eyes. You take his other hand in yours, and he feels the calluses from years of dragon-riding brush against his skin.

“I told you you were as spirited as Laena was,” you say. “Like her, you are also kind. Compassionate. Smart. Loyal. You are everything our House stands for and more.”

For the first time in what seems like years, a genuine smile spreads across his face. “I’ve missed you,” he admits.

“As did I,” you whisper, and your eyes travel to the sapphire brooch you’d given him all those years ago, nestled just above the middle of his collarbone. You let your fingers skim over the gem lightly, before pulling away from him. “Father has mentioned that we may stop by Dragonstone to see if any of the eggs there take your fancy.”

Aemond’s spirits rise. “Really?”

“Really,” you promise. “If nothing does, Rhaenyra’s told me that if Syrax brings forth another clutch of eggs, you’ll have your pick from them.”

He lets out a breathy laugh; he could think of Rhaenyra’s sudden act of kindness as a way to win him over to her favor, but surely Viserys had agreed to the Dragonstone visit only upon your request. He had never been known to turn you down, and the impromptu visit to the Free Cities was clear proof of it.

To think, you had talked him into it for Aemond’s benefit…

He shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “Wait. You said “we”. You’re coming home? You’re coming with me to Dragonstone to pick an egg?”

You give him another one of your comforting smiles. “If you’d like.”

He nods, almost too quickly. He’d come to Driftmark expecting to have the secondhand grief hanging over him like a storm, not to feel as if he’d been denied the sun for years before this very moment. He imagines walking off a ship onto Dragonstone and leaving atop Vermithor, as he’s always thought of doing. He replays a scene from his dreams where he finally flies next to you, the Good King and the Good Queen’s mounts flying over the realm once more.

He’s almost too happy to notice you’d reached out to brush his hair away from his face. “You might take a little inspiration from Laena,” you advise him. “She was dragonless for years, and yet she did what many thought was impossible.”

“She claimed Vhagar,” Aemond says, his mouth suddenly feeling dry.

“She certainly did.” You squeeze his hands before slipping out of them. “Now, go to bed. Your mother will have my head if she finds out I caught you after dark and did nothing.”

The same cry pierces through the night sky again, and Aemond watches as you head back up to the castle. He wants to call out to you again, to tell you what he’s been hearing all day, to confirm something that had clicked at your words just now.

Aemond stares across the sea, in deep thought.

The right is not freely given.

He turns to the west, to the source of the strange cry.

It is earned, it is fought for, it is taken.

He begins walking.

“It will heal,” Alicent frets. “Will it not, maester?”

Aemond winces as the needle pierces his flesh, dreading the answer; but even with one eye, he sees it on the maester’s face as clear as if he had both.

Alicent audibly sobs at the revelation, and Aemond isn’t sure if his feeling light-headed was due to the blood loss, the pain from the little scuffle he’d gotten into earlier, or just remnants of his encounter with Vhagar. He tries to link it to the last factor; it was the only good thing he got out of the entire ordeal.

He’s no stranger to dragon-riding, as you’ve taken him up on Silverwing many times before. But to be completely alone, to hold the reins and be solely responsible for directing the flight, to ride the largest dragon in the world, a Conqueror’s dragon—

Something flutters in his periphery, and Aemond turns his face to see you, still in your nightclothes. He opens his mouth, about to call out for you, knowing that surely you of all people would rejoice at the news…

But he watches as you rush past everyone else to where Lucerys was, his face still bloody and nose crooked from where Aemond had punched him. Lucerys cries out when you attempt to set his nose, and you shush him comfortingly, kissing the top of his head before checking on Jacaerys.

What little happiness left in Aemond ebbs away as Rhaenyra calls for him to be “sharply” questioned, as Viserys demands he reveals where he heard the rumors over Rhaenyra’s sons parentage, as Alicent loses her patience and attempts to exert justice on his behalf by force. All those he could have lived with…if not for you standing behind Rhaenyra quietly, moving only to shield Jacaerys and Lucerys from Alicent. If not for you barely even sparing him a glance.

When he tells his mother an eye was a fair trade for a dragon, he means it.

But when he thinks about you as part of the price, he's not as certain.

"Be calm, Vhagar," Aemond instructs the great beast. He tries to climb the ropes, as he had the night before, but Vhagar continues to squirm.

He sighs, trying to focus. Walking was already disorienting enough on its own, but flying with a limited depth of perception was another matter entirely. But Aemond's no stranger to challenges—this is just another he has to conquer.

"Obey, Vhagar," he reminds the dragon. "Serve me."

"She feels your pain," someone tells him, in the same tongue.

Aemond grips his ropes tightly, his jaw tightening as he tries to maintain his composure. He turns in the direction of his good eye, and when he finds no one, he lets go of the ropes to turn the other way around. Sure enough, you were there, in full riding gear.

He'd forgotten that he was supposed to stop by Dragonstone to pick an egg. And he'd forgotten that that was probably the only reason you had to return to King's Landing.

Now, perhaps, he's left you with no other choice but to remain on Driftmark, as Rhaenyra and her family did. Worse, you'd probably go back and dig up your own potential match to Qoren Martell.

Funnily enough, though, the thought didn't stress him out as it used to.

"Dragons and their riders share a special bond," you continue. High Valyrian was the most beautiful language to ever exist, and even with all things considered, Aemond still thinks it's at its best when he hears it from you. "What you feel, they feel. Your friends are theirs, and your enemies, they will endeavor to crush."

"You say it like it's a bad thing," he says.

"I say it as a warning," you reply. "You must keep your emotions in check if you want to have a safe flight, without any dire consequences."

Aemond laughs humorlessly. " "Keeping emotions in check"? Is that what you did last night?"

You frown. "You don’t understand."

"I lost my eye," Aemond hisses, pointing to the bandaged side of his face. "On account of that bastard."

"Aemond.”

"You were supposed to be on my side!" He's raising his voice now, and Vhagar shakes her head in agitation. "You understood me better than anyone, you know the truth about our nephews, you were supposed to stand aside and let my mother seek justice!"

"They are our blood, regardless," you remind him gently. "We protect our own."

He stomps in frustration. "You were supposed to be happy for me," he snarls. "I have a dragon now, and all of those warlock shits that you spoke to were all wrong. I proved them wrong."

"Yes, you did," you tell him, and it takes everything in him not to pull his hair out over your patience. "But I hope you know that having one does not change who we are. Dragon or no dragon, you are still you. Still Aemond."

His fury threatens to boil over. "Go away."

"I want to help you, Aemond," you coax. "You've gotten past the first ride, yes, but with one eye, you're going into unknown territory. You will need a new saddle, too. There's still so much I can teach you."

"Go away!" he screams, running forward just to push you away. "I don't need you! Don't come near me, don't ever presume to speak my name, and don't you ever come home!"

Perhaps it had been a trick of the light, but he thinks he sees you flinch. Whatever it is, you try to maintain your composure. "You don't mean that, Aemond."

"I do," he insists, turning and hauling himself up the ropes. "I hate you. Go away."

It takes nearly forever before he finally reaches the saddle. The view from atop Vhagar with one eye certainly was disorienting, but not as bad as he'd originally thought. He looks up to see Sunfyre and Dreamfyre already up in the air, and he gains a sense of pride; he would be flying back to King's Landing with his trueborn siblings.

Out of habit, he tries to ascertain where you were. He deduces you had left just as he'd demanded you to, but pushes the guilt down to focus.

"Obey me, Vhagar," he shouts over the wind. "Fly!"

The dragon rumbles in response, and Aemond holds on tightly as Vhagar makes her way towards the edge of the cliff, before spreading her wings and taking flight. The short drop makes his stomach flutter delightfully, and he tugs on the reins to pull her higher into the sky.

He drinks in the feeling of seeing Aegon and Helaena on either side of him, and even dips Vhagar to greet his mother watching atop the same ship he'd arrived at Driftmark on.

When he finally gets the nerve to look back, Driftmark continues to disappear into the distance, but he can barely make out a familiar figure flying east.

He turns his attention back forward, thinking of nothing but the breeze in his hair and the sun washing over his skin.

The morningstar swings idly at Criston's side as he and Aemond circle each other, like mountain lions about to pounce at any given moment. Aemond twirls his sword in his hand, scanning his opponent from head to toe and watching his every move.

When Criston swings, Aemond dodges, immediately understanding what fight pattern his teacher was about to go for after years of experience. The crowd around him grows, the whispers now starting to irritate him, but he remains calm and collected.

The morningstar comes down on Aemond's other side, and he moves; he treats it as a dance, and the weapon an overeager partner (gods know how many Aemond's had to deal with at feasts).

Criston smirks, but Aemond can tell he's running out of steam. "Shall we have a respite, old man?" he teases.

His teacher opens his mouth to retort, but he's interrupted by a guard by the nearest watchtower.

"Dragon!"

Aemond looks up in confusion. All dragons go straight to the Dragonpit, he thinks. Why would they warn of a dragon, unless…

A high trilling sound, louder than what was normally heard so deep into the Red Keep, causes everyone within the vicinity to look around. Aemond's fingers slacken around his sword—he knows that call.

Silverwing soars into the courtyard, circling the area thrice before Aemond realizes she was trying to land.

"Clear the way!" His voice booms across the yard, and servants, nobles, and guards alike frantically move to open up a space for the dragon to land.

However, it did not seem to be what the silver mount had in mind; gasps ranging from those of shock to wonder echo throughout the Red Keep when you land your dragon atop the very gate, causing those on the watchtowers on either side of you to cry out in fear.

Aemond shakes his head in disbelief, watching in a near-trance as Silverwing dips down to allow you to dismount carefully. The years melt away as you walk over to where he and Criston were training, completely ignoring the stares you were receiving.

"Princess," Criston says, bowing deeply. "You know dragons aren't allowed this deep into the Red Keep."

"Really?" you ask, raising your eyebrows. "There are a whole score of them here, so I did not think it any harm to add one more."

Criston laughs, a short but genuine sound. "Welcome home, Princess."

You nod your head in response, before turning to Aemond. He remembers the last words he spoke to you as if he'd just said them yesterday, and not all those years ago. He remembers panicking after you never indeed come home, opting to resume your travels across the Free Cities.

He remembers spending six years trying to come to terms with the fact that he might never see you again.

What does he even say, now that you've proved him wrong?

Thankfully, you relieve him of that burden. "Brother," you greet amicably.

He opens and closes his mouth like a fish, trying (and failing) to piece together a sentence. Criston shoots him a sideways glance.

Aemond eventually settles for a nod, before his sword slides out of his grasp.

You look like you're about to burst into laughter.

"I hope he's better with a sword than he is with women, Ser Criston," you say wryly, before heading into the castle.

As soon as you've disappeared, Criston turns to Aemond, a single eyebrow raised.

"Be quiet," Aemond mumbles as he reaches for his sword.

Aemond doesn’t mull over the potential reasons for your arrival long, as the answer comes to him by the news that you have not left Viserys’ bedside all day, even to eat. He leaves you to it, equally because the incense in his father’s room lingers about him for hours, and equally because he has nothing to say to you.

But whatever your intentions were, they immediately took second place in favor of the news that the Sea Snake had suffered a mortal wound while fighting in the Stepstones, leaving the succession of Driftmark in doubt. Rhaenyra, along with her now-husband Daemon, all but materialize into the Red Keep, no doubt to secure Lucerys’ claim.

Aemond next sees you on the day all claims to the Driftwood Throne were made, just before the entire court had begun to settle in. In a brief stroke of madness, he makes his way over to where you were, drinking in your startled expression before changing course towards Rhaenyra and her sons. He gives them the usual courtesies, much to their bewilderment, and even strikes up a conversation with Jacaerys over their encounter in the courtyard, where he was training. His good eye flickers over to you, silently bidding you watch as he walks over to Daemon.

To his great satisfaction, he’s a couple of inches taller.

Aemond could have sworn he saw you smile.

It does occur to him that perhaps you have come to fulfill your father’s wishes and to marry at last, now that Viserys is on the brink of death and the succession (in Aemond’s mind, at least) remains unclear.

No doubt that thought weighs heavily on Alicent’s mind, also, given that she’s let slip a couple of times that she’d wished for you to marry one of Vaemond Velaryon’s sons. But that plan died on the floor of the throne room along with Vaemond himself, who destroyed his ambition by letting his pride get the best of him.

Through you, any House would have closer ties to the throne, and the various other lineages you’ve been linked to. That House would also be bound to whichever party secured that pact for, and all their strength and swords would be theirs.

Perhaps you’d be wed to Joffrey. No doubt that would keep you on Rhaenyra’s side forever, had you not already declared for her in all but writing. Qoren Martell was no longer a viable option, given that he’d taken your absence as an insult and married some other noble lady. Had Borros Baratheon not already married, you’d probably be his, owing to his House having hosted you in your youth. Cregan Stark. Whomever at the Vale had the claim after Jeyne Arryn. Some old and balding Riverlands lord.

But Aemond has a better idea.

Your serving girl answers the door, and her eyes widen at the sight of Aemond looming over her.

“Is the Princess still awake?” he asks quietly.

The serving girl swallows. “She is, my Prince, but…”

“I thank you in advance for your discretion,” he interrupts, reaching over to place a bag of gold dragons in her hand. Bribery was the oldest trick in the book, and yet it was always Aemond’s last resort; so many things, even principles and skills that people spend their whole life trying to cling to, could be traded at the mere sight of a gold dragon.

To the girl’s credit, she seems to struggle over the dilemma, and Aemond owes it to her to give her a moment. When she purses her lips and turns away, he steps back in victory.

The few times he’s entered your apartments, it’s always empty, on account of you being somewhere else. He’s never had a reason to stay long, if only to bask in the ambience of a room you’d spend a lot of your time in, before turning to other matters that require his attention.

Now that you’re there, however, he realizes it does not differ much from his own apartments. The same layout, but a different air about it. Less cold. More you.

Aemond waits for the serving girl to close the door behind her, and he keeps a respectful distance from your bed, allowing you some time to make yourself presentable.

“The hour is quite late, brother,” comes your tired tone.

“My apologies, sweet sister,” he says, walking forward. “I had to see you.”

You were indeed already in bed, putting a book aside when he stands at the edge. You regard him carefully, clearly wondering about the purpose of his visit, before you sigh and move to throw the covers off yourself.

He holds up a hand. “Please.”

“I cannot see you in this light,” you reason.

“Then allow me.”

Aemond takes the box of matches from you, moving about the room to light the candles. The room glows brighter, allowing him to see the shift you had put on for bed. Your silver hair hangs about you like spun moonlight, and he has to fight the urge to reach out and touch it.

“To what do I owe this late-night visit, then?”

Aemond sets the matchbox down, before turning to you. “I apologize, again,” he says. “I was not certain you’d stay in the Red Keep for long.”

“And why is that, do you think?”

“I regret I do not have the answer. You’ve never really explained the reasons behind your frequent absences from court.”

His direct tone surprises you, and he sees it in your face. But gone are the days where he stumbles over his words, cherry-picks through them to find the ones that would please you the most.

The boy you knew died the night his eye had been taken. And he wants to prove it to you.

“You think your little stunt this evening will not change anything?”

A smirk threatens to play on his lips. “Call it what you will, I was simply expressing how proud I am of my family.”

“Clearly, pride comes in the form of insulting your nephews’ parentage,” you shoot back.

“Is that why you’re contemplating leaving again? Leaving Father to succumb to his wounds alone over the truth?”

He’s never seen you this angry before; you were always the most patient sibling. “Did you come here to try and elicit some anger from me? Was your intention to alienate the only friend you have at court?”

His jaw clenches. “I am the Prince. I have no shortage of friends.”

You scoff. “With that tongue of yours, I am sure that’s true.”

“If you would like to bring my tongue into this matter, I can talk of more than just friends.”

“Your nocturnal activities mean little to me, Aemond,” you say, your tone getting fiercer and fiercer with every word. “If you mean to brag about your conquests, I suggest going to your brother instead of me. Now, if there is nothing else—”

“Why do you refuse to marry?”

Now that catches you off-guard. You look up at Aemond questioningly, but he stands his ground. He will not repeat it. He knows you have heard.

“I—I hardly think any of my decisions should matter—”

“But they do,” Aemond interrupts, moving forward to sit at the edge of your bed. “Had Father been anyone but who he is, you would have long been married by now, with children. Your husband and children would have been Rhaenyra’s, if you insisted on backing her claim. You know the benefits, and yet you refused. Why is that?”

You sigh, fidgeting with the covers uncomfortably. “I do not expect a man, even you, dear brother, to understand.”

“I’m smart. Try me.”

You give him a look so scathing, that if he were a lesser man, he would have backed down immediately. But the fire in your eyes sets his blood aflame, and he wants nothing more than to stoke them.

“My mother died attempting to give Father a male heir,” you say. “Laena gave her life for a son that did not live and wanted to ride Vhagar before she bled out. Helaena has to bear children for a philandering, drunken husband who shares her bed only when he’s out of whores to fuck. Rhaenyra dedicates her life to a realm who will not accept her because she has a mind of her own and not a cock between her legs. History will not give you women that are as miserable as the ones in our family.”

“And yet, you run from your duty to save your own skin.”

You elect not to respond to that.

Aemond sighs. “Qoren Martell would have cherished you. He said he’d wait forever for you.”

“If “forever” meant half a year, certainly,” you mumble. “I have no desire to marry, Aemond. No one expects me to be Queen, nor would my children ever come close to the throne. My only regret is that I never told my father the truth when he was still sound of mind.”

Aemond remains silent, letting your words sink in, while wrestling with his own. You lean forward, letting the covers fall to expose your skin. His eye widens at the sight, and he swallows thickly as you reach for his hand. As your fingers close around his, he has to wonder: were they always this small?

Against his will, his body turns towards you, and he shuffles up your bed so you don’t have to reach that far to touch him. With your other hand, you cup the side of his face, and he briefly flinches when you gingerly brush the pads of your fingers against his scar.

“May I?” you whisper.

He was never one to refuse you.

He keeps his one eye closed as the eyepatch leaves his skin, and is replaced by your curious fingers. He hears you suck in a breath.

He opens his eye to see you regarding the sapphire, your gift to him all those years ago, with a strange sort of reverence (despite the playful jab he had offered). He knows you’ve already seen his missing eye at its worst: swollen shut and stitches marring his face. Now, the scar has healed but not quite disappeared; Lucerys Velaryon had made his mark on Aemond forever.

He’s taken to putting jewels where his eye used to be so as not to scare the ladies at court, but he finds your sapphire fits the best, ironically. The parallels to his father's eye, gouged out by his illness and eaten through by maggots, is not lost on him, either.

"You haven't seen it since it happened," Aemond says. "It's healed. But it has left its mark. There are some things that just cannot be forgotten, as your sister is so often told otherwise."

"Our sister," you correct him. "And I know Rhaenyra regrets the incident, too."

"I don't need any of her regrets or apologies."

"Then why are you here?"

Aemond doesn't answer, and instead fixes you with the same chilling, weighted stare that he’s often been chided by his mother for having. Had you been a lesser being, you would have cracked under the pressure of his gaze.

But you are the blood of the dragon, fierce and proud and unafraid. No man, not even the one you share blood with, could ever make you back down. The look in your eyes ignites something in him; a feeling not unlike the one he gets every single time on dragonback. He steals a glimpse of the smooth expanse of your throat, then lower, and even lower…

Aemond pulls away sharply, leaving your hand drifting midair.

“The entire kingdom expects you to marry soon, rather than late,” he says, attempting to salvage what was left of his self-control.

You tilt your head. “The kingdom, your mother, or my sister?”

“I regret to say all of them do. But your fears will not be ignored.”

“Do you have a better idea, then?”

Aemond hesitates, testing the words on his tongue before letting them leave his lips. “You could marry me.”

Your reaction is what he expects it to be.

You withdraw your hand sharply and get out of bed, and Aemond gets to his feet, allowing you to increase your distance from him.

“Does…does no one listen to a word I say?” you ask in agitation. “I never thought to hear these words from you, brother, I—”

“This match has its merits,” Aemond says. “I will not insult your intelligence by discussing them one by one.”

“Whose idea was this?”

“…Father’s.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Father?” you ask incredulously. “Father was barely able to speak in complete sentences before today, and you expect me to believe he’s behind such a large arrangement?”

“Can you prove that he isn’t?”

All of a sudden, you’re standing inches away from him, a finger jabbed into his sternum and your eyes blazing with anger. “You are not getting away with this on a technicality,” you hiss. “Tell me the truth of it.”

“Is the thought of marrying me that repulsive to you?”

“Not if it’s born out of lies.” You clutch the collar of his shirt. “Why do you want to marry me, Aemond?”

He looks down at you, and his hands twitch by his sides, no doubt wanting to feel your warmth permeate through your clothes. He can feel your heart hammering underneath your ribs, and he’s sure that if you slide your hands lower, you could feel his racing similarly. Your body melds so perfectly to his, and you breathe in sync, as if engaged in a dance of their own. Every molecule of your body thrums to life underneath his fingers, every second that passes between you is charged with a tension that threatens to push the both of you over the precipice, and still you do not see.

He hates that, even with one eye, he does.

You await his answer with bated breath, but he sees the way your eyes briefly flicker down to his lips.

“Aemond,” you whisper.

“To…to preserve the family line,” he answers.

And your face just falls.

You gently detach yourself from him, leaving him impossibly cold despite the roar of the fireplace nearby.

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat. “I’m afraid I will have to refuse you. As I did Qoren. As I did everyone else.”

Your words echo around his mind, as if you’d shouted it to him in an empty corridor. Aemond does nothing but stare at you, and you hold his gaze with a practiced ease.

He doesn’t remember leaving your room, nor does he remember if you’d said anything to him as he did. But the next day, he breaks fast alone: his mother missing, Aegon not expected to wake until well in the afternoon, Helaena tending to the children, and Rhaenyra’s family having left for Dragonstone at first light.

When a messenger arrives to inform him that Silverwing had left the Dragonpit before dawn, he simply waves them away.

Aemond takes the death of his father in stride.

He operates exactly how logic demands him to, what he’s always been expected to do. He takes great pains to track Aegon down and forces him to face the reality that Aemond would have accepted without a fight. He keeps Jaehaerys and Jaehaera company as Helaena is prepared for her joint coronation with Aegon, sobbing the whole time her maids fit her into her dress, all the while fighting back thoughts of you donning the magnificent dress made for a future queen.

He gets through the coronation, and is momentarily forced into action when Meleys and Rhaenys disrupt the ceremony. But when the Red Queen and the Queen Who Never Was depart, he settles back into his work.

None of the things he was doing required emotion. He had no need for it. He’s gone for so long without an eye, he can live without a heart.

It’s why he can accept Borros Baratheon’s terms without batting an eye, why he can choose the first of his daughters that crosses his line of sight. He may grow to love her, he thinks, as he offers her a tight-lipped smile, and he may look at her someday without you lurking in the back of his mind.

But the gods that decreed he’d lose an eye, the gods who damned him to years of being dragon-less, are the very same gods that bring Lucerys Velaryon to Storm’s End.

“Go home, pup,” Borros spits, his voice booming like thunder all over the hall. “And tell your mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog that she can whistle up and need to set against her foes.”

Lucerys keeps his head up, unwilling to show any semblance of weakness. Aemond wants to laugh; his entire body screams fear from head to toe. “I shall take your answer to the Queen,” he replies, his voice steadying at the last word. “My lord.”

Ever the consummate fighter. Had he not been born a bastard, Aemond might have actually liked him.

“Wait,” he calls out. “My Lord Strong.”

Lucerys pauses, taking a moment before looking back at Aemond. His eyes glint with a familiar fire that only eggs Aemond on.

“Did you really think,” he says. “That you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?”

Lucerys scoffs. “I will not fight you,” he asserts. “I came as a messenger, not a warrior.”

“A fight would be little challenge. No…” Aemond moves to remove his eyepatch, a burst of lightning illuminating the sapphire sitting where his eye used to be. “I want you to put out your eye. As payment for mine.”

Lucerys pales. For a moment, Aemond wonders if he recognizes the jewel in his eye socket. He presumes not, and even with you now forever out of his grasp, he can’t help but feel a sense of triumph. He had something Lucerys Velaryon had not—your favor.

“One will serve,” he continues casually, retrieving the dagger he keeps on his person and tossing it onto the ground between them. “I would not blind you. I plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”

What fear was in Lucerys’ face left at the sight of the blade, and was replaced by an expression of pure defiance. The adrenaline rushes through Aemond’s veins, practically begging Lucerys to make one wrong move. The looming threat of war, the despair that threatens to crush his mother, the look on Lucerys’ face that looks so much like—

“The Princess [Y/N] of House Targaryen!”

Lucerys nearly staggers in his attempt to turn to the door, and the lump in Aemond’s throat rises as you walk into the hall. You take one confused look at Lucerys, another at Aemond, then at Borros Baratheon.

“Am I to host the entirety of House Targaryen in my hall?” Borros shouts.

You raise an eyebrow. “I admit my surprise at seeing two more dragons than expected in your courtyard,” you say. “But, lest my lord forget, you invited me for the Lady Cassandra’s nameday tomorrow.”

Aemond frowns, and Lucerys looks equally confused. Was it possible that you hadn’t…

Borros gets to his feet. “I will not have this,” he snarls. “I will not be spoken to so casually by dragonspawn, and the least of them, least of all!”

Lucerys reaches for his sword, a look of great affront painted all over his face. Aemond turns his attention to Borros, ready to strike at any given second.

Silence falls over the group, interrupted only by the sounds of the storm raging outside.

You raise your eyebrows.

And Borros bursts into laughter.

Floris stifles a giggle from behind Aemond, as do all her other sisters next to Borros. Aemond and Lucerys share a quick look, all enmity momentarily forgotten in the confusion.

“You have not changed at all, Princess,” Borros continues to laugh heartily, as he settles back into his throne. “My father always told me you would have made a better Baratheon than a Targaryen.”

“And as I’ve told your father, I’d leap off one of your cliffs first before I’d give up the life of a dragonrider,” you say, entering the hall and making your way into its center as if it had been your home all this time.

And it’s then that Aemond remembers you’d been hosted at Storm’s End in your youth, and later named godmother to one of Borros’ daughters.

“But I must admit my confusion, Princess,” Borros says, as soon as he’s finished wiping the tears from his eyes. “I hardly think this is the time for celebrating.”

“I fly all the way back from Volantis to be told it isn’t the time for celebrating,” you repeat dryly.

Borros looks at Lucerys, to Aemond, then back to you. You mimic the action, and when your eyes settle on Aemond, it takes a while for you to get it.

Your lips part in shock, and he watches as your eyes slowly widen.

“I’m…I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Princess,” Borros says, his voice sounding the gentlest Aemond has ever heard all day despite the gruffness in his tone. “You know how highly my father and I held the late King in regard. If there is anything we might do…”

“You are too kind, my lord.” You clear your throat. “You are right, of course, this is not the time for celebrations. I will see the Lady Cassandra on the morrow, but first…” You walk over to Lucerys and wrap an arm around him. “I believe Prince Lucerys’ business here is finished. I ask your leave to escort him back to Dragonstone.”

“Granted,” Borros replies. “Safe travels, my friend.”

Aemond seethes as the guards follow suit, and as you press your lips to Lucerys’ ear as you turn him around. “If you leave,” he near-growls. “Then you are craven as well as a traitor.”

Your head whips around, and you meet his gaze with a fury he’s never known you to hold. “Not here,” you snarl.

Wisely, Aemond holds his ground.

You take one last glance at the Baratheons, before tightening your grip on Lucerys and leading him out of the hall.

When the door shuts behind you, Aemond retrieves his knife, just as he hears one of the Baratheon girls scoff. He follows the sound to the lady standing closest to Borros, who had on an expression of pure contempt.

“Princess or not, she had the gall to speak to a Prince like that,” she says. “No wonder she’s not yet married. What man would take her?”

“Maris, hold your tongue,” Floris warns.

Maris ignores her sister, looking at Aemond straight in the eye. “Was it one of your eyes he took, or one of your balls?” she asks, voice sweet as honey despite the venom in her words. “I am so glad you chose my sister. I want a husband with all his parts.”

Aemond’s mouth twists in anger. “Lord Borros,” he nearly spits through his teeth. “I ask your leave to depart, as well.”

Borros harrumphed in response. “It is for me to tell you how to act whilst not under my roof.”

Aemond turns on his heels, barely sparing his betrothed a glance before disappearing out the door.

Despite the relentless rain, all Aemond’s senses were heightened as if he were the beast he rides, focused solely on the hunt. He wants to see that look on Lucerys’ face again—that look of pure fear. Pure helplessness. He wants to see all those years’ worth of misery weigh on his entire being, threatening to crush Lucerys with every second that passes.

The laugh that leaves him is one of pure glee as Lucerys and his dragon just barely dodge Vhagar, and he only urges her after them. He shouts a command, and the great she-dragon opens her jaws, closing with a sickening snap that causes Lucerys to cry out in fear.

The dragon takes Lucerys even lower, and to Aemond’s great dismay, they disappear between two cliffs. He takes Vhagar’s reins and heaves; she follows suit, albeit with great difficulty.

The fog clouds his already-compromised vision, and the only things he sees above the gorge are the tips of dragon wings as it beats up and down. “You owe a debt!” Aemond bellows, the frustration of being denied his vengeance lining every single one of his words. “Boy!”

Vhagar notices it before he does, and moves her head to the left. He barely sees it in the darkness of the storm, but there was an unmistakable flash of white that wasn’t a streak of lightning. He pulls to the left, cursing. Finally took advantage of your handiwork, Lucerys? he thinks bitterly. Flying in my blindspot…who would have thought…

Perhaps the storm had grown fiercer, or the fog had gotten thicker, but Aemond only now gets glimpses of Lucerys’ dragon, unlike the direct confrontation that had occurred just earlier. It was unlikely that it had gotten used to Vhagar’s flight pattern so easily, given its age and how inexperienced Lucerys clearly was…

“There!” he shouts, and Vhagar follows without further instruction. The new direction is one that turns the wind against them, and Aemond wonders how such a young dragon fares in such terrible conditions. But Lucerys and his dragon were now up ahead, growing bigger as Vhagar closes the gap in mere moments…he could have sworn that the dragon was a little brighter than that…

A hard gust of wind nearly blows him back in his saddle; blinking the tears out of his eye, he dodges the cloak that Lucerys had previously donned as it flies past.

Revealing a taller figure in the saddle, sporting bright silver hair…

You sense the shift in Vhagar’s disposition almost immediately.

The roar she lets out is enough to shake the entirety of Storm’s End to its very core, and Silverwing shakes her head, clearly agitated. You glance over your shoulder to see Vhagar being pulled back, and you know you have run out of time.

You could only hope that you had bought enough to allow Lucerys and Arrax to escape.

“Listen carefully, Luke,” you shout over the rain, as both you and your nephew make your way to your dragons. Lightning flashes, and you look to the east; your stomach drops when Vhagar is nowhere to be found. “Aemond will try to follow you as you leave.”

You take Lucerys’ face in your hands. “You must find him and Vhagar first. Get them to chase you, and take them to the gorge just a few miles away from here.”

“How will I—”

“It isn’t hard to miss. Fly Arrax through that gorge, go as low as you can. I will meet you there.”

“But you—”

“After that, go as high as you can and go with the wind so you can go faster.”

“What are you going to do?” he asks fearfully. “Vhagar is the largest dragon in the world, and—and Aemond’s angry, and—”

You shush him, brushing his curls out of his face as you have so many times in his youth. “Vhagar is also the oldest dragon in the world,” you remind him. “And Silverwing and Arrax will look nearly identical in this storm. I will try to stay in Aemond’s blind spot, and trust that his dragon will not know the difference.”

The tears start to well in Lucerys’ eyes. “This is my fault,” he begins to cry.

“It is not, sweet boy.” You pull him into an embrace, and Lucerys grips onto your shoulders almost painfully. When Arrax shrieks, and Silverwing hisses at the sky, you pry yourself out of Lucerys’ grasp, tilting his head up.

“I may still reason with Aemond,” you say. “But at least one of us must make it back to Rhaenyra, to tell her what has happened here. I intend it to be you.”

“But—”

“Be brave, Lucerys,” you tell him, and in High Valyrian, you command just as much as you soothe.

Your mother had told you to be brave, too, just days before she’d died on the birthing bed.

Was that the same fate that awaits you in the jaws of a dragon? You suppose that, one way or another, you would leave this world in the same manner.

You find a rocky beach, and you will Silverwing towards it. The pebbles crunch in a strange sort of symphony under her feet, as it does under yours when you dismount. The waves pummel the shore just inches away from where you stand, waiting for the inevitable.

You press your forehead against Silverwing’s head, feeling the she-dragon purr at the contact. No doubt she was feeling the same things you were feeling, after so many years of flying together, but you want to let her know how much she means to you.

A terrifying growl shakes the beach, and Silverwing hisses as Vhagar appears just above you. You hold onto her as the dragon hits the ground, her sheer size causing nearly half of her body to be submerged in the ocean.

You watch as her rider dismounts, his blade glinting in the darkness as he makes his way over to you. When you move to meet him halfway, Silverwing blocks your path, wailing. You feel a surge of affection for your dragon wash over you.

“Be calm,” you instruct her. “Obey.”

Silverwing keens in protest, but obliges, withdrawing reluctantly, only to roar in contempt when Aemond points his blade towards your neck.

Amidst the heavy rain and thick fog, Aemond Targaryen stands tall and proud, his missing eye doing little to discredit the fact that he now looks every inch a god. You could find no trace of the boy you’d known all those years ago, the one who’d followed you everywhere in the Red Keep, the only one of your half-siblings who’d managed to maintain a solid correspondence with you when you were away.

But perhaps he is still in there, somewhere hidden behind the clear wrath in his eye.

“None can stand between a dragon and its prey,” you begin. “A Conqueror’s dragon and her blood, even less.”

“And yet here you stand,” Aemond spits.

“And yet here I stand,” you repeat calmly.

Aemond studies you carefully. You keep your gaze trained on him, completely ignoring the blade he holds to your throat.

“You know the truth of Rhaenyra’s sons,” he hisses. “You’re no fool, yet you choose not to see it. Would you let the pups of House Strong sit on our father’s throne, and his grandfather before him?”

“They have just as much Targaryen blood as you do.”

“Do not—” He presses the tip of his sword directly against your skin, and Silverwing growls in warning. “Do not dare question my heritage.”

“I would never,” you say quietly. “But surely you see why I cannot let you do this.”

“Would you lay down your life for your traitor kin?”

“They are all I have left.” Your voice quivers dangerously. “You may deny their parentage all you like, but you cannot deny that they are my blood still.”

“I am your blood!” You hadn’t realized that Aemond had dropped his blade in favor of closing the distance between the two of you, looming over you like a malevolent shadow in the pouring rain. “‘Tis I who know you better than anyone else; I, who wrote back to you and sat every night by the windows of the Red Keep waiting for you to return; ‘tis I who study history and philosophy and politics to elevate myself to your level.”

Thunder rumbles overhead, and you blink the rain out of your eyes as you continue to stare up at Aemond. You think you catch a glimpse of the child he once was when he holds your gaze so defiantly, but he scoffs, and turns away from you.

“Lord Borros was right,” he spits. “I stand to destroy myself, risk my brother’s cause, worry my mother senseless, and for what? The whims of the last in line to the throne? A mere afterthought, forever in the shadow of her sister? A spoiled bitch who flees with her tail between her legs at the very thought of duty?”

You shake your head, and despite the gravity of the situation, you have to smile. The rocks crunch beneath your feet as you move towards him this time. When your hand presses against the middle of his shoulders, just opposite of his heart, you feel him jolt.

“Words hurt less to those who have heard the same all their lives,” you tell him gently. “But if it comforts you to lash out at me, I will not stop you. I daresay by the time you end, Luke will have already returned to Dragonstone.”

Aemond growls as he turns and grabs you by your arms. Silverwing hisses and snaps, but backs down when Vhagar moves forward.

“Stop acting as if I was a child,” he demands. “I can challenge the greatest knight of the Seven Kingdoms and ride the largest dragon our world has ever known. I am the closest in line to the Throne. The Aemond you knew died the night Lucerys Strong took my eye, and if you mourn him, you will step aside.”

“I cannot,” you whisper, but you might as well have screamed it in his ear. “I told you on Driftmark, didn’t I? You are still the Aemond I know. The Aemond who fought during my nameday tourney all those years ago, giving it his all despite being out of the lists earlier on. You believed that it was Alicent that put you in the lower lists, did you not?”

Aemond stares at you, clearly not following.

“You thought and acted exactly as I’d hoped. I’m sorry you were embarrassed because of it. But…if you would forgive my selfishness…I wanted you by my side in the King’s box, not injuring yourself on the jousting field for my favor. I would have always given you my favor, no matter how many you’d win against.”

You reach up to brush away the hair sticking against his face in the cold rain. “Because it’s you,” you say, running a thumb down the strap of his eyepatch before gently lifting it up. “You’re my Aemond.”

The sapphire that once sat in the brooch you gave him glints in what little light the storm permits to shine. No doubt that to many, it only serves to further unnerve those who already shift uncomfortably in his presence, but to you, it rivals the stars you’d stared at, thousands of leagues away from home, quietly wondering if Aemond was looking at them too.

The expression on his face is a mixture of surprise, admiration, and pain all into one. You know his true feelings; he’d made it known the night he asked for your hand. You would have given it to him gladly, freely, had he been honest about his reasons. A loveless marriage was the last thing you wanted for yourself in this lifetime, the very reason you’d run away from home all those years ago, causing your own father grief; you weren’t about to have it start with a blatant lie.

You think he understands everything now, by the way his shoulders slump and how Vhagar nearly purrs in content. It’s only confirmed when he reaches for your hand, still warm despite the biting cold.

“You’re not playing fair,” Aemond murmurs. “You would make me a kinslayer…every word you speak will damn me for all eternity, and yet…”

He shakes his head. “You know why I’ve come here. Baratheon’s banners for a marriage pact. You’ve scorned me once before. What makes you think I could ever give in to you now?”

“I dare not force you to choose,” you respond. “But know that I will not move from this place; how you will deny me, I leave it to you.”

Aemond’s mouth twitches. “How kind of you to make things simple for me.”

He backs away, and you close your eyes, waiting for the frigid storm to be drowned out by a shower of dragonflame. You think of Lucerys, and how you hope Arrax was able to navigate the storm all the way back to Dragonstone. You think of Rhaenyra, too, your sole full-blood sister, and the tears that you’d shared together in the Sept on your namedays. Your chest grows heavy with grief at the thought of Viserys, and how he’d begged you with his rattling breath to stay, only for you to leave the very night he’d passed.

You should think about what your death would mean; the pain that would cause your kin, the war that was bound to follow. But your last thought, ironically, might ultimately be of the man who would bring about your demise.

Seconds pass. Silverwing falls silent.

And you feel Aemond’s lips on yours.

#🍡—dango-works #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x ofc #aemond targaryen x ofc #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x fem!reader #aemond x targaryen!reader

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drakoneve · 1 year

Text

The Wolf Amongst Dragons

request: Can you pretty please do a daemon X reader where it's his niece who teases him about being super smitten with the reader BC she is a headstrong stark and makes a fool out of the court because she can. Perhaps she gets quite hurt in a battle that the king sends her and others out to fix. Basically it just ends up being fluffy where the reader knows his feelings and just soaks up the complete love he has. Like this boy has been knocked off his feet and he hates to admit it hehe

pairing: daemon targaryen x y/n stark

word count: 1k

warnings: canon typical violence, injured reader, blood

a/n: i tweaked this a little, hope you don’t mind!

You made a promise to yourself the day your older brother, Cregan, loaded you and your belongings into a carriage headed for the capital. Until this point you’d never stepped foot out of Winterfell, let alone were you prepared to move to the other side of the continent. Yet you had no choice. When the King of the Seven Kingdoms requests a Northern representative for the royal court, the Lord of Winterfell had no choice but to send his little sister.

When you finally arrived at the Red Keep you were meet with by King Viserys, his wife Queen Aemma, their daughter Princess Rhaenyra, and the king’s brother Prince Daemon. The Kingsguard stood tall in gleaming armor in full force surrounding the royal family, who was also accompanied by their personal staff.

“Lady Stark!” King Viserys cheers as he opens his arms in greeting. “We are honored to welcome you to the Red Keep! I hope your travels went smoothly?”

“Thank you, your Grace,” you answered as you bowed respectively. “The Kingsroad is fine, your Grace. It’s more the climate that’s concerning me. i’m not yet used to such... conditions, to say the least.”

Queen Aemma steps forward, “I’m sure you’ll adjust before you know it. Please, allow me to show you to your chambers.”

The queen was gracious enough to accompany you not only to your chambers, but she then took you on a tour of the palace. She began with the throne room, then took you out to the royal gardens where she took you to the Godswood. Having a weirwood tree right here in the Red Keep made you breath easier. At least this place had some trace of the North. Being so far from home unnerved you deeply, but in this place you could feel a connection to home.

Over the next few days you attended Small Council meetings where you watched from the sidelines. King Viserys assured you would have a seat on the council soon enough, but others suggested you have an ‘adjustment period’ of sorts. You scoffed at the idea but still took your seat outside the council table.

Being separated from the council, however, was not enough to restrain you from calling Otto Hightower a ‘spoiled southern cunt’ for suggesting Daemon send members of the City Watch into Flea Bottom to reprimand those who are already fighting to survive. During these meetings you happened to catch the violet eyes of the rogue prince, who had yet to make your acquaintance.

Not long after your arrival in Winterfell, King Viserys announced that Queen Aemma is with child once more, and the palace went into a mode of celebrations. A feast had been prepared and the throne room transformed into a dining hall with room for dancing.

Most everyone had finished their meals and began mingling and dancing their way around the room, but your attention focused mainly on the many molten swords of the Iron Throne. You had to admit the sight of the royal seat of Westeros was quite an intimidating sight.

Something inside told you to take a step towards the throne, and so you did. You stopped when you approached the first line of molten swords and reached out to trail your fingers lightly across the hilt.

“I’d be careful if I were you,” Daemon advised teasingly as he came up on your right side. “My brother does not take kindly to those who yearn for his precious throne.”

“I merely grazed the hilt of one measly sword,” you refuted. “I did not sit my arse upon it and call myself the queen. Nor do I want to.”

“Truthfully?” he inquires, a look of curiosity upon his face. You take the moment to take in the sight of him, and you cannot deny he’s an incredibly handsome man. Like the rest of his Targaryen ancestors, Daemon is beautifully crafted by the Gods of Old Valyria— blessed with silver blond hair and lilac eyes.

You nod and look back up to the throne. “I could think of nothing worse,” you admit. “To live my life upon this ghastly thing and have to sit through endless bore-me-to-death Small Council meetings? Sounds miserable to me.”

With that you excuse yourself respectively to retire for the evening. You make quick rounds to the other members of the royal family to excuse yourself for the night totally unaware of how Daemon’s eyes are following you the whole time. He watches as you begin with his brother and sister in law, before finding Rhaenyra (who’s in the middle of the dancefloor with Alicent) and saying goodnight to her, too.

He laughs to himself when Rhaenyra and Alicent each take one of your hands and pulls you around in circles with them, as if trying to convince you to stay with them just a bit longer. He doesn’t want to admit it to himself, but his heart beats harder at the sight of your dark gray satin skirts flow around you while you twirl, at the smile on your face as you laugh with his niece and her friend.

Eventually you pull away from the girls before officially making your way out of the throne room and away from the chaos.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧ ✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧ ✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧ ✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Several months had passed since the death of Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon, and war had begun in the Stepstones just as Corlys Velaryon warned King Viserys and the eternity of the Small Council. Still Viserys refused to step in as king and help the Lord of Driftmark defeat the Triarchy once and for all. After the king rejected Corlys’ offer of Laena’s hand in marriage and instead married Alicent Hightower, the seasnake took off to fight in the Stepstones. It wasn’t long after that that Daemon joined Corlys in his war efforts.

You stayed in the Keep for awhile, trying to convince Viserys to aid Corlys and Daemon in their efforts of holding the Stepstones to no avail. Viserys had allowed you to take a seat on the council while Corlys and Daemon were gone, and each time you tried to plead with the king to see reason Otto Hightower would weasel his way in the king’s ear against you.

So you decided to go to the Stepstones yourself, naturally. You recruited Ser Harwin Strong to accompany you once he swore on his honor he would not say a word of your plan to anyone until his safe return to King’s Landing.

You and Harwin arrived on the shores of the Stepstones in time to rush to Daemon’s side as he was overrun by members of the Triarchy. You wore the armor your father had gifted you after many years of insisting on joining your brother Cregan on the battlefield with the Stark bannermen.

Vaemond Velaryon scoffed at your arrival and insisted Corlys send you away. Daemon stepped forward, piercing Vaemond with his furious lilac gaze.

“Put your cocks away, boys,” you tease, unimpressed. “We’ve a war to win, do we not?”

You joined the war torn men around the large table set up with the maps of the battlefields. Conversation continued back and forth as the lot of you tried to come up with a plan to take down the Crab Feeder and Triarchy. Laenor’s plan of sending Daemon to the Crab Feeder as a scapegoat of false hope only for both Caraxes and Seasmoke to burn the Triarchy men alive.

For the most part everything went as planned, until you jained Daemon’s side as he was ambushed, unarmed, by a circle of the enemy. You’d jumped into the fight, effectively taking out several Triarchy soldiers before tossing a sword Daemon’s way. He showed his thanks by slaying the rest of the men with you, but not before one of them slashed you in the side, leaving a bloody gash on the side of your thigh.

“Fuck!” you yell as you clutch your leg, losing your balance and hitting the ground. Blood streamed down your leg in a slow, but steady, flow. Daemon joined your side in a flash, ripping the white flag he’d had to feign surrenderance to tie the cloth as tight as he could above the gash in your thigh.

The battle continued around you though for the most part Caraxes’ and Seasmoke’s flame had discouraged most of what was left of the Triarchy. With Daemon’s aid you were able to safely make it back to the shore where you’d first arrived to be treated by the healers available.

Daemon stayed by your side through the stitching and even went as far as to hold your hand and offer sweet words as comfort. You were grateful for him, this way you had something else to focus on other than the pain. And if you needed an alternative to keep your mind busy, there was no better pick than Daemon.

His silvery white hair fell around his face perfectly despite being slightly matted with sweat and blood. He’d always been handsome, that you couldn’t deny, but seeing this softer side to him made him even more so in your eyes. It’s no secret Daemon is a troublemaker, and you should probably keep your distance, but after this how could you?

Long after the battle was over Daemon was crowned King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea. He’d cut his infamous long hair short, and it suited him. Sometimes little wisps of silver hair would fall down into his face and you had to remind yourself to breathe at the sight.

Your relationship with Daemon changed after the war in the Stepstones. Whereas before the war you would avoid Daemon in court, you now sought him out. Not that you had too, because he often would join your side in Small Council meetings or invite you out to the training yards.

Tonight however, you opted to stay in your chambers.

You’d already stripped down to your nightclothes when a knock came from the other side of your chamber doors.

“Come in.” you called.

The doors open and Daemon entered, dismissing your guards. They looked to you before leaving once they had your reassurance.

Daemon didn’t hesitate to step right up to you. “Forgive me for the hour, my lady, but I’ve found myself in a situation I am quite unfamiliar with and it seems you are the only one who can help me.”

“Oh?” You tilted your head, trying to ignore the fluttering of your heart. “How am I supposed to be of aid?”

“Be mine,” he responds quickly with confidence. “I must confess from the day you arrived here in the Keep I’ve been quite taken with you. And the day you rode onto the shores of the Stepstones, I knew I could not live without you by my side—”

You reached your hands out to cup either side of his face. “Daemon, do not jest. I’m afraid my heart could not take it.”

A genuine smile breaks out across his lips. “I would never,” Daemon insists. “I’ve felt this way for a long time, my little wolf.”

Daemon’s hands fall to your waist as he pulls you into his body, leaning down to kiss you firmly. You pulled away and kissed his forehead before resting your own against his.

“Come to bed, Daemon,” you purr and pull away towards the bed.

He laughs and smiles down at you. “As you wish, little wolf.”

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zoeykallus · 8 months

Note

Dearest Queen, a simple request from me

A Tech and his s/o fem one. So s/o is somewhat upset with Tech cause he’s too busy to notice that she has been VERY neglected by him and very single. Time.

So as somewhat payback to him, s/o has been very focused on her stuff (or whatever she’s doing currently) and has been very neglected Tech’s needs (Aka being horny) and the icing on the cake is when Tech caught s/o playing herself. Without him.

Aloha!

Tech... 👀

Unrelated AC: *clears throat,* I really want Tech! *Jumps out of window*

*Not proofread*

Tech x Fem!Reader One-Shot - Neglected

Warnings: SMUT/Strongly Suggestive/Angsty/Fluff/Sexual Content/Consensual Sex/PIV/Cunnilingus/Touch Starving/18+

_________________

Ko-Fi (If you feel like giving me some coffee)

Tech has been busy for several weeks now. There are some technical problems with the Marauder that require his full attention. No matter how much you ask him, he keeps pushing you off until another time, completely absorbed in his work. The problem with Tech is that he can be hyper-focused, so that he is oblivious to the circumstances, atmosphere and mood around him. He then finds himself in a tunnel where it's just him and his task. Slowly, you get tired of it. When Tech finally finishes his work, and he awakens from his tunnel vision, he feels it very clearly, it hits him like a sledgehammer. He is touch-starved, and very much so. The moment he finally finishes his work, the longing for your closeness rolls over him like a tidal wave. Hastily he goes to your cabin. The Marauder has now been upgraded and expanded, and there are several private cabins, in addition to the old bunks. You're sitting on the bed in the bunk you've shared for almost a year, reading something, when he comes in, a smile on his lips.

He sits down by you and wants to pull you into his arms, but you push him away, not even looking up from your reading material. "Not now, I'm reading," you grumble. Tech blinks. This is new. Until now, you've never rejected an advance from him, no matter when or of what nature it was. "Can't I just snuggle up to you while you read?" he asks cautiously. With a sigh, you get up sit down in a chair at your desk where he can't sit next to you and say, "No." Again Tech blinks, you still haven't looked at him. "You're mad at me," he states quietly. "You don't say" Tech sighs softly and says, "I've been a little busy the last-" Your hand flicks up, a silent gesture that interrupts him. He looks at you expectantly. Finally, you turn in your chair to look at him. But the expression on your face makes his guts tighten.

You are really angry, very much so, also disappointed and neglected. Very controlled, keeping your anger in check as best you can, you calmly say, "Eight weeks, Tech, it's been eight long weeks this time." Tech's eyes grow huge behind the lenses of his goggles. That was really long and he hadn't even really realized it. You continue, "We've talked about this several times, about your hyperfocus, about me not being able to take it. You promised me several times that you would work on not neglecting me for so long at a time." Tech nervously tugs at the sleeves of his Blacks peeking out from between the armor plates. "I'm sorry" he says meekly, "I didn't realize how much time had passed". You shrug and say, "I can't do this anymore. This doesn't feel like a relationship, Tech. I'm not a toy you can put in the closet and pull out and put away as the mood takes you" "Of course not!" says Tech, startled, "You know I don't see you that way." "Really? Do I? Right now, not so much," you say somewhat cynically.

Tech looks at you with his saddest puppy dog eyes and asks, "You're not planning on ending our relationship, are you?" With a sigh, you shake your head and say, "No. But I'll give you a taste of your own medicine. Let's see if you're more inclined to learn then." Tech frowns. "My... own medicine?" You cross your arms in front of your chest and nod. "So how does this work?" he asks cautiously. "No sex. No kissing. No cuddling. And for as long as I see fit." Tech swallows and tugs at his collar like it's suddenly way too tight. He clears his throat carefully and says, "I see, so no cuddling today." "Not tomorrow either," you say sternly, to which he flinches a tiny bit. You add, "I guess we'll start with you sleeping in your old bunk tonight." The look he gives you almost breaks your heart, it's hard for you to keep up appearances and remain steadfast. But you do it. With his eyes downcast and his shoulders slumped, both hands clutching his datapad as if he needs to hold onto it, Tech finally leaves your cabin.

After the first week he almost begs you on his knees to be allowed to sleep with you in the cabin again, at least to be allowed to be near you, in some way. Your heart is in your throat as you refuse, saying, "Tech, that was only a week, you've been doing this to me for eight weeks". Tech looks downright choked up as he says, "That was only a week.... Seven more weeks. I'm not going to survive this." You roll your eyes and close the door in his face. Behind the closed door, the mask falls away. You try to take a deep breath. You feel downright sick. You know how much you're tormenting him right now, but it's time he really understood what you go through every time he just focuses on work and you fade into the background. You don't want to go through this anymore.

Another night alone in your bed is dawning. In your sleep you are haunted by an erotic dream. You wake up with swollen clit, wet panties and an urgent desire. Your hand wanders under the fabric of your panties, deftly searching for the little swollen pearl, the bundle of nerves that demands your attention. A soft, moaned sigh leaves your lips as you stroke yourself, thinking of nothing but Tech's gently curving, thick cock. Suddenly, you hear a soft rustling sound and tear open your eyes. "Who's there?!" you ask into the darkness, your voice far too timid and frightened to be threatening. "It's just me," you hear Tech say softly, and you see his slender figure step out of the shadows. "I locked up! How did you get in here?" You turn on your bedside lamp and see him standing in the middle of the room. He's wearing only his goggles and his pajama pants, which are suspiciously bulging at the crotch. You suspect he was watching you when you touched yourself. The rustling must have been his hand reaching into his own pants. He stands there, ears and cheeks flushed. You caught him, and he's ashamed. For having crossed boundaries you drew and for not being in control.

"I couldn't resist. You know that a simple lock can't stop me." Your gaze still hangs on the bulge in his crotch, which Tech finally notices. With a smile, he says, "I see the hunger isn't leaving you untouched" "Well, it's been nine weeks for me Tech". "For me, too, in theory," he interjected. You shake your head, "You weren't even aware of the first eight weeks of deprivation, but I was." Tech's eyes light up, as they always do when he has an idea he himself is excited about. "Then let me do something good for you. You know how good I am with my tongue and fingers" The words, just the thought of it makes your clit pulsate and your pussy get even wetter. You are excited by the idea, but you don't quite want to admit it. In fact, you still want him to understand exactly what you're going through every time he pulls away from you. A small smile appears on his lips, he's already figured you out. Tech comes closer to the bed, carefully grabs your thighs, turns you around to face him and pulls you closer to the edge of the bed.

You don't resist, but you say softly, "I haven't agreed yet." His fingertips that have just gently grabbed your panties pause at this point. He looks at you expectantly. Tech slowly gets down on his knees in front of the bed in front of you, his fingers still just below the waistband of your panties. He tilts his head toward one of your thighs and kisses it gently. "Please, love, let me make up for what I've missed in the last few weeks". You blink, barely able to get a clear thought, you just want him to touch you, yet you say, "That wasn't just about sex, Tech". He nods, kisses your thigh again and says, "I know, I'll make it up to you, I promise" You look at him smiling and ask, "And you'll start by making me feel good?" Tech smiles back and nods in agreement, "I'd love to, if you'll let me" "Go ahead"

His fingers grip the fabric of your panties a little tighter and finally pull it down. The feeling of the fabric brushing over your skin, leaving your body, is almost like a release. You exhale deeply, and you feel tension escape your body, something else takes its place, heat. But the panties are not carelessly tossed aside, not by Tech. He places them very neatly on a chair near the bed, within his reach, before turning back to you. You watch this little gesture, again fascinated by how carefully he handles everything that has to do with you, even your wet panties. You know he loves you, these moments in which he more or less neglects you, they never happen out of malice. But you still wish he would learn to handle it better. His lips moving along your thigh, tender and slow, pull you out of your thoughts. He murmurs close to your skin, "Forgive me my darling". You have actually already forgiven him, but you just smile at him and say, "You are well on your way to forgiveness." He knows you love him, he knows it's part of your little game, he doesn't feel humiliated, quite the opposite, he feels invited.

His mouth comes closer to your expectant center. Tech is tender, sensual. A little flick with his tongue here, a little prod at your sensitive entrance. He's testing you, teasing you. "Tech, please," you whisper. He kisses your velvety folds and murmurs, "I know, I got you, honey." His deft tongue finds your pearl, circles it, applies pressure. The next moment his tongue dances so skillfully over your clit that your whole abdomen seems to vibrate, tense. At the same moment as your pussy contracts expectantly, first one, then a second finger slides carefully between your slick walls, while your clit continues to be massaged by his tongue. Your moan almost catches in your throat, your body reacts immediately, an intense pulse building in seconds. Your fingers partially claw into sheets and bedspread, clawing what they can get. Tech senses your reaction, increasing the pressure while his hard cock pulses impatiently. His hand grips one of your thighs, pushing it further to the side, his mouth getting wilder. You bite your tongue as you feel an excited cry brewing. He hears you moan, knows that he is on the right track.

His tongue becomes even faster, even more targeted. Techs fingers move gently pumping in your pussy. The intensity is almost unbearable. From one moment to the next, you teeter over the edge. Vibrating, pulsing, your orgasm rolls over you. Your thighs tremble, a deep moan comes from your throat. Release. He gently lets go of you. Kisses your thighs again. You breathe heavily, your heart races. Then a smile spreads on your lips. You know what's coming and spread your thighs even wider to welcome him. Tech looks at you, sees the smile on your lips, and a storm of emotion goes through his body. Affection, attraction, arousal, anticipation. He pulls his pajama bottoms down a bit, freeing his hard length. "Are you ready for me, my love?" Your smile widens. "Very," you say breathy. He brings his tip to your wet entrance, applying pressure. You can feel him parting your folds, slowly advancing inside you, stretching you. It's as overwhelming as ever. Very slowly he penetrates deeper and deeper, until he is completely immersed with his cock in your pussy.

Tech looks down to see him inside of you. A shaky breath leaves his lips before he grips your hips and slowly begins to move inside you. He pulls back and thrusts into you again, very gently at first, almost languidly, enjoying the sight. It feels good to merge with him, you've missed him, all of him. You are so happy and relieved to have him back, so overwhelmed that you almost have to pull yourself together a little. "I love you," he says rapturously, half whispering, hoarse with arousal, overwhelmed with relief and affection. "Show me," you whisper to him. You feel the tension in his body as he moves faster, his thrusts more determined, his cock sliding faster through your slick walls. His hands slide to the back of your knees to hold your legs apart. Tech watches in fascination as your fingertips seek out your once again pulsating clit and begin to play with it. He smiles because he knows you are enjoying yourself. You are so wet that his cock makes lewd noises with every movement in your pussy. He licks his lips, you can see that he is a little tense. You realize that he is also starved and yet he tries to hold out for you as long as he can.

With a smile, you tell him, "Love, let go." He blinks. "Are you sure?" You nod, "Quite sure. Cum inside me." His eyes grow wide for a moment, then he throws his head back, his thrusts quickening for a moment, a little harder. You're not there yet, and yet you're enjoying it, enjoying what he's feeling right now. You feel his fingers grip tighter, the tense trembling in his body. Tech moans, half-suppressed. You feel him pulsing inside you, cumming inside you. Your smile becomes a grin, satisfied, happy. He breathes heavily, slowly releasing your legs from his grip, stroking your naked body with shaky fingers. "Give me a few minutes, I want to make you happy a few more times tonight," he says determinedly.

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bonefall · 1 month

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My birthday was a couple days ago, and I got to see my bio dad for the first time in a while. He surprised me with the fact that I have a little half-sister, whom I've never met and who was adopted about two years back. So, I wondered if any situations in BB mimic this or have a theme of "secret siblings" or "secret family"? Sorry if this is a weird ask; this blog is honestly just such a cool little place and I love the way you approach the subject matter and take the flawed misogynistic foundation of the WC books and make them so much better (JUSTICE FOR BUMBLE!!!). I've also learned a lot about healthy and unhealthy relationships here and am really glad for your deep dives on Squilf and Bramble. Thanks, Bones!

Not weird at all! I really like exploring all the little nooks and crannies of complicated familial dynamics. I think one of the untapped strengths of WC (that the writers seem to be unaware of) is how their MASSIVE cast allows them to present all sorts of unique dynamics. So I like to pick up on it, since they don't.

For secret siblings...

I'm pretty heavily leaning towards Ambermoon being adopted by Wildfur, as a surrogacy. Something feels correct about it. Especially since Icecloud is getting retooled into a post-Battle of the True Eclipse birth, and a major supporting character in AVoS-era stories as a friend of Alderheart.

Thinking about it, I should zoom in and expand this. Maybe have Icecloud, somehow, acquire forbidden knowledge that would invalidate the Queen’s Rights and he (transman) struggles with if he's going to use it to expose his parents as an excuse to help Ambermoon.

(Especially since Ambermoon and Icecloud are basically nothing alike. Amber is independent, bold, and vain. Ice is jessie pinkman big-hearted, disorganized, and deceptively meek if you look past his "chill" demeanor)

But that's wip-- there's also Breezepelt and the Three, who are going to have an actual friendship. In particular I can't unsee Breeze and Lion having a deep one. I know I commit the Cardinal Sin of borderline himbo-ifying Lionblaze in BB, but I can't help it.

Hollyleaf ended up nabbing a bunch of his most violent roles to make her villainous descent smoother narratively, so BB!Lionblaze's story ends up being more focused on Ashfur's abuse, comic relief with cats in other Clans (something that the very serious Jay and Holly have a hard time providing), and the emotional fallout of the big reveal and Bramblestar's turn on them. Breezepelt slots neatly into that.

They were friends. Lionblaze's whole life came down around the reveal, everyone looking at him and his siblings differently, like they're suddenly something terrible. Why can't we find a silver lining, Breezepelt? Why can't we call ourselves brothers if the whole world is going to do it anyway? So much is changing, but THIS doesn't have to, we will take their weapon and turn it to armor, my ally, my friend, my brother.

(and when Breezepelt is lashing out at the three because of the Dark Forest's influence, Lionblaze is there, taking the blows and trying not to give in to the impulse to send him flying with a single paw)

There's also Harespring and Kestrelflight of WindClan and Owlclaw of ShadowClan. All of them are from a single litter between Whitewater and Mudclaw. She was going to raise the three of them alone as ShadowClan cats, but when the sire was smote, Whitewater felt they were cursed.

She was able to give the oldest two to their bio-uncle, Torear, but the weather was so bad that day and the runt was so sickly and small that it surely would have killed him. I don't think Owlclaw ever finds out why his mother always treated him with suspicion, but it did mess him up horribly.

Over in BB!DOTC, Thunder Storm is getting more half-siblings earlier. Clear Sky and Falling Feather had two daughters-- Pale Sky and Tiger Sky.

I want to explore the way that the various stages of Clear Sky's life acted on his kids. How any little curiosity Thunder Storm had about the life he might have had if he wasn't abandoned is crushed by seeing kittens who weren't. How Clear's favoritism of his oldest child set the trio against each other from the start. How this idea of "love" is toxic yet intoxicating.

It feels good to be the golden child. The power it gives you over his sycophants is satisfying. To know you, and you alone, have what someone else craves. Problem is, that's conditional, and it's cruel.

What Thunder Storm learns from his time with his biodad is that Clear Sky is not his father at all. He's taught him exactly what he DOESN'T want to be. There may be similarities-- in temperament, in physical prowess (though BB!Thunder is three-legged, he's still ripped), in taste and senses. But Thunder Storm's father is Shaded Flower.

(BB!Gray Wing died in the first book, rescuing Shaded Flower from being trampled by a horse. Xey're a patron of wisdom, Shaded Moss is taking the role of fatherhood to Thunder)

His sister is Rainswept Flower. His mom is Bright Storm. If there was a bond he could have had with Tiger Sky and Pale Sky, it dies simply and cruelly on the knife they used to cut each other out.

Pale might have wanted to mend it, she was the gentler one. But she dies in the First Battle along with her mother. Tiger Sky is too stubborn to accept any help, should Thunderstar offer it, and Thunderstar isn't in the business of begging for others to like him.

Naturally I'm lowkey obsessed with them lmao. I need to make a BB!DOTC overviewww

#I have a perspective on half siblings colored by a dynamic in my family #The generation above me has two siblings who had an awful biodad and an amazing stepdad (who did officially adopt them)#And there was nothing ''natural'' or good about how one of them was obsessed with their biodad.#It was influenced by his surroundings and did nothing but drag an incredibly toxic man back into his sister's life #Over and over #But anyway the son used to tell me ''theres no half in siblings''#The daughter adored her halfbrother through the mother who raised them-- but was adamant that her biodad's newer kids were nothing to her #I guess I agree with the son. But not in the way he believes it #There's no half in siblings because you either Are. Or you are Not.#You have a shared experience with having that person as a parent or you don't. And that's what's unchanging.#It's not the blood; it's the sweat and tears. But anyhoo #Personal details of my life aside #Tiger Sky and Pale Sky are Clear's Dead Angel Fetus Children in-canon. I think that was Weird.#So instead I made them. Not. Dead angel fetus children....#They're characters now lmaoo #Better bones au #I think Tiger Sky (i call her Tigs in my head a lot) is one of my favorite kit saves ever though #She's not going to be from the last litter either. I haven't picked who the mom is yet but he does have even more #At least one of those is going to make a grab at power but um. Sparrow Heart will not react Well.#BASICALLY lads I'm cooking. My revamps of the DOTC characters basically write themselves because I am very fond of them.#Clear's youngest: ''OH I JUST CANT WAIT TO BE KI-"#Sparrowstar: ''-lled.''

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ribz4livers · 4 months

Text

A pizza doxing or a trip to the dumpster would have been so much better than this...

I am finally trying to be more comfortable sharing my writing with the general public! This is supposed to function as a small introduction to Madeline and the events leading up to her kidnapping just before where TPOF takes place. It isn't very long but depending on the reception, I do want to try my hand and writing more about her and potentially Derek (once I get over my cringe hurdles).

I hope you guys enjoy. 💖

This post contains writing! If you would like to read, please click on the "Keep Reading" below!

Madeline/content belongs to myself (ribz4livers)

TPOF belongs to @/gatobob

Word count: below 1000

🔞 MINORS DNI! 🔞 This includes AGELESS BLOGS! Failure to comply will result in a BLOCK.

“Alright guys! You know the drill, let me know what you think in the comments below or–” the girl on the screen flashes a small but toothy smile, “if you’re watching this live, blow that chat box up! I’ll see you later for my next scheduled live and trust me, you won’t want to miss it!" She held up a hand and gifted a small wave, “Bye-bye and keep yourselves safe!” Cut. That’s a wrap. Madeline leaned over her keyboard, hitting the button on her microphone to end the live audio before quickly doing the same with her webcam, cutting the hundreds of eyeballs ogling her from the shadows of the internet. She sighed, clicking her mouse and scrolling through the chat feed, reading people’s reactions to her most recent stream. “This was disgusting”, “is she actually serious?”, “troll”, etc… There were a few people singing their praises, applauding Madeline for her attention to detail when talking about the Top 5 Most Gruesome Serial Killers of Our Time!!! but she knew they were just knights in shining armor trying to get the attention of their queen. There was no research in these videos; a quick visit to any online encyclopedia and there was all the information she needed. Copy, past, action.

Even with so many people watching her when she hit that “go live” button on her screen, once she ended that stream that was it; no eyes, no reeling chat, just nothing; just her staring back at the wolfish girl in the viewfinder on her screen, all alone. Leaning back in her chair, Madeline again sighed. The reactions she got were good but were they good enough to get the attention of the reaction channels? After her last controversy, rating victims’ outfits, she really needed to step it up a notch if she wanted to keep the notoriety. “Maybe…Dateable Delinquents? No…too easy…” Madeline muttered to herself, grabbing her phone. She checked her texts. It had been over 6 hours since she had last looked at her phone anyway, right? Something had to be there by now.

“Tch…” Madeline clicked her tongue as there were no texts from anyone. Oh well, in the meantime she could go for a dose of fresh air. Maybe visit that cute café down the road and get ahead on her next script or finally start on that essay she had due today before midnight.

Making her way to the vanity, Madeline kicked a medium sized box out of the way, the useless artifacts from a time past rattling around and hopefully breaking in the process. She glanced at the box as she passed, taking note of the neatly written address on one of its half opened flaps. Clearly a woman's writing. She would have to make a trip to the apartment dumpster soon, what a fucking pain.

Once sat in front of the vanity mirror, Madeline began touching up her appearance. She already had her makeup done, never appearing on streams or videos without it, but it couldn't hurt to fix her hair and adjust her outfit in accordance with today's weather: drab and weary.

Just her and the girl in the mirror now. Her eyes were too yellow, her ears too tall, nails too thick and teeth far too sharp. Madeline flashed a smile at the glass but shame pricked her lips before they stretched too far. Well behaved girls don't bare fangs.

She began to brush her hair carefully, taking extra care to give it that desired, signature flip she was known for–at least if she had people who knew her–and for a moment thought about a time when her hair was much longer, harder to style; no, it wasn't that it was harder to style but that she wasn't allowed to style. Once again Madeline thought about that box sitting only a few feet behind her. Impulsively grabbing her phone again Madeline opened the screen. Still nothing. The phone made a loud clack as she set it back down on the table with a little more force than before and continued her grooming.

Madeline was lost in teeth, boxes, scripts but was suddenly interrupted by what sounded like a door, her door, getting softly knocked. It wasn't expected but it wasn't unwelcome either. Maybe it was one of those pizza doxings she had heard so much about from her time lurking on the internet farms. The thought of someone going through all that effort just to send her a free lunch made the girl smile, fangs poking over her elongated lips. How sad were these keyboard warriors?

Another knock.

Madeline got up, doing a once over in the mirror and began making her way to the door, all smiles, "hold on, I'm coming."

Silence.

Without checking the peep hole, Madeline opened the door wide but her giddy expression clouded once she saw there was in fact no pizza, only two large bodies dressed in dark colors and obscured faces.

"Hi…Madeline?" One of them asked in a voice that sounded fake, filtered and suspicious.

There was no time for her body much less her mind to react. There was no sixth sense, no hair standing on edge and no words; and apparently these people needed no answer. Before Madeline could utter a word, she felt something pressed to her mouth, a cloth, and next there was only black–

A pizza doxing or a trip to the dumpster would have been so much better than this.

#the price of flesh #tpof #madeline #awo girl 🐺#fanwriting #text #I am trying my best #tpof oc #tpof beast kin oc #trashtubers #probably deserves to get canceled

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moodymisty · 5 months

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Alright I gotta represent for us in the Rogal Dorn Simp Nation, Misty! This idea fell directly on my head from my old history nerd childhood, we’ve got stories of queens holding down the fort and being badass while the king is away so why not let the lady of the House of Dorn and the Imperial Fists kick some ass??? Dorn’s off doing y’know crusade shit etc etc and gets a frantic vox hail from Inwit (or whatever fortress world she was on) that they’re under attack. Luckily he’s done with whatever his assignment was or has somebody he can trust and leave it to so he can flip Phalanx in reverse and hop back to make sure nothing goes wrong. Only to find his beloved commanding the standing force of guardsmen and marines, not just holding it down but WINNING. On the outside he’s his usual stoic self like “psh yes of course I wasn’t worried, I never worry, this is something I expect her to be able to handle. I am proud tho” but internally he’s like “oh no this is hot” XD. Indomitable warrior queen decked out in armor he probably commissioned for her (always gotta be prepared) making battle plans and laying the verbal smack down on any captains or commissars who are questioning the competency of somebody ROGAL GODDAMN DORN chose to be with. Yeah I think that’d do a whole lot for him 😂

Having soft moments of reflection on his humanity matched against his beloved’s is delicious of course but so is meeting him where HE’S at, seeing how loving him and learning about him would change somebody. And getting to commit some grand old grimdark 40k VIOLENCE is always fun lol

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author's Note: We are on the front lines for Wall Husband I will go down with this ship. Boring this bland that fuck everyone else we're right I'm stacking bricks around them

Summary: Stuck in a violent snowstorm on an Imperial Fist controlled planet being sieged, you take command for the first time while waiting for Dorn.

Relationships: Rogal Dorn/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Dorn is your future husband and Alexis Polux is your battle husband it's like a work husband but much more violent, Mentions of battle and death, Typical 40kness, I think I blacked out while writing this I'm sorry

Word Count: 2566

You had known from the very beginning of your courtship that Dorn had wished for you to be a link in his chain of command.

What you hadn't expected, was for your first time in leadership to be completely alone, surrounded by no less than fifty Astartes waiting for orders, and five hundred or more Guardsmen half frozen due to the horrid weather; With a multitude of tech priests working on the various machinery and equipment.

This sun up makes it a week since the siege had began, the distant sounds of bolter fire constant. Sometimes the ground shakes from explosions, pulling dust off the cracks in the brick walls.

Walking down the east hall, you step into the large room that has been made into a sort of 'central command' to coordinate the current forces, stuffed tight with a massive holotable and various tech priests scattered around it. Some are working on fixing any malfunctioning machinery, such as the vox equipment that has had trouble maintaining a signal even on-planet through the storm.

You look around to see if anything drastic has changed in your absence. In the moment, you notice a familiar face; A commissar from the beginning of this week. He has the most command over the Guardsmen under you, having been their only superior before the invasion. Any captains or other commissars had been made to report to him, up until now. His closest in rank subordinate had been killed in an explosion on the first day, and in a morose thought, you wonder if they had been any more palatable than he is.

"Any progress hailing the Phalanx?"

He gives you a curt shake of his head, looking over the shoulder of the tech priest operating the vox equipment. Another harsh whip of wind batters against the walls, howling and shaking the glass windows. It rattles them almost just as bad as the distant explosions do.

"Nothing more than a few seconds at a time. But it should be enough of a message for them to understand the planet is under siege." The Commissar speaks short and stiff, face frozen in a neutral, stoic gaze underneath his uniform and few day old facial scruff. You cross your arms.

He's on his best behavior now, considering his disrespect shortly after you'd taken command had nearly gotten his head rent from his shoulders. He hadn't realized he was speaking to the Lady of the Imperial Fists, but the Astartes that had been in your company to deliver the news of your ascension in duty hadn't given him the leeway he might've thought he deserved. He acquiesced command of his guardsmen to you quite quickly, after that. There has been nary a squeal from him since, nor any of his fellow commissars or guard captains.

"Good. Then we will hopefully have aid soon. For now we need to push them back from the storage buildings before my men run out of bolter ammo."

Not that they can't work with just their chainswords, but long range options remain vital considering the hostile terrain you're all working with.

You hear the sound of heavy footsteps approaching.

Alexis Polux, a veritable giant of a man, is nearly unable to get through even a doorway meant for fellow Astartes; Though not of his size. His armor is packed with snow at the seams, pauldrons slick with snow melted into a sheet of ice. His thin, blonde hair is quickly becoming wet at the tips, from where snowflakes are melting in the slight heat of the room. Anywhere he walks, he leaves chunks of melting sleet right behind. It has to be almost packed a meter high at this point out there, judging where the worst of it ends on his leg armor.

"Welcome back, Captain Polux." You smile in spite of the situation. It's something that Dorn had said he found- in his own words- 'curious' about you.

He holds his helm in his hands, walking closer to you. He brushes past the Commissar with not even the slightest tilt of acknowledgement. Unsurprising. He'd been there when the man had questioned your acting in Dorn's proxy. Polux is a man of a surprisingly amount of humility and softspokenness, but he is rarely forgiving.

"The storm is getting worse."

You hear another bout of wind howl through the brick and stone, as it continues to dump more snow onto the ground. While the Astartes can traverse it without much issue, it's becoming one for the Guardsmen. They've slowed their advance significantly as the snow reaches their knees.

"Even if we do get aid, they're going to be hard pressed to get anything more than small gunship planet-side; Though it goes both ways. We're all stuck out here in this mess." You open your mouth to continue, but Polux cuts you off.

"They are not built for the cold like we are."

You look up to the massive marine who's been serving as your second in command. Perhaps it wasn't an officially given title, but he's taken it well, and you could think of no better man for it. Especially given that the other Astartes respect him- which makes your orders have less of a weight to them, given they still have a degree of unfamiliarity with you. Your hands rest on the rim of the holotable.

"Finished my sentence for me." He hums as an odd sort of apology, the humor of your response going right over his head. When you let out a soft chuff of a laugh a few guardsmen curiously look at you for a moment.

"It was a compliment, Polux." He stares, eyes flicking across your face as he loudly thinks.

He really is a Son of Dorn.

You resist the urge to smile again, and look down at the holotable. It's been quite the week, but what was once another language has now become nothing but second nature. Putting theory to practice has proved quicker and less frightening that you'd thought, a week ago.

Though you still hope Dorn returns to you soon, turning away from the holotable to receive an update from a guardsmen holding a dataslate.

If anyone had ever asked, Rogal Dorn has remained no different than the stalwart nature he's always had. Though his captains and commanders can hear tenseness in his voice. No matter how phenomally well the Primarch can mask it.

It's been there since they'd first gotten the first of multiple emergency vox hails, only a few seconds long with a barely stable connection. But the few words that had gotten through had made it obvious that the planet was being sieged.

One of their bases was being sieged, a spit in the face of the Imperial Fists.

Even worse, Dorn has no idea as to your welfare.

He'd thought you safe there, the safest you could be other than with him or on Inwit, and now you stand on a world being laid waste with no way to contact anyone off world. He wonders deep in a part of his mind if it was an error on his part.

They're less than a day out now, watching the warp tear by. Dorn stands at the ship's bridge- unmovable. He'll see the planet any moment now when they leave Warp travel, and then can he prepare for what all is ahead of him.

He has the utmost faith in his men and you. However that doesn't mean that a small, human part of him doesn't worry at the idea of you being stuck mid-siege in an unknown location.

He taught you well. He taught you well. A mantra in his head no one else can hear. It is up to yourself to survive without him.

The siege isn't visible from orbit when they arrive, given the massive storm blocking large swaths of the land in a white blanket. It will making landing difficult, but the storm is clearing- at least according to the tech priest currently in charge. Not long after orders are given to begin battering the enemy's battleships as they strike back, shields taking a sizable hit. Nothing the Eternal Crusader and it's crew cannot handle.

But it doesn't feel as if the ice storm is clearing with the way the gunships struggle to remain stable, even with the most competent of pilot. Though they still manage to land on solid footing in one piece, the wind whipping their armor like a flog. Sheets of snow blow across snow already heavily packed onto the ground, covering up the large footprints of Astartes that had been here moments before them. The stone of the steps is barely visible through it all.

Dorn strides forward, the snow sticking to his boots as he trudges through it. He can hear bolter fire in the distance, as well as what seems like the highpowered cannon of multiple Baneblades. A small team of five Astartes follow behind him, two on each side and one directly behind. They have their bolters raised, ever vigilant even well in the safely of their own area of control. Wind rips through his cropped hair and howls in his ears, and for a split second, he perhaps regrets not wearing his helm. Even for a man of Inwit, this cold stings; He can hear the ice and snow crunching in the seams of his armor.

Stepping inside the cathedral, the first thing he notes is the myriad of supplies stacked inside in the aisles, safe from the elements. Guardsmen are looking after them, divvying them out amongst themselves, or delivering them to the Astartes in need of them. Of which there are a few- Imperial Fist guards from before the siege began. Most seem in decent condition; Dorn notes a lack of injuries amongst the Guardsmen and Astartes alike, and how there seems to be an established system amongst them.

He keeps walking through the nave, passing Guardsmen and Astartes who all give him a drop of the head when he passes.

"Primarch Dorn!"

An Imperial Fist Lieutenant calls to him, helmet in his hand. He has blood on his lips from where his skin has split, the cold having whipped his skin dry. Going down the few steps of the ambulatory, he gives a curt nod.

"Lady Dorn and Captain Polux are in the east hall. Central command has been established there."

He affirms to the warrior and turns, walking through the transept and down the hall. The one who'd spoken to him seems to have other duties, and stays behind on the ambulatory.

He can hear chatter in the large, arched hall- it increases until he reaches the door it's bleeding from, and he opens it and ducks to come through. It's just too short for him, but the ceiling inside can thankfully handle someone of his height. It's a thought that is always in the back of his mind.

When Dorn enters the room, the first thing his eyes focus on is you; Leaning over a massive holotable with Captain Alexis Polux standing firmly at your side. He stands like an unmoving guardian, a hand on the pommel of his chainsword. He's the closest to you out of anyone in the room- either out of his own will, or the gargantuan Astartes has incidentally created a personal area of clearance around you both with his presence alone.

"Dorn!"

You say, an audible pep in your voice. The Primarch walks closer and examines the scene in front of him. You appear uninjured, apart from your skin being slightly pallid from the cold.

The Primarch notices how everyone operates around you with a level of assiduity and efficiency, having been giving clear cut duties. There is no arguing, no fighting, everyone both in this room and all around the cathedral operate smoothly. You have a perimeter established, and you’ve been careful to push the advance but not stretch yourself too thin.

You've done well. That much is clear. A part of him wonders if you'd be able to clean this all up on your own, had he decided to simply give you the reinforcements and leave.

Dorn watches as you momentarily turn away from him to speak to an approaching commissar, and he finds himself listening to your confident and assured tone of voice. A thought crosses his mind.

You look beautiful.

All of your inquiries, curious questions and shaking confidence in your ability to lead have all mixed together, and while you might have made different choices than him, he cannot deny your effectiveness.

Dorn decides to speak before he distracts himself within his own mind further. A hold of your hand or to take a kiss of yours are things reserved for private, not here. As much as he might wish to.

"You appear to have done well for yourselves."

You look up at him and give a wry smile, while he glances at the holotable in-between you both.

"It could be worse. I have a squad of Astartes stuck behind enemy lines, but we've pushed the enemy back from the supply warehouses."

This planet has large city buildings that the wind rips around through, unlike the shorter ones of Inwit. The Astartes are fine in their sealed suits and higher body temperature, but the Guardsmen are all struggling. You more than likely are as well, despite holding strong. He can see the chill on your skin, the cracked skin of your lips.

Dorn's reinforcements will provide valuable support to yours, and with their might together, this planet with be rid of the siege.

You turn to order that the men currently in the battlefield get notice that Primarch Dorn has arrived, and that reinforcements are coming. Besides the soon coming tactical advantage, it will provide a well needed boost to moral. With the intense weather, it has surely been lowering. Though your smile and optimistic look in your eyes prove to be a valuable motivator.

No matter how good the orders, often times the way they're said and the person giving them are what matter most.

The Primarch looks to Captain Polux, and gives him a curt nod. The Astartes politely returns a dip of his head in thanks to the silent compliment of his duty. Dorn then looks back to you.

"You and any men injured will return to the Eternal Crusader." You let out a laugh and shake your head. He can hear the rattle of the bolter on your hip.

"Well now that I've started this, I'm kind of keen on seeing it finished before I leave."

Dorn's eyebrows raise ever so slightly, amused by you. He taught you well, he repeats again. Your command over a such a less than optimal situation has proven as such.

The Lady of the Imperial Fists has proven herself not only to be smart, beautiful, and full of humility, but to be stalwart and confident as well.

"Very well."

He'll stay at your side, and judging by his solid stance, Polux will as well.

Dorn very rarely has doubts, but your confidence and ability to adapt have solidified his thoughts that he had made the right choice in you. His 'sons' taking well to your command makes it far easier.

They will have to when you officially become his wife, after all. You have already accepted the title of Lady Dorn, he has no reason to not seal your bond. There hasn't been much else in his life he has been more sure of.

Ignoring any of his more personal desires in the back of his mind, Primarch Rogal Dorn abides by your request, eyes focused more on your lips as you smile at him.

#gee i wonder if my favorite astartes are obvious if you read my stuff #just wait until i write for Konrad and 90% of the fic is actually just Sevatar because I love him uwu #rogal dorn x reader #Rogal Dorn/Reader #primarch x reader #warhammer 40k x reader #reader insert #reader #mywriting

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hearteyes-for-killmonger · 10 months

Text

A/N: Erik takes over the throne after killing T'Challa. T'Challa was your husband. It's a whole thing. Go to part one because this is the sequel.

As Killmonger talks military advancement without the help of Princess Shuri, who is MIA, your mind drifts. It's been two weeks since that incident, and you're still beating yourself up mentally. One time is an accident, but three? You went three sweaty rounds with the man who killed your husband. You feel despicable.

The worst part? Part of you is ready to do it again. He warned you against crossing a line you'd regret. Now, every time he licks his lips...

"What do you think," one of the scientists asks. You don't recall the question.

"She's a little tired from coaching me all day," Killmonger covers, gesturing to Aneka. "Would you make sure she gets somewhere to rest."

You leave with Aneka and ignore her concerned questioning.

"Are you going to ignore us forever?"

"Yes," you nod, then continue brooding as if she isn't there. Every now and then, you fall into a grief that's hard to pull yourself out of, but now you've added guilt.

"Not today, not now," your leg rocks. You tell yourself to pull it together. You have more responsibility now. You're an advisor. You need to be sharp. Get it together.

After regrouping, you're able to return and hear explanations of the new weaponry and armored suits. T'Challa used to handle this with his little sister. You were never this involved, with anything, really. You barely recognize yourself these days.

At the palace, you walk the courtyard for some air and think about T'Challa. What would he say to this new Queen? 'You're much harder on yourself than I ever was' sounds like him. You smile with sadness. You've been lonely, and loneliness will make anyone do things they typically wouldn't, like having sex with your husband's killer. You imagined T'Challa all three times and the time before that when you received oral sex. It made sense in your head, but no one would understand. No one could know.

Watching you from an above-floor window, Erik glows in his accomplishments. You've been losing focus but ultimately falling in line. The Queen at his side brings a legitimacy to his rule that ritual combat alone does not. With you there, people move easier, more willing to comply. They see you and feel safer, more trusting of him.

At his desk, he inks out more of his plan to turn wardogs into agents who will topple their respective countries from the inside using chaos tactics as he's been taught. Blood, trickery, and deception in trade for global freedom. Wakanda will be the new Mecca.

As soon as you come back in, he can bring you up to speed and ease you gently into his real plan. Bit by bit.

Signing off, he sets it aside.

"Has the queen returned yet," he asks Ayo who mans the door. She comes inside to check, looking out the window.

"No, she is outside."

"What's she doing?"

"Just... lying on her back in the grass."

"Go get her," he nods.

"Yes, my king."

"You sent for me?" You enter the office and your eyes zero in on the walls. Your jaw drops.

"You're quick."

Your head tilts as you try to comprehend what you're seeing and why. You close your eyes, and they open on Killmonger.

"The past kings' pho-tos are miss-ing," you say very slowly, looking at that face of pure ignorance and disregard. "Namely, my hus-band's."

That was the first spot your eyes traveled. There's no reason for him to take that specific one down. He knows how important T'Challa's presence is to you.

"Where did you put it?"

"Oh, right here. Just some redecorating."

He produces the frame, pulling it from under his desk and presenting it to you.

Your lids droop. You grasp it, suddenly just as distrustful of him as the day he showed up. You put T'Challa's photo back on the wall, making sure it hangs straight.

"What is it you want, Killmonger?"

Eyeing T'Challa's picture to ensure there are no marks or tears, you clasp your hands behind your back to listen.

"Well... Now that you're back, I can tell you all about the new plan and shoot some things your way." His pen clicks.

You turn back and take the page from him as though you're looking it over.

"Overall," he continues, "What's your predicted outcome should we pit our warship against a Navy vessel?"

Rip. Tear. You shread the page into pieces that you drop all at once.

To his raised brow, you ask again. "What do you WANT?" You feel like he's been bullshitting you these past few weeks, taking advantage of your emotional state.

"I told you. I want to run these ideas through you before I do it."

Your lips thin with tension. You're not stupid. You can feel his dishonesty. Little by little, you've been dragged into his web. T'Challa's picture being taken down makes it absolutely clear.

"You want to replace T'Challa in more than position. You want to replace him in memory."

He looks confused.

You shake your head evenly. "I won't let that happen. I told you. As long as I live, so will his legacy!"

"Wait," Erik chuckles. He has to stand for this, surprised at your nerve. "While you iced your wounds, I talked to the scientists alone. You don't want people to think we're together? Ok. Out of respect for your marriage, I defended that. Now you accuse me of trying to erase your husband's memory?"

Your eyes don't waiver.

With a scoff, he shakes his head. His fist hits the desk in frustration.

"This is why I know you're the only one who can serve as my Queen." Chef's kiss. "Now I can stop pretending."

"I knew you were a low-down, slimy bastard and I should have killed you when the opportunity presented itself."

"May I ask, what are you gonna do NOW that you know I don't give a fuck?"

"I won't make that mistake again," your nose scrunches.

Picking up the stack of frames, he tosses them onto the desk like old junk.

"Fuck these niggas! I'M the king now," he growls, no longer pretending to care about the disgust manifesting in your deep brown eyes.

"It's over with! He's dead. He ain't fuckin coming back."

That one hurt your feelings.

He snorts and spits on the stack of frames before him, looking you in the eyes as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Now take that shit and get it out my office," he waves toward T'Challa's hanging photo, dismissing you, his back turning as he faces the window.

You wish you could push him through, but the glass is thick. Instead, you step outside and snatch Ayo's spear from her grasp, threatening her with it so she backs down.

You march back into the office and with both hands, drive the point directly through his armor and through the center of his back. It takes you multiple thrusts, all of your energy each time. His palms are planted against the window as you attempt to nail him through it.

The few Dora in attendance finally take advantage of the moment, yelling their battle cry as they attack.

Erik's black and gold suit materializes on his body as he backhands you out of the way, down to the floor. You roll from the force, but Aneka's spear would've knocked you out in her desperate attempt for a headshot.

Block. Block. Dodge. Attack.

Erik's strength, combined with the strength of the black panther, has him slinging Aneka and Okoye across the room like rag dolls, ultimately sending them both through a wall.

"Shake it off," Erik teases.

Wobbly, they stand and let the plaster fall.

The spear in his back is the motivation he needs. With a heavy sniff, he pulls it and calculates the Dora's incoming attacks.

Okoye's coming at his right side. Ayo, though weaponless, is coming at his left. He uses force to blow them both back, leaving Aneka to come for him head-on again. Getting behind her, he twists and drives Ayo's spear directly through her body, watching Ayo and Okoye as he does it.

"No," Ayo gasps.

"Oh yes," Erik smiles, waving her forward to be next as Aneka thuds to the ground, lifeless.

Okoye charges with tears in her eyes, a noble suicide, but you jump in with Aneka's spear.

Again, Erik knocks you out the way. Now, he has to dodge and fight.

High on adrenaline, Erik battles her spear to spear, distracting her to slice her face with his claw. In that moment, he gets the gut shot.

As an insult to injury, he rips the spear out of her body and stabs through her back when she falls.

"You standing there powerless. COME DO SOME," he looks to you. Scowling, he tosses Okoye's spear at Ayo and gets into position.

"For Wakanda," she announces, running into a quick death. He slashes her throat easily.

"YOU HAPPY?" Erik turns to you. "LOOK WHAT YOU CAUSED."

He sighs, seeing you fearful on the floor, and quickly checks his anger. Losing a few Dora is nothing in the grand scheme. Losing you would be an issue. The blood all over the room can and will be cleaned, but as for you...

"Go to your room."

"Don't talk to me like I'm some child," you stand, suddenly rediscovering your boldness.

He holds the bloody spear in his hands casually to your throat.

"I won't kill you. I will, however, knock yo ass out if you EVER... do that shit again."

You glare at him with easy eye contact, and you are definitely planning your next attempt for some time soon. The instant look of defiance is his weakness.

"You know, the more you rebel, the sweeter the reward in breaking you."

He lowers the spear from your neck and lets it clang to the ground.

"Fuck T'Challa. All this shit is mine now, including you," he points.

Stepping over Aneka's dead body, you stand inches from him, looking up into his eyes. Your finger digs each time it taps his chest to drive your point across.

"You may have the title, Killmonger. You may have the power. You will never have the honor. You aren't half the man T'Challa was, and you'll never replace him in the hearts that matter. I swear to you... You will die by my hand, and I will dance on your unmarked grave."

"I look forward to it." He closes the distance. You can feel his erection pressing against you. Appalled, you nearly trip over Aneka to get around him, leaving the room and feeling his eyes on you.

For the next few days, you avoid Killmonger. The Dora are lesser in number. You wonder if sense will ever catch on, but don't hold your breath.

Killmonger leaves you alone until it's time to make an appearance to the Jabari. He sends for you, and when you refuse, he comes to get you.

There's no knock. He lets himself into your quarters as you're journaling in front of the vanity mirror.

"Tantrum over. It's time to go."

You ignore him and continue writing, the sunlight bright and pouring in through the large window.

"So you ain't leaving?"

You tune him out completely. Your mental and emotional state has been everywhere lately. You need some calm and stability.

He closes and locks your door, still in the bedroom.

When you finally do look at him, Erik has passed annoyed and gone into petty. He reads over your shoulder, kissing his teeth and moving on.

"Still crying over T'Challa," he scoffs. "But fucking me. What would he think seeing his wife in that position so soon after his death?"

You're still silent, but your pen stalls. He smirks, knowing what buttons to press as he paces the vast bedroom.

"I bet he turned in his grave that night you reached for me, wanting me, pulling me closer. The man who defeated him in ritual combat and took his life. I took everything from him just like this place did to me. And you thanked me."

"Enough!"

"That pussy was wet and waiting. Wasn't it?"

"Shut up," you growl, slamming your pen against the table. "You're vulgar, and you're wrong. I wasn't thinking about you. I was missing my husband! You wouldn't understand."

"You were using me to get off," Erik nods, stopping at the window. "To ease your loneliness, thinking we're the same. We're not the same. You grew up in a cozy little castle. I grew up scraping for everything I got in Oakland. You had a silver spoon while I got mine out the mud."

"Silver spoon?" You laugh bitterly, turning to follow him with your eyes. "Don't assume you know anything about my life."

"But I do," Erik smiles wryly. "You're from the Water tribe where food is plentiful. Mommy and Daddy only had to worry about you and your sister."

"Say one thing about my family and I swear," you threaten as he plays with the pattern of the thin veil of a curtain. Hand-stitched.

"The biggest threat you've had your entire life was a lion or something local that was taken care of within a matter of days, weeks, months... You don't know the definition of grief, pain, loss, or oppression you spoiled brat," he turns back, pulling the thread.

It's sturdily made and doesn't unravel.

"That's where you're wrong," your eyes narrow, full of anger. "Thanks yo you, I now have personal experience with ALL of the above."

"I can't feel sorry for no rich kept lil girl when niggas like me who put their life on the line die every day."

You toss a glass vase of wild picked flowers that he easily dodges. It smashes on the wall, leaving flowers, glass, and water scattered. Another tantrum.

"How dare you come into my country and presume to know about me and my family when you couldn't even save your own. I heard about your mother," you smirk evilly when you see you've got your in. "People talk. Your mother died in jail. Like mother, like father, like son!"

Erik's jaw clenches, his eyes darkening as he struggles to find his restraint quickly.

"I'll do you a favor and end your miserable bloodline myself," you sneer. "Then you can reunite with your criminal mother and your treacherous father."

"You seemed to like it when I buried this criminal, treacherous dick inside of your pretty little kept warmth. 'You're a monster! You're a villain!' But my dick was inside you. I killed T'Challa with these two hands," he grins, holding them up to you.

These hands that touched you. These hands that rubbed every inch of you and held you at night when you asked.

"Oh, T'Challa, T'Challa," his head rolls, mocking you. "All that and you still coated my dick in cum. I made you taste it, just to show you. What does that say about YOU, Ms. Perfect?"

He awaits your reply with a raise of his brow.

"You stuck?"

You look away, turning back to your journal quietly.

"Uh, uh. You don't get to talk shit and back out. I want all that smoke you had."

You jump up and come at him with your pen as he laughs.

"What's that supposed to do."

You stop on his foot and jab it in the side of his neck. He chuckles, grabbing your fists and throwing you. Immediately you get up looking for something. He watches you find the big piece of broken glass on the floor.

"Don't cut yourself," he cautions, interested in your next attack. He smirks as you come up him high, but drop low.

"Aye," he jumps back. "That's my dick. I use that."

It's what you were aiming for.

"You a lil dangerous," he concedes, grabbing your hand to shake glass out. He kicks it away.

"But, baby, I'm hard to kill. Your nigga couldn't even do it. What makes you think you can?" His hand cradles the soft skin of your face though you turn away.

"You're getting used to me."

"No, Killmonger, I never will," you combat, but in the scheme of things, things are still going pretty well.

He shrugs, a smug dimpled smirk still on his face.

"Ok. Then you won't."

Erik heads to the door unbothered, unlocking it on his exit. As he walks through the corridor, he can't help but reflect on the fun he's had.

The more you fight, the more he wants to conquer you and claim you for his own.

He snickers, what you did with the glass sticking with him.

Sooner or later, just like that vase... you WILL break.

@dashhoney25 @lettidarawest @soufcakmistress @ljstraightnochaser @princessstevens-blog @eye-raq @thiccdaddy-mbaku @destinio1 @iamrheaspeaks @hidden-treasures21 @bidibidibombaclaat @forbeautyandlife @blowmymbackout @misspooh @thotyana-in-this-hoe @purplehairgawdess @thegucciwaffle @goddessofthundathighs @theegoldenchild @thadelightfulone @sultanabby @mysticalblackhottie @baekhyunbabybunni @fd-writes @richonne4life @tgigoldie @thehomierobbstark @capswife @blackpinup22 @harleycativy @lishabaybee @playgurlxoxo

#original #erik killmonger #killmonger #erik stevens #erik killmonger fanfiction #erik killmonger imagine #black panther killmonger #black panther fanfiction #black fanfic writer #black fanfiction

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writingintheshadowsforever · 1 year

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Imagine Being Namor's Daughter and Choosing Wakanda over him after Queen Ramonda's Death

Okay so walking straight into enemy territory after your father just drowned the country's beloved leader in front of her daughter wasn't your best idea. But how could you continue to stand with by Namor's side with his merciless actions. Your whole life you had always been daddy's little girl. Namor gave you the world and treated you like the Princess you were. When you expressed your desire to be a warrior he didn't turn you away.

He taught how to fight, how to move with your wings, and how to control your ability to manipulate water. Whatever your heart desired is what he gave you. Except this time the feud between Wakanda and Talokan was getting out of hand. You had begged your father to proceed with caution when he returned from his meeting with the Queen to find. Both Shuri and Riri had been rescued by the country.

You grabbed his arm and dug your feet into the hard cavern floor. Holding on for dear life your desperate pleas were the last line defense for an inevitable war on the horizon. You had considerable strength thanks to being his daughter, but Namor was still stronger. And when he turned around to shrug you away that one small action sent you flying back to the ground. You landed on your butt hard and looked up at him in shock and fear.

Namor's eyes widened as it hit him what he just did. His intention wasn't to hurt you that was never his intention. Regret flashed across his face but was quickly replaced with his hard resolve. You recognized that look all too well. He wore it whenever Namora and Attuma came to him with news of human ships getting to close to Talon's vibranium supply.

His mind was made up and no amount of reasoning would change it. He would attempt to make amends with you later, but soon Namor would discover this time he went too far in your eyes. Unlike your father you never shared the same hatred for the surface world. Especially for a nation of people who were in the same position as Talokan, and while Wakanda had surely made some mistakes. Nothing justified what he was doing. This wasn't the way to build an alliance, and you had to do something. If such a thing could still be possible.

You rose up out of the water in the heart of city floating outside the palace. At the same spot where your father launched his attack on Queen Ramonda. You got the chance to speak with her after news reached you that her daughter and the scientist got captured.

"You have a lot of nerve to show your face here" Queen Ramonda seethed.

You appeared on the same beach your father had approached them at knowing it would be heavily guarded. Indeed you were met with sharp end of multiple spears wielded by women dressed in red and silver armor. "I come in peace I request an audience with the Queen."

"And why should we grant your request?" One of them spoke up walking forward forcing you to step back. In order to avoid being pierced with her weapon.

It was a power move to establish control and dominance. You knew it and knocked the spear away with a simple strike. "Because my father has taken your Princess and the scientist hostage."

That was all they needed to hear and the leader of the army ordered them to stand down. She regarded you in suspicion. You had no weapon attached to your body, and didn't look a day over eighteen, but your eyes told a different story. You were a force to be reckoned with just as much as your father. Funny thing you never introduced yourself as the Princess of Talokan, but she was able to figure it out. With the way you walked and talked showing absolutely no fear.

"I know you are angry your Highness and you have every right to be. My father went against his word and betrayed you, but I promise you no harm has come to your daughter." You told her.

"And I'm just supposed to believe you. The child of my enemy who threatened my country" She shot back with a humorless chuckle.

"I might be his child but I am nothing like my father I came to reassure you and-" You cut yourself off in hesitation.

"And what go on" Queen Ramonda encouraged with a wave of her head. The elderly people seated in a circle of the throne room nodded as well. They were captivated from the second you walked through the door. The wings on your ankles, the pointy ears, and the large circular vibranium bottle that sat on your hip. They wondered what was in it, and you reassured them it was only water. But none of them knew of your ability to control it.

"I'm here to offer myself up as your prisoner until your daughter and the young scientist is returned safely." You finished straightening your body out to stand tall. Your eyes locked onto hers to show her just how serious you were about this proposition.

Queen Ramonda waited for a few seconds as if you had just told a joke, and she was waiting for the punchline. But you showed no sign of retracting your offer or regret. "Will you really be so foolish child?"

"Its not foolish it's a fair trade in my eyes. My father took the Princess of Wakanda, so you guys get the Princess of Talokan" You told her.

"Queen Ramonda we should accept her surrender. It will finally give us the leverage to get him to surrender." A elder woman spoke up.

"My father doesn't surrender ever" You corrected her. "But this will keep him in check, and make him more inclined to negotiate."

A dark skinned burly man dressed in furry clothing got to his feet. "Maybe we don't want to bargain with the fishman. What if we want to kill him?"

Your gaze darkened at the clear hostility that his demeanor was giving off. "Then I would pray to whatever you humans believe in these days, because that's a fight none of you stand a chance in surviving." You sneered taking a step closer.

The man raised an eyebrow at you. "Oh so you do have a bit of fight in you after all. How much of a warrior did fishman make you?"

"My father's name is Namor and you should do well to remember it" You said with your voice getting considerably lower. There was a dangerous tone to it.

Queen Ramonda must have recognized it and knew it matched the same one as Namor. When he made his threats and she didn't like it. "M'Baku stand down at once" she ordered pointing a finger at him.

M'Baku looked as if he wanted to argue but thought better against it, and took his seat.

"Great now that the furry man is done with his idle threats. I want to make it clear I'm only surrendering to you and no one else your Highness." You said your voice returning to its normal tone of neutrality.

"Ayo prepare a hovercraft" Ramonda announced.

"Forgive if I overstep my boundaries my Queen but for what purpose" Ayo asked, slightly confused at her decision.

"We're returning the Princess of Talokan to the beach" The Queen answered getting to her feet. A collective sound of gasps filled the room at her words. Then everyone burst into speech trying to talk over each other.

"Are you serious?" You asked her with narrowed eyes. As you pondered rather or not this was some sort of trap. Somehow your voice carried over everyone else's.

"Yes I am and we shall discuss my decision on the way. Now come child" she said taking a gentle hold of your shoulder to nudge you forward.

On that trip Queen Ramonda revealed to you that despite all your father's transgressions against Wakanda. She had no intention of involving his child in the affairs of the two nations. You argued that it was your decision, and she hit you back with. The classic you're a child and clearly not thinking straight.

"You remind me of my Shuri in someways y/n and if I can I want to protect you from the horrors of war."

Guilt tore through your body as you flew through the gaping holes where there use to be glass. You weren't present during the war only because your father ordered you to stay behind, and left a few of his guards on watch duty. If he was smart he would've left Namor or Attuma the only soldiers in your army that could hold their own against you.

Your feet touched the cold brown floor, and it felt as if the pain and grief from the events that took place here. Just a day ago or so was still swirling around in the throne room like a spirit clinging to what little life they have left. You could feel it in your bones and it nearly put you on your knees. Until your ears picked up a the faint sound of footsteps approaching you from behind. Then a low whistling noise followed and you brought your arm to block the blade with vibranium wrist guard. It glanced off the green metal and sent your attacker stumbling back.

You whirled around to face the person. It was a lone man by himself dressed in dark clothing. His face was covered with a mask covering the bottom half of his face. Out of nowhere two more came to his aide taking their place on either side of him. "Don't be a fool take to the Princess."

"What do you want Talokanil? A familiar voice demanded from behind. You glanced over your shoulder to see it was none other than Ayo with small change in armor. Instead of a silver neckline hers was now gold.

"I want to speak with her" You said your main focus going back to the men just a few feet away.

"For what reason I know you wouldn't be dumb enough to surrender yourself to her. In the state that she is in you will find no mercy here" Ayo warned.

"I'm not seeking out mercy I want to assist her in defeating my father" You revealed. Not needing to see her face to hear the hitch in her breathing. Once again you had surprised her.

"She doesn't want your assistance" One of the man cried out lunging at you. He swung his sword in wide arc aiming for your face.

"No" Ayo yelled holding out a hand. She might not be your biggest fan right now, but if your blood was spilled Namor would become even more unhinged.

His movements were erratic and sloppy. You caught by the wrist and forced his hand down while swinging his body around at the same time. In one swift move the man was rolled to the floor gently. It happened so fast that the others barely witnessed your counter. Ayo eyed the sword attached to your back wondering why you didn't draw it instead. You would've been within your right to do it.

"I'm not looking for a fight with either of you. I'm sorry for the loss of your leader. She was great woman and didn't deserve what my father did to her. I know I can't bring her back or right his wrongs, but I can help bring this war to an end. Before more countless lives are lost please just let me do that." You pleaded your case looking over at Ayo in desperation.

She let out a huff knowing what she was about to do could only end two ways. Either Wakanda was going to gain an ally with unlimited knowledge on Talokan's army, or there would be no peaceful to all of this will your body turned up in the ocean. She prayed to Bast the Princess could bury her emotions to at least hear you out.

"Come on then she is in her lab" Ayo finally agreed and motioned for you to follow her. Which you did walking instead of flying.

The elevator ride down was filled with more awkwardness than tension, and you appreciated it. Knowing it would change in just a few more seconds. Ayo was wary of your intentions yet somehow you were still able to convince her of your honesty.

Shuri wouldn't be so quick to believe you heck it wouldn't matter to her if it did. You had to consider the possibility she would be consumed by vengeance already. The elevators doors finally opened to a massive space with a giant circular ramp behind you. There were many levels to it each one filled with various workstation and clear screens. On the outside you could see through the glass a multiple trains traveling at a blinding speed across the vast cave system. You were wandering over to truly take in the sight. When a hand stopped you with a firm grasp of your shoulder.

"We didn't come here for you to sightsee Princess let's go" Ayo reminded you.

You nodded and followed her around the ramp. Just a few feet away stood a group of four women huddled together. You recognized all of them having run into them all at some point. The one named Okoye stood beside Shuri with a comforting hand on her shoulder. Nakia sat beside the Princess and cradled her head on her shoulder. Riri stood a few feet away fiddling with her hands keeping her gaze on the floor.

"Now might not be the best time" Ayo whispered.

"Its now or ever I leave now my father will not permit my return. He has his ways of keeping me locked up." You whispered back stepping forward. Ayo shot you a look picking up on the subtle hint of distress in your confession. There was a story behind your words.

"Princess Shuri" You called out her name softly trying carefully not to shock her too much.

She pulled away from Nakia as all of their heads snapped in your direction. Okoye moved to stand in front of the Princess protectively knowing that even without a spear. She was still one of Wakanda's best warriors. Riri scrambled backward and inched her over to stand beside Shuri who was on her feet. Ayo took stance in front of you with a single hand raised. Nakia did the same placing herself in front of Okoye and Shuri.

The woman with beautiful locs that were a deep red color pulled back pointed the long gun at the Talokanil woman. Who had Shuri by the shoulder with a blade to her throat. The mysterious stranger and the Princess spoke their mother tongue. But before she could fire off a shot you walked into the room with calm pace. Holding out either of your arms to ward both your solider and the woman.

"Lower your weapon and I will order her to stand down" You reasoned.

She looked at you a bit unsure. "Who are you?"

"Y/N Princess of Talokan daughter of Namor" You answered not missing the look exchanged between her and Shuri. "Obviously neither of you were aware of my existence until now. But that hardly matters your Queen knows me and delivered me back home. I owe her a great debt so I will allow the Princess and the young girl to leave with you without a fight. All I ask is that you lower the weapon."

"Princess" the soldier called out in a worried voice.

"Let her go you will be fine I promise I will not let death befall you" You swore turning to her. She gave you a slow nod and released Shuri before taking a step back.

The woman slowly pointed her gun at the cave floor. She motioned for Shuri and Riri to come to her keeping her eyes trained on you.

You let both of them pass by you without lifting a finger or a word.

"Thank you" Shuri said as the woman yanked on her hand.

"You're welcome I will do my best to keep my father at bay" You replied waving goodbye.

Nakia didn't know why you were here, and while she couldn't be sure this wasn't a trap. That action right now made her want to give you the benefit of the doubt. "Let's all just relax."

"You told me you would keep him under control y/n what happened?" Shuri demanded. Her voice distraught filled with pain.

You opened your mouth but no words came out.

"You let him kill her my mother is gone because you failed." She continued pushing past Okoye only to be held back by Nakia.

"Get her out of here" Okoye ordered.

It would seem positions didn't matter as Ayo turned to grip you by the arms pushing you away. "Let's go."

"No just let me try." You stood your ground planting your feet, and your body didn't budge another inch.

"Take her to a cell Ayo" Shuri ordered. A venom in her voice now replacing the pain.

You cursed in your language under your breath running a hand through your hair. You knew this outcome was a possibility, but was hoping it wouldn't come true.

"Shuri you act with haste without thinking maybe we sh-" Nakia began, but was silenced with a glare.

"She is Namor's daughter and his only blood. My mother was the only family I had left in the world. She is lucky I don't order her death right where she stands. After what her father did."

"No child should pay for the sins of their parent" Nakia told her.

"Killmonger did" she shot back.

"He paid for your father's sins as did T'Challa look how all that played out sister." Nakia continued to push.

"Stop defending her" Shuri shouted breaking free of her grip. "General I told you to take her away."

The use of her positional name got her attention, and the warrior shot you an apologetic look. You nodded and turned around letting her lead you with a hand on the small of your back.

Two Days Later

You lost track of time laying down on the cot provided to you in the decent size cell. There was no windows in the room letting you know when day came and night passed. But at least you were comfortable and somewhat fed thanks to Ayo and surprisingly Nakia. Both brought you food leaving it outside the bars.

Your father had to be worrying himself to death by now, and it was a miracle he hadn't come for you yet. Which meant your plan to throw him off your real location worked. You asked one of the few guards truly loyal to you more than your father to lie, and tell him you ran away to one of the old kingdoms. There a great deal of them spread across the oceans from all the times Talokan had to be moved in order to avoid discovery by humans. Some were still in great condition and was actually fun to return to. While others that weren't built by vibranium had succumbed to the nature of the water.

You would journey to them often just to reminisce the past. Namor hated it whenever you did disappear on your little adventures.

The main entrance door opened and the last person you expected to visit you walked through it. Riri Williams.

"Did you come here to gloat?" You asked sitting up with your back against the wall.

Riri shook her head holding up something in her hand that you couldn't really make out. While the cell wasn't completely shrouded in darkness. It lacked a significant lighting source. "I brought you some snacks the best on Earth if you ask me." Riri stopped at your cell and took a seat on the floor. She pushed some items towards you the paper crinkling, but you made no move to get it.

"You know I actually did feel sorry for you at first but then I thought about it." Riri began opening a candy bar of her own.

"And" you said in a lazy voice.

"I just thought what dumbass would walk straight into enemy territory trying to negotiate. After her father killed the leader right in front of her daughter and closest friends. I mean I know not everyone is as smart as me but I just thought it would be common sense to anyone to steer clear. After something like that like do your people not believe in that or something. I'm serious did daddy not give you the political breakdown of war."

You couldn't help but burst out into laughter at her ramblings. It should have offended you to some degree, but the face that you and her thought the same thing of. Your reckless actions amused more than anything, and you needed a good laugh. Eventually when your laughter died down you crawled forward to take the strange snacks. "You know what if this is poison I don't think I mind at all."

Riri grinned. "Its chocolate and chips not poison well how do you feel about calories?"

"I love them" you replied eyeing the substance covered in dark brown wrapping with the word Hershey's on it. The name tugged at a long forgotten memory in the pit of your brain. "I think I had this before."

The young scientist raised an eyebrow at that ready to question you. When the door opened again but this time it was Shuri in a Black Panther Suit.

One look was all that the young girl needed to get the memo. She got up with a small wave and left the two of alone.

"No handcuffs" Shuri mused.

"I would've broken them" you told her breaking off a piece of the chocolate bar. You let it the sweet flavor of the candy coat your tastebuds melting on your tongue.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you?" Shuri demanded.

Her question didn't faze you in the slightest. "Because you need me Princess."

"I figured out your father's weakness on my own I have no use of you" she said shrugging her shoulders.

"You shouldn't go down this path Princess it won't do you any good in the long run."

"Oh please" Shuri scoffed with a look of disdain. "How would you know?"

You got to your feet and walked to the front of your cell placing both hands on the cell bars. Leaning your head forward to look her in the eyes. "My father didn't always hate humans you know. My mother was one."

The bomb you just dropped on her made her trip over her own feet despite her new abilities. She shook her head in disbelief. "No Namor said his name stood for no love because he has no love for the surface world. Your father hates all humans you're lying."

"No I'm not I just take more after him than her. He always said it was the effect of moving underwater and drinking whatever concoction his advisor whipped up for me. A very long time ago my father fell in love with a human woman, and they had me. She opened his eyes to the beauty the surface world had to offer. Before my father was only indifferent to humans and knew it was crucial that the governments never discovered our existence. But my mother was slowly changing his perspective."

Shuri was a bit interested in the story even if she wasn't sure if she believed it or not. "Go on what changed."

"My mother was murdered." You told her in a monotone voice.

Her eyes widened and for the first time Shuri regarded you with sympathy.

"I was only a toddler when it happened. I don't remember how it happened or much about my mother till this day. Namora had to tell me the story because my father refuses to speak of it. Men raided the village my mom lived in on this island near Talokan at the time. She was running with me tucked to her chest, trying to make it to the ocean. Some of my people believed she prayed to my 6 he heard it, but she was struck down with two bullets right as she reached the shore. Dad arrived a few seconds short of being able to save her, and he watched as the love of his life died in a pool of blood. Cradling his child in her arms that were reached out towards the water like a desperate plea. That was the day the man, without love, was born."

"How long ago was this?" Shuri asked in a hazy voice as she tried to process your entire story.

You gave your shoulders a small shrug. "I can't really remember Princess."

"How old are you?"

"Not as old as you think but not as young as I look" You answered.

"Can't you give me a real answer?" She asked in exasperation. "Look I'm sorry about your mother but that doesn't excuse your father's actions."

"I never say it did I was just pointing out how he let the decision of a few bad men influence his whole view on the entire world. The surface world doesn't deserve my father's rage, as my people nor do I deserve yours. But if you can't see that because you're blinded by rage. Nothing I say will convince you to spare me Princess Shuri." You explained leaning backward for a second.

"But Namor doesn't" she declared angrily.

"I never said he didn't now did I?" You shot back.

"You wouldn't seek out revenge if I killed your father" she chuckled in disbelief.

You fixed her with a hard look before answering. "I watched as vengeance consumed my father and turned him into a man I can hardly love sometimes. I watch now as it consumes you and makes you act with such haste not considering your very own people. The ones you wanted so badly to protect when you visited Talokan and tried to reason with my father. Do you really think I would be foolish enough to let it do the same to me?

Shuri knew you were making good points but could hardly fathom the idea of. You not trying to kill her if she took Namor away from you. "You have no love for him."

"He is the most precious person to me in this entire world, but not more so than my people who I swore to protect and care for. Talokan would fall without a true leader" You reminded her.

"They would seek out war as well" she argued.

"Not all of them nations aren't just made up of people but civilians who can't fight as well. Some of the army will stay loyal to me, but yes others would seek out vengeance."

Shuri took a deep breath turning her back to you as she contemplated everything you had said. Wakanda's armies were ready to go at sunrise to put the plan in motion. But she had to figure out what to with you first. Nakia pushed her too hear your proposition at least. And now she was regretting it as you made her question all of her decisions.

"Princess I only want peace that's all I ever wanted" You whispered knowing she would hear you.

"I use to want that" she murmured blinking away tears.

"Come here" you called out to her softly.

You wasn't sure if she was going to listen but curiosity won out, and indeed she walked forward to the cell bars. There was about an inch of space between your bodies. Your hand reached through the bars and rested on her chest palm forward over her beating heart.

Shuri looked up not pulling away from the contact instead she locked eyes with you. An overwhelming feeling of warmth invaded her body betraying the storm trying to continue to rage. As your eyes bored into hers breaking through her defenses.

"Deep down past all the steel walls you built after losing your brother and mother. Past all the hatred you harbor for the world and my father. You still want peace Shuri I know you do sometimes when my father looks at the only picture of my mother in his possession. I see the man he was before the world took his love away from him. A man I never met but I know exists inside of him somewhere. The same way I'm seeing the person you were before the world turned against you as well. She is happy, kind, has the most beautiful smile in the world, and wants to help people in her own way."

Shuri took a step back with tears falling from her eyes at the way you spoke so softly. She wasn't going to let you take this away from her. "I will release you and allow you to provide us with aide. But you will not interfere with my fight with Namor understood?"

You nodded with a saddened look. "You and my father must find your own way back. If one or both of you die. I will mourn but I will not seek vengeance."

Shuri moved forward to slip the key in and open your cell door. You took a step out and began to follow her back into the palace.

#mcu imagine #marvel imagine #shuri x reader #shuri imagine #namor x reader #queen romanda #nakia #riri williams

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