#and carry on the duty placed upon them when they formed in the wake of the rift war
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Some character designs for some more of the girls that appear in the Daemon Familiar’s story in the present day era and whom Airi will meet - and contend with - on her travels to find the Demon King-in-Exile. That I...did during the ice storm and three of the sixteen hours spent in the dark without power, but y’all don’t need to know that.
Locations, and mostly outfits, are not 100% finalized, but written here as a reference point for future material.
A quick rundown:
Rochelle (left): The current leader of a community-driven law enforcement agency out in the jungles west of Esserings that was founded by her ancestors shortly after the Great War, in a direct counter-response to the police brutality and corruption among and enacted by the Displacers. Rochelle is dedicated to continuing her family’s line of work and upholding the peace that they feel the Displacers have failed in their duty to follow since their formation in the Rift War. Although she is willing to give the Displacers an opportunity to redeem themselves of their crimes against the common folk, Rochelle is willing to fight dirty and shed blood against them if it means their corruptive influence and arrogance will not harm her people and fellow officers - including a time-displaced cadet in training such as Airi, whose wanderings with Iryna lead her right into the heart - and the cross-hairs - of the group colloquially called ‘the Displacer Hunters’.
Hikari/Akari (middle): A former Displacer in the Esserings Displacer agency. As one of the two rising stars among their generation, Hikari was considered to be a candidate for promotion as an elite captain of the Displacer Honor Guard, an exceptional honor that is normally granted to more older, experienced members - especially to people that inhabit the islands to the far west and south of the mainland continent. However, observation of the corruption and misconduct committed by not only her own unit but other divisions among the Displacers led Hikari to become increasingly disillusioned, frustrated, and ultimately disgusted with the lack of investigation and accountability toward them, until she became a target of harassment and sexual abuse from the upper echelons. One such crime committed by her unit was the theft of a sword from a demon society, said to be forged under a full red moon, with the spirit of a night gaunt and the ability to drink the blood of people with sinful hearts. Unaware of the crime that had been done save for the claims of its creation, Hikari was drawn to and found solace at the sight of the bloodletting blade. Eventually, she came to the conclusion that the Displacers were a lost cause and must be dismantled. On that day, she broke through the containment housing the Blade, slaughtered her way through the ranks she once called ally, and fled the Esserings a wanted fugitive, taking up the pseudonym Akari. There she finds her way into Rochelle’s community and slowly earns her favor - and her respect - by providing evidence of the ongoing misconduct of the Displacer agencies. At the time of Airi’s travels, Hikari is currently Rochelle’s third-in-command, below her lieutenant and confidante, Marshall.
Eri (right): The second of the two Displacers within the Esserings Displacer agency that were considered for promotion to Honorary Guard. Eri and Hikari belonged to and fought in the same unit and were known to be close friends, to the envy of many that vied for Hikari’s attention. However, whereas Hikari had been relaxed and carefree, Eri is quiet, no-nonsense, and a strict follower of the law, focused on upholding the honor and integrity of her organization. However, she herself was not blind to the rumors and allegations of corruption among the Displacers, and although Hikari struggled to bring to light their severity and calls for investigation from the unions and parliament, Eri could only watch as each request was denied or failed with no follow-up. It is then that news of Hikari’s theft of the Bloodletting Blade and mass slaughter of their comrades quickly spreads through the mainland - news that drives Eri into denial and despair. What became of that promotion is unknown, but presently Eri remains within the ranks not only as an elite Displacer but as a licensed bounty hunter, in the wake of rumblings that the Demon King-in-Exile has selected a new Chosen Hero. Eri bides her time and carries out her duty as seen fit, determined to keep tabs on the time-lost stranger named Airi who is on the move with the return of the Majestic Twelve but root out the corruption of the Displacers from within - and, eventually, come to blows with Hikari, who is equally resolute in supplanting the Displacers from their seat of power.
#armi's art#armi's ocs#traditional art#traditional sketch#drawing#sketch#original characters#character design#if you had asked me if i would come up w/ a story that would go on to tackle police brutality#under the guise of the inversion of the demon king candidate trope i would've called you crazy#but the past several years have been crazy so here we are#we have the 2020 riots to thank for changing my mind on making rochelle a villain that would inevitably kill her off#to making her into an anti-hero/anti-villain that cares deeply for bringing justice to the poor & downtrodden#but also absolutely willing & ready to throw down against the rich the elite & the very political bodies that keep the cycle of abuse going#in that manner eri is not much different save that she is in a much more dangerous position in remaining among the displacers#to fight the corruption from within even though there are also displacers that are fighting alongside her to change the system#hikari OTOH believes the displacers are too far gone to change from within & that an outside force must enact change#and carry on the duty placed upon them when they formed in the wake of the rift war#which in daemon familiar's canon will cause a 2v1 to inevitably erupt#and eventually become a 2v2 when airi aligns with eri - albeit for her own reasons a'la continue to find the demon king-in-exile#in reality no one is the antagonist - just ppl w/ different views on how the system should be properly utilized#especially when demons and familiars come into play among humanity#honestly i surprised myself w/ that development LMAO#i can't say much about who rochelle & eri would embody IRL#but i always likened hikari to be a feminine cross between frank serpico & adrian schoolcraft#honestly looking back on it now initially conceiving rochelle as a villain leaves a poor taste in my mouth#she is not a bad person by any means#however i wanted an antagonist that would openly challenge airi's ideals#as both displacer and the demon king's hero#if there was anybody that would fit the bill it would be rochelle
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A Vow of Blood - 75
Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.
Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….
Chapter 75: A Golden Crown of Sorrow I
AO3 - Masterlist
(18K words)
Rhaenyra found herself standing in front of the ancient altar, a relic brought from Old Valyria when house Targaryen had departed from their ancestral lands. This very altar had borne witness to happier times, used when she had married Daemon in the ancient rites of Old Valyria. Those moments now felt like echoes from a distant past, as if they belonged to another life altogether.
The morning air brushed against her skin, a gentle yet chilly caress from the sea, following a night dominated by a fierce gale that had only subsided with the break of dawn. Rhaenyra had spent the night wakeful, her gaze lost in the turmoil of the storm outside, embodying the tempest within her. She found herself before the altar, her surroundings a vague haze, as attendants had prepared her, their ministrations leaving no imprint on her clouded consciousness. Her body ached profoundly, muscles tense and sore, bones feeling as if they’d been ground together–bruised and creaking with each movement. Yet, it was the profound emptiness that engulfed her soul, a void so vast it seemed to have consumed her very essence, rendering her a shell devoid of anything but the ache of her body and the thrum of hollowness.
The infant was laid to rest upon the wooden pyre, its tiny form almost incongruous within the immense pain its birth had inflicted upon Rhaenyra. The birth had ravaged her from within, as if a monster had burrowed deep inside her, rending and tearing with ferocity that belied its unwillingness to part from her body. It was as though the creature sensed the doom its arrival would herald, as if it understood its own nature as an aberration, and fought with a desperate, destructive instinct against its inevitable emergence into the world.
She allowed herself a moment to shut her eyes, grappling with the sharp pang of grief that clenched her heart. Upon reopening them, Daemon had stepped forward, his hand setting the pyre alight with a torch, its flames quickly catching the wood before he handed the torch back to an attendant.
As the fire grew, smoke billowed up, carrying with it the harrowing scents of charred wood and flesh, a visceral reminder of the life being honored and mourned. Words found no place in this moment, leaving silence to preside over the gathered mourners. This silence settled with a weighty presence, amplifying the solemnity of their vigil as the morning’s light, muted and under a blanket of pale gray clouds, found moments of brilliance where the rising sun’s golden rays pierced through, illuminating the ritual.
Rhaenyra’s head was laden with a heaviness, her thoughts tangled and obscure, as if she navigated through a thick mist, each step more laborious than the last, her mind clouded by this all-encompassing fog. She felt Daemon’s steady presence at her side, her gaze unwavering from the fierce blaze that now claimed the remains of her child. A profound weariness weighed upon her, the emptiness of her womb palpable beneath her hand.
Amidst the rising flames, Rhaenyra witnessed the disintegration of all the hopes and dreams she had nurtured for her daughter throughout the pregnancy. Those visions, so vivid and hopeful, were not being devoured by the fire, just as it laid claim to the tiny form before her. She was struck by the peculiarity of her situation–having carried a life within her, feeling it grow and move, as natural as any of her previous pregnancies. There had been no forewarning, no sign that her child would emerge as it did–an abomination. She struggled reconciling what had been to what should have been.
The thought haunted her: had she, in some way, precipitated her child’s fate? Could her own despair and utterances, born of the intense pain and desperation she experienced during labor, have cursed the child, twisted it into the form it took? Those curses were not born of malice but of sheer agony, a prayer for relief when pleas had gone otherwise unheard. Yet, despite the aberrations, despite the suffering its birth had inflicted upon her, it was her child, a being she had loved deeply, unconditionally. She wondered, was love not sufficient? To love the child, despite everything–was that not enough?
As the fire vicariously devoured both wood and flesh, a haunting question lingered in Rhaenyra’s heart.
“Ñuha tala, hae hōzalbrot sittus. Kostilus hen jaehoti gīmēdenon iksos…” Her voice, strained and hoarse from the ordeal of childbirth, barely rose above a murmur. It could so easily have been carried away on the wind, never to be heard. But she was heard. She felt Daemon’s eyes settle on her as she continued to watch the flames engulf their child. “Iā qilōnarion. Gīmēdenon issa. Kepa ñuha morghūltas se pāletilla ñuha lāettaks tubī sitta.”
My daughter, born an abomination. Mayhaps she is a warning from the gods… or a punishment. She is an augury. Born on the day my father died and my crown was stolen.
A constricting sensation gripped her throat, yet the overwhelming void within her persisted, rendering her empty, resonant with the hollow thrum of loss–an echo of a woman. “Ñuha Visenȳs. Yn sagon ziry sytilīptos daor.”
My Visenya. But she was not meant to be.
The wind, seemingly in accord with her inner turmoil, whipped the smoke into a chaotic dance, dispersing it into the ether as the pyre’s intensity mounted. Although the blaze’s warmth lapped at her, it did little to penetrate the deep chill that had claimed her flesh.
“Kessa sagon se mōrī,” Rhaenyra murmured, each word echoing within the vast emptiness of her soul, reverberating with a profound finality. She will be the last.
Daemon’s voice, tender and cautious, broke the silence at her side. “Kosti sylugon syt tolī lo ao jaelagon ziry. Bisa daoriot emagon naejot sagon se mōrī.”
We could try for another if you desire. This needn’t be the end.
But Rhaenyra slowly shook her head in refusal, knowing the truth of her words. “Konīr won't sagon tolī.”
There won’t be another.
The resolution within her was definite; she would not bear another child. This conviction was as unwavering as the cycle of day and night, as irrevocable as the fire that claimed the physical form of their daughter. There would not, could not, be another.
The child’s tumultuous arrival had wreaked havoc within her, a violent tempest that she knew left her barren. The tragedy of losing her second daughter to childbirth was compounded by the cruel realization that she would no longer bear children. The latest loss was just one in a series of profound grievances– the death of her father, the theft of her crown, her eldest daughter’s captivity, and now the death of her youngest in childbirth alongside her own fertility.
Each loss layered upon the last, leaving Rhaenyra ensnared in a web of sorrow and irrevocable change.
The flames surged upward, their tongues flickering fiercely against the backdrop of the sky, animated by the wind into a frenetic display of light and shadow. They twisted and turned, alive with a vicarious energy as they feasted upon the body of her child. Rhaenyra caught herself pondering the sensation of extending her hand into their embrace, curious if the fire’s caress would resonate on her skin. Intuitively, she knew the heat would register, yet anticipated that any resulting pain would feel remote–like the residual agony of childbirth that lingered in her body. The pain persisted, yet her consciousness had somehow distanced itself from the physical sensation, leaving her with the impression of being an observer to her own experiences, detached and adrift from the reality of her suffering.
Amidst this feeling of detachment, there lingered a delicate thread that prevented her from completely succumbing to the depths of her own mind, a small tether anchoring her to the tangible world around her and her own body.
“Nyke brōztagon syt ao,” Rhaenyra muttered, her thumb unconsciously caressing the now vacant curve of her womb. A trace of bitterness crept into her voice, a sentiment strong enough to anchor her spirit within the realm of the physical, to keep her from being entirely consumed by her own thoughts. Her words barely rose above a whisper, imbued with a haunting echo of solitude and yearning, “Nyke brōztagon syt ao. Gōntan ao daor rȳbagon ñuha limagon.”
I called for you. I called for you, could you not hear my cries?
He had indeed heard her; of that, she was certain. Her cries had reverberated throughout Dragonstone, her voice tearing through the silence with desperation, calling out for him, her pleas and prayers for intervention filling the air. Yet, despite her agonizing summons, he had not appeared by her side.
“Nyke vēttan naejot mīsagon aōha pāletilla. Se peldio gaomas daor umbagon naejot pryjagon skori zȳha ossēnagon iksis nākostōbā,” Daemon responded, his voice deep and resonant, echoing within her with an intensity that felt like a clash of metal on stone. I prepared to defend your crown. The snake does not wait to strike when its prey is weak.
“Ao vaoresagon naejot mazverdagon vīlībāzma pār sagon ondoso ñuha paktot skori nyke vīlībāzma ñuhon,” Rhaenyra retorted, a surge of resentment igniting within her, as fierce as the flames on the altar. This internal blaze seemed to strengthen her connection to her body, as the bitterness within her twisted and turned. “Nyke jorrāelatan ao.”
You would rather wage war than be at my side when I waged mine. I needed you.
“Emilza arlinnon daorun,” Daemon countered, his words piercing her as sharply as a knife. It would have made no difference. “I gūrotan se gaomon bona sia bēvilagon, syt aōha jorrāelagon se syt se dārion. Ao jorrāelatan nyke naejot mīsagon skoros iksis aōhon–”
I took the actions that were necessary, both for your sake and for the realm’s. You needed me to defend what is yours–
“Nyke jorrāelatan ao ondoso ñuha paktot,” Rhaenyra interjected, her voice thick with the imminent threat of tears. The ache of his absence was compounded by her grief and pain, bringing a sharpness to her words, emphasizing the depth of her need for him during her struggle. I needed you by my side.
Exhaling deeply, Rhaenyra’s gaze was transfixed by the dance of the flames before her, feeling their intense heat graze her skin, the warmth emanating from the fire enveloping her. Fire possessed a peculiar duality; it was a force of utter destruction, devouring all in its path indiscriminately, reducing everything to mere ashes. It embodied chaos, a relentless prelude to ruin. Yet, it was harnessed for its utility–encased within candle wicks, nestled in hearths to stave off the cold, utilized in the preparation for meals, and to illuminate the dark of night.
Standing before the voracious flames, Rhaenyra was consumed by a singular perception of its nature–not as a tool or a source of comfort, but as a manifestation of insatiable destruction. As the fire devoured the form of her child, all she could discern within its flickering embrace was an unquenchable hunger, a merciless force laying waste to the last connection she had to her daughter.
As she stood there, Rhaenyra found herself besieged by a grim contemplation–pondering who next might be claimed by the ravenous embrace of a funeral pyre’s flames. This morbid curiosity weighed heavily on her, a shadow looming over her spirit. Weary, she closed her eyes, attempting to shield herself from such dark musings, yet the thought twisted and turned within her, a serpentine coil of dread and sorrow.
Rhaenyra’s thoughts were a tumultuous sea of uncertainties and hypotheticals, each ‘what if’ crashing against her consciousness like the relentless waves crashing against the shore. Had she remained in King’s Landing, what course might fate have taken? Would she now be mourning her father, standing before his funeral pyre instead? Would the child still be in her belly, happy and content? Could she have seized the crown before it was usurped from her grasp? She pondered the sacrifices required to cement her rule and protect her children–how much bloodshed would have been necessary, and whose blood would have been spilled? Would any of her choices have altered the tragic fate of the child she had carried?
Yet, amidst the myriad of unanswered questions and conjectures, one regret stood above the rest, a beacon of remorse in the storm of her reflections. She fixated on the decision she believed to be her gravest error–not bringing Daenera with them when they had the chance. This oversight, more than any speculative alternative history, tormented her, the weight of this singular ‘should have’ bearing down on her with an acute sense of loss and missed opportunity.
The Stranger had claimed one of her daughters already; the thought of enduring such a loss again was unbearable to Rhaenyra. As her gaze returned to the dancing flames, a heavy question burdened her soul. “Is this an omen?Is this how the gods reveal that I am not meant to be Queen? The gods mock me with their cruelty.”
Daemon’s voice, low and steady, broke through her turmoil. “Misfortune doesn’t signify an omen. Sometimes, it’s merely that–misfortune.”
His gaze settled on her. Rhaenyra could feel the intensity of his look, probing, weighing, as if trying to penetrate the fog of emptiness that had settled within her.
“And is that your consolation for your own misdeeds?” She shot back, her voice laced with an edge of bitterness–accusing. “Everywhere you go, a shadow seems to spread, darkening everything it touches.”
The accusation was harsh, and she knew it, yet the words spilled out, fueled by a mix of grief and resentment. Daemon’s response to their loss appeared distant to her–as though he did not feel it at all. He had carried her to their bed, he had been present, offering her comfort through the night, his arms wrapped around her, but his absence when she needed him the most left her feeling abandoned to the dark fate that seemed to dog his steps. She wondered, despairing, if this curse of misfortune was now hers to bear as well, dooming everything she cherished to a similar end.
“We abandoned King’s Landing to strengthen my claim, yet it was usurped,” Rhaenyra’s voice carried the heat of resentment, feeling the simmering embers of bitterness flare within her. “They robbed me of my crown and my daughter.”
“Your father would have accepted this fate,” Daemon retorted, his tone as sharp as her own. “But you, you cannot. Summon your banners; loyal men will rally to your cause in the tens of thousands. Some already stand ready. Together, we can reclaim the throne and your daughter.”
“The realm does not want a queen,” she countered, her words echoing the hollowness she felt inside. “The truth was spoken at the Great Council, yet my father chose to ignore it. Viserys was a fool to name me as his heir…”
Rhaenys, The Queen Who Never Was, had cautioned her long ago when she was declared the heir. She herself had had her right stolen from her on the basis of her gender. Young and foolish, Rhaenyra had believed the lords of the Seven Kingdoms would willingly accept her reign. Now, she wasn’t so sure.
Rhaenyra could feel the intensity of Daemon’s stare, laden with a piercing scrutiny. “A queen without a crown is scarcely a queen at all.”
“You shall wear your crown,” Daemon assured her.
Meeting his gaze, she observed the weight of his brow, his eyes sharp and probing–judging her weakness. Though there was a somewhat fragile compassion within their green depths. It was the undercurrent of pity minging with his judgment that inflicted the greater wound. Daemon had reminded her often enough that they were the blood of the dragon, destined to soar over the realm as its sovereigns, bound by blood and divine right. Yet, Rhaenyra felt anything but powerful. She felt diminished, hollow, and profoundly alone. Doubts plagued her, sapping her resolve. She dreaded that her sorrow was a tide strong enough to sweep her away, to engulf her in its depths until she was lost.
“And what more will it cost me?” She inquired, voicing her trepidation that gnawed at her spirit.
As Rhaenyra shifted her focus back to the fire, the wind swelled around them, lifting the smoke and embers into the air, a wild dance against the sky’s canvas. Daemon left her side, stepping away from her, and almost instantly, the distinct sound of swords being unsheathed shattered the stillness.
“I mean no harm, brothers,” a voice called out, cutting through the tension, followed closely by the approach of steps.
Rhaenyra’s attention turned from the funeral pyre to the sound, her gaze landing on Ser Erryk Cargyll as he moved towards her, kneeling in a gesture of submission. From his satchel, he carefully extracted a crown, cradling it in both hands as he presented it to her. The emerging sunlight, breaking through the clouds, caught the metal, gleaming against it in an intricate blend of gold and silver. Her eyes lingered on Ser Erryk, then on the symbol of sovereignty he held–what was left of her father and what was rightfully hers. The crown was a poignant reminder of his absence, of the intricate web of challenges and struggles he had bequeathed to her, a tangled legacy she was now tasked with carrying.
“I swear to ward the Queen,” Ser Erryk Cargyll declared, continuing on with his vow, “with all my strength, and give my blood for hers…”
Daemon advanced to take the crown from Ser Erryk’s hands, his focus seemed tethered to the intricate circlet, a tangible link to his aspirations and the legacy of his brother. Rhaenyra retreated from the altar, watching him carefully with bated breath, bracing for the possibility that he might seize it for himself–it had been his to claim once, after all. The crown was a symbol of power and was all that remained to them of Viserys.
Ser Erryk’s oath rang out, echoing his dedication. “I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and honor.”
Amidst the solemn declarations, Rhaenyra was besieged by a surge of apprehension, a fear that Daemon’s long-held aspirations might supersede his loyalty–his love. And in the depths of her heart, a whisper of suspicion stirred, faint yet insidious. It murmured to her soul with chilling subtlety, suggesting, ‘The crown was his true ambition from the start.’
Yet, as he turned towards her, his expression softened, his eyes meeting hers with a warmth and reverence that silenced that voice, forcing it back into the shadows of her mind. He moved closer, their gaze locked in silent communion, as he gently positioned the crown upon her head.
The crown’s cool weight settled onto her brow, fitting her perfectly despite being made for a man. Her pulse quickened, a mix of trepidation and awe rendering her momentarily breathless, uncertain of the path ahead.
“A crown for you, my love,” Daemon murmured, his voice a tender caress against the weight of the moment. Then, with grace that belied his power, he knelt before her, his head bowed in fealty. “My Queen.”
As Rhaenyra’s gaze lifted, the rising sun climbed higher, scattering the remnants of clouds to unveil a vast azure sky. In this moment of radiance, the knights of the Kingsguard gracefully descended to their knees in a unified motion. This gesture set off a wave through the assembly, prompting each individual to lower themselves in a display of reverence.
Watching this unfold, Rhaenyra was struck with a blend of astonishment and disbelief, tears gathering in her eyes as the profound realization dawned on her: they were kneeling in allegiance to her, acknowledging her as their true and rightful Queen. The significance of this act of fealty filled her with a seedling of hope and a burgeoning sense of duty.
Gently, Rhaenyra extended her hand, tenderly brushing Daemon’s hair with a soft touch. He looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers, and in that brief exchange, there was a quiet understanding, a shared moment of comfort. He leaned into her caress, drawing a measure of solace from her presence, and then he stood, positioning himself by her side.
Rhaenyra navigated the corridors of Dragonstone, her path secured by a detail of guards. Their red cloaks, each adorned with the sigil of the three-headed dragon, flowed behind them with a grace that belied their readiness for conflict. Each guard’s hand hovered near the pommel of their swords, a silent testament to their vigilance and readiness to defend their Queen.
Progressing beyond the table situated outside the great hall, they encountered an array of swords laid upon it–a silent, steel congregation awaiting their bearers. Each blade was momentarily forsaken by its owner as they stepped into the solemn expanse of the great hall. And as they ascended the steps towards the assembly, beams of midday sunlight streamed through the lofty, slender windows, casting a luminous glow over the stone interior and dispelling the shadows that lingered. The hall was alive with the presence of an assembled crowed, gathered around the intricately carved wooden table that mapped the entirety of Westeros. This gathering of loyalists and counselors awaited her, a vivid tableau of allegiance and anticipation set against the backdrop of the kingdom they meant to reclaim.
Positioned at the far end of the table, framed by the warmth of the hearth behind him, Daemon stood enveloped in the fiery orange flow. The light danced around him, casting his figure as if in flame, as she proclaimed, “Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”
The room, filled with the court and her loyalists, turned their collective attention towards her. Heads bowed in a moment of deep respect and reverence, only to rise again, eyes filled with a blend of expectation and scrutiny. Rhaenyra felt the collective weight of their anticipation–a heavy mantle now on her shoulders. She scanned the faces before her, meeting their looks that were tinged with hope, curiosity, and a subtle trace of apprehension, all seeking to discern her capacity for leadership.
“Your Grace,” Daemon greeted her, his expression softening into a subtle smile that acknowledged her approach.
Feeling the moment’s gravity, Rhaenyra instinctively straightened, her posture firm as she faced the assembly. With measured steps, she advanced towards the table, her guards mirroring her movements closely behind. She signaled them to halt, preferring some distance to alleviate the press of scrutiny from all sides.
“Wine, my Queen,” offered Rhaena, her demeanor warm, a soothing presence amidst the intensity of the gathering.
Gratefully, Rhaenyra took the wine from Rhaena’s hands, her acceptance driven more by a gesture of courtesy than any desire to drink. “Thank you, Rhaena.”
Feeling the rapid beat of her heart against her ribs, Rhaenyra summoned her strength and raised her voice as much as she could muster, saying simply, “Come.”
This moment was not just for her; she was determined to include her stepdaughters, to ensure they were part of this moment rather than observers on the periphery, as she once had been in her youth, serving merely as her father’s cupbearer during council sessions–neither allowed to express her opinions or ask questions.
Her gaze swept across the assembled faces, finally resting on Baela, who stood close to her grandmother, Rhaenys. Rhaenyra made a subtle, inviting gesture towards the girl as she walked by, silently indicating for Baela to join her side.
Taking her place at the head of the table, Rhaenyra gently set the wine cup aside. Her fingers entwined, absently twisting the ring on her finger, a small gesture betraying her nervousness. Her gaze drifted across the expanse of the map sprawled out before her, where the veins of its rivers glowed like molten fire, an effect of the candlelight flickering from below, breathing life into the darkened wood.
Lifting her eyes, she found Daemon’s gaze awaiting her from the other end of the table.
Beyond the Queensguard, Daemon was the sole figure in the room who bore arms. Positioned prominently at the head of the table, the Valyrian steel blade Dark Sister was conspicuously resting against the table, a silent testament to his readiness and authority. Around him, an aura of intense vitality was palpable; it was as if the various threads of his turbulent and unpredictable existence had converged into a singular, precise point of clarity and purpose. This newfound focus lent him an air of undeniable command. His expression was one of anticipation, a silent question hanging in the air between them.
“What is our standing?” Rhaenyra inquired, her voice steady despite the pressure of the attentive eyes upon her.
Daemon responded with the precision of a seasoned commander, “Our forces consist of thirty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three hundred men-at-arms.”
His tone was as authoritative as his demeanor, betraying no doubt about his familiarity with the demands of leadership in times of conflict. “Dragonstone is relatively easy to defend, but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves a lot to be desired.”
His analysis was delivered with the confidence of someone deeply experienced in the strategies and realities of warfare. “We’ve sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch. I’ll have some support there, but I cannot speak to the numbers.”
To this strategic overview, Maester Gerardys contributed further encouraging news, “We already have declarations from Celtigar and Staunton, Massey, Darklyn, Bar Emmon.”
As the name of their allies were called out, Rhaenyra acknowledged each lord with a direct look, receiving affirming nods in return. Jace skillfully positioned the wooden and brass pieces on the map to denote their alliances, marking the locations such as Duskendale, Rook’s Rest, Sharp Point, Stonedance, and Claw Isle.
“My lady mother was an Arryn,” Rhaenyra stated, emphasizing her familial ties. “The Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin.”
Her assertion was met with Daemon’s keen gaze, which lingered on her with an intense, evaluative silence. He refrained from commenting on the loyalty of House Arryn, a silence seemingly born from the recognition of his strained relations with the house–a factor that could potentially threaten their support. Rhaenyra could only harbor the hope that House Arryn would overlook their contentious history with Daemon–the Rogue Prince–recognizing instead the ties of kinship that bound them. She wished for them to prioritize their shared bloodline over past grievances, rallying to her cause.
Maester Gerardys interjected with a note of optimism. “Riverrun was always a close friend to your father, Your Grace. With Prince Daemon’s acquiescence, I’ve already sent ravens to Lord Grover.”
Rhaenyra’s expression hardened as she locked eyes with Daemon, her look laden with reproach. His response to her silent accusation was a veneer of impassive resilience, enduring her scrutiny without yielding. The tension between them was palpable, a clash of wills over unseen lines being drawn. “Lord Grover is fickle and easily swayed. He will need to be convinced of the strength of our position and that we will support him should it come to war.”
Daemon’s reply was definitive, undeterred by her reproach. “I’m going to treat with him myself.”
Their exchange was charged with an unspoken confrontation, a battle of resolve where neither party showed signs of retreat.
Rhaenyra was no stranger to the discomfort of being excluded from crucial discussions, a sentiment that intensified during her labor. It had since become apparent that, in her absence, pivotal conversations had transpired and decisions had been actioned in her name without her consent or knowledge. She conveyed her dissatisfaction with a subdued yet unmistakable censure. In response, Daemon met her disapproval with a composed assurance, his demeanor bordering on defiant, as if urging her to see the rationale behind his actions. While Rhaenyra grasped the logic of his stance, it did little to mitigate her frustration or assuage her sense of being sidelined.
Ser Steffon Darklyn raised a critical inquiry, “What of Storm’s End and Winterfell?”
“There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath. And with House Stark, the North will follow,” Lord Bartimos Celtigar stated confidently.
Rhaenyra interjected thoughtfully, “Lord Borros Barathon will need to be reminded of his father’s promises.”
“An alliance with Borros Baratheon was secured through marriage. It’s reasonable to assume they might be inclined to support us,” Lord Bartimos offered.
“Any alliance we had with the Baratheons ended with the passing of Daenera’s husband,” Daemon stated bluntly. “We cannot cling to past alliances that have since been laid to rest. Lord Borros Baratheon is as fickle as they come and he is proud, he will bide his time and see whichever way the wind blows.”
As he spoke, Ser Steffon Darklyn moved a brass pawn to Winterfell on the map, symbolizing their expected support, while Jace positioned a neutral piece at Storm’s End to represent their uncertain stance with House Baratheon.
The conversation took a turn as Ser Lorent Marbrand directed their focus back to a pressing issue. “What of the Princess?”
The inquiry about the princess’s status lingered ominously, charged with tension akin to an executioner’s sword poised for the decisive strike. The room was thick with the implication of what her absence meant–and stifling with worry for the princess whom many loved. Apprehension moved through the room like a passing shadow, looming heavily on each face.
Pausing for a moment, Daemon’s expression remained even as he spoke, “Princess Daenera was present at the usurper king’s coronation, where her betrothal to the king’s brother, Aemond Targaryen, was announced. We’ve yet to receive clarity on her stance, but we are to assume she has been made a hostage.”
The response to the daunting question settled over the room with a solemnity that matched, if not surpassed, the tension of the initial inquiry. A heavy silence ensued, profound in the absence of voices. Within this silence, another query began to take form, unvoided yet palpable, casing ghostly presence over the proceedings. It was Daemon’s phrasing that birthed this specter, subtly casting a shadow over Daenera’s fidelity.
Rhaenyra intoned, “She is a hostage.”
Her words cut through the uncertainty and lay to rest, at least momentarily, the spectral doubts that Daemon’s comments had conjured. She had made her stance clear on the issue at hand, and it was a position she intended to uphold firmly until presented with evidence to the contrary.
In the midst of this tension, Jace, with a thoughtful precision, moved to place a pawn at Harrenhal, declaring it for them. As their gazes met, Rhaenyra offered him a brief, acknowledging nod–a silent gesture of gratitude.
Rhaenyra shifted the direction of their discussion, her voice cutting through the air to focus on Rhaenys, who had been maintaining a quiet presence away from the heart of the gathering. “What news from Driftmark?”
Dressed in a gown of deep blue, the rich fabric fell round Rhaenys in heavy folds, embodying the wealth of House Velaryon. Adorning her attire, the sigil of her husband’s house – a seahorse – was intricately stitched into the golden lace that traced a deliberate path down the gown’s front. She appeared taken aback by Rhaenyra’s direct question, quickly gathering her composure. The momentary hesitation could have been mistaken for reluctance to join the discourse.
“Lord Corlys sails for Dragonstone,” Rhaenys finally responded, her voice carrying the weight of her words through the hall.
“To declare for his Queen!” Daemon declared in a confident manner that belied the intention of his words.
Rhaenys remained unfazed by Daemon’s attempt to put words into her mouth, and she retorted with a statement that was both a clarification and a boundary, “The Velaryon fleet is my husband’s yoke. He decide where they sail.”
The reply was meticulously neutral, carefully avoiding any direct proclamation of support or opposition.
Rhaenyra acknowledged the delicate balance of allegiance and hope in her response. “We shall pray for both you and your husband’s support…Just as we pray nightly for the Sea Snake’s return to good health.”
Rhaenys offered a gentle, albeit pensive smile in return.
Aiming to emphasis the strategic advantage of House Velaryon’s maritime prowess would bring to their cause, Rhaenyra asserted, “There’s no port on the Narrow Sea would dare to make an enemy of the Velaryon fleet.”
With this statement, she turned her focus back to the map sprawled out before them. Taking a moment to gather her thoughts, she delved back into the discussion of their position. “And our enemies?”
Daemon offered a blunt assessment regarding their prospects with the Lannisters. “We have no friends among the Lannisters. Tyland has served the Hand too long to turn against him. And Otto Hightower needs the Lannister fleet.”
Rhaenyra nodded in agreement, her eyes scanning the map before her, settling on the representation of the Westerlands. “Without the Lannisters, we are not like to find any allies west of the Golden Tooth.”
Daemon concurred with a simple, “No.”
The action that followed–placing a brass pawn near Casterly Rock to denote them as adversaries and another by Riverrun to symbolize an anticipated but unconfirmed allegiance–visually empathized the strategic landscape they were navigating.
“The Riverlands are essential, Your Grace.”
Rhaenyra caught the significance in Daemon’s tone, fully grasping the pivotal role the Riverlands could play not just for their strategic positioning but for the vitality of their cause itself.
Lord Bartimos interjected with a palpable sense of urgency and frustration, his words cutting through the strategizing. “Pray forgive my bluntness, Your Grace, but talk of men is moot. Your cause owns a power that has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria.”
At this, Rhaenyra exchanged a knowing look with her husband, a silent acknowledgement passing between them.
“Dragons,” Lord Bartimos declared, his statement hanging in the air with the weight of centuries.
“The Greens have dragons as well–” Rhaenyra reminded him, her fingers absently twisting her ring with a sense of anxiousness, even as her tone was a mirror of Lord Bartimos exasperation.
Daemon interjected with precise knowledge of their opposition’s capabilities.
“They have three adults, by my count. We have Syrax, Caraxes, and Meleys. Your son’s have Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes. Baela has Moondancer.”
His enumeration served not just as a tally of their assets but as a reminder of the significant power at their disposal, and yet, it did little to assure Rhaenyra of their advantage. All they had were young dragons, most of whom were inexperienced in war and too vulnerable to send into battle.
Rhaenyra sought to interject a note of caution into the conversation. “Daemon, none of our dragon’s have been to war.”
Undeterred, Daemon pressed on, his confidence undiminished. “There are also unclaimed dragons. Seasmoke still resides on Driftmark.”
The air seemed to thicken at Daemon’s mention of Seasmoke, the dragon once bonded to Laenor Velaryon. The prospect of another claiming Seasmoke was intricately tied to the fate of its rider–if Laenor was indeed still among the living, hidden away in the Free Cities, the dragon remained his alone. The mere utterance of Seasmoke’s name raised a tempest of questions regarding Laenor’s fate, a mystery that either outcome–his survival or his demise–filled Rhaenyra with an equal measure of apprehension.
The secrets of that tumultuous night on Driftmark were closely guarded, known only to Rhaenyra and Daemon, and Laenor himself. The potential unraveling of those truths threatened to bring their carefully constructed world tumbling down, a calamity known only to them, veiled from the eyes of everyone present.
“Vermithor and Silverwing dwell on the Dragonmont, still riderless,” Daemon persisted, undaunted by the caution in Rhaeyra’s gaze. “Then there are the three wild dragons, all of whom nest here–and the Shadow of Harrenhal, wild and unclaimed, nesting at Harrenhal.”
“And who is to ride them?” Rhaenyra asked. Despite the impressive count of dragons at their disposal, the issue of finding suitable riders remained a glaring gap in their strategy.
Daemon, however, displayed a bold confidence that seemed unshaken by such logistical concerns. “Dragonstone has thirteen to their four.”
His statement emphasized their numerical advantage without dwelling on the rider dilemma, and he continued, “I also have a score of eggs incubating in the Dragonmont.”
As Ser Erryk discreetly slipped away from the conversation, his departure was barely registered by Rhaenyra as Daemon’s strategic consideration continued to unfold. He picked up a brass marker, its placement on the map symbolizing the strategic importance of the place.
“Now… we need a place to gather, a toehold large enough to house a sizable host,” Daemon said, moving around the table, he decisively positioned the marker at Harrenhal, reinforcing Jace’s earlier placement. “Here, at Harrenhal. We cut off the west, surround King’s Landing with dragons, and we could have every Green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns.”
As the assembly reached a critical juncture, Ser Erryk interjected with an urgent message that immediately drew everyone’s attention. “Your Grace… a ship has been sighted off shore: a lone galleon, flying a banner of the three-headed green dragon.”
Without hesitation, Daemon sprang into action, his instincts seeming to take over. He swiftly moved to retrieve his sword from the table’s head, signaling his readiness to confront the threat, and as he spoke, his voice resonated with authority and command. “Alert the watchtowers. Sight the skies.”
Rhaenyra found herself momentarily sightlined by the rapid development, barely managing to voice her concerns as Daemon brushed past her, his movements brisk and determined. He was already on his way out of the great hall, accompanied by Ser Erryk, Ser Lorent and Ser Steffon, as well as Ser Brandon Piper, the Captain of the Guard.
“I will engage with them on your behalf,” Daemon assured her, his tone resolute.
“Daemon…” Rhaenyra’s voice pierced the tension in the air as she hastened after him, her decision made. The echoing steps of her hurried pursuit filled the hall as she dismissed the council with a wave of her hand, determined to follow her husband. Daemon, however, didn’t halt his stride until her command grew more insistent. “Daemon, stop.”
He finally paused, allowing the men trailing him to proceed without them, affording the two a semblance of privacy. Daemon turned to face her, his movements deliberate as he secured his sword at his waist, his expression grave and expectant.
Rhaenyra stood firmly before him, resolve etched into her features. “I will meet with them myself. I refuse to let them return to King’s Landing with any misconceptions of cowardice or weakness on my part. I must demonstrate my power unequivocally, and I will do so mounted on dragonback. There will be no doubt who is the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.”
A gentle smile broke through Daemon’s stoic facade, his eyes alight with admiration and pride. “As Your Grace commands.”
With a respectful nod, he acknowledged her decision, then proceeded after his men, as Rhaenyra remained standing where she was. She felt a twist of unease unfurl within her, the lingering discomfort from her recent birth making itself known with each step she took. Absently, her hand drifted to her now-empty curve of her abdomen, where a dull ache persisted, a somber reminder of the life she had carried.
With resolve steeling her every move, she made her way towards Dragonstone’s underbelly, navigating the winding staircase that descended into the castle’s cavernous depths. The journey was illuminated by flickering torches that cast dancing shadows across the rough-hewn stone walls. A mingling of smoke and sulfur hung heavily in the air, a prelude to the beasts that resided within the caves beneath Dragonstone castle.
Entering one of the vast caverns, Rhaenyra crossed the threshold into a realm where dragons dwelled. Here too, torches lined the path, their warm glow reflecting off the resplendent golden scales of Syrax. The dragon raised her head in greeting, exhaling a breath that was both hot and welcoming, recognizing her rider.
Syrax tilted her head as if to observe as Rhaenyra approached, the dragon emitting a soft, welcoming rumble that vibrated through the cavernous space. Rhaenyra’s hand slid along the dragon’s snout and she gently pressed her forehead to the dragon, allowing the dragon to nudge against her. She whispered a soft plea, “Tepagon nyke aōha kustikāne.”
Lend me your strength.
With another affectionate nudge, Syrax seemed to express her consent, her massive form shifting slightly to accommodate her rider’s touch. Rhaenyra’s fingers explored the dragon’s neck, tracing the deep valleys between Syrax’s scales, soaking in the heat that radiated from the magnificent beast.
The Dragonkeeper that had attended to Syrax, an old man weathered by years of experience, approached cautiously, his grip firm on his spear. “Ziry ilimagho syt aōha ao hae lo ziry gryves aōha ōdres.Issi ao sure ao naejot sōvegon isse aōha rytsāri?”
She mourns for you as though she feels your pain. Are you sure you should fly in your condition?
Determined, Rhaenyra positioned herself at the ladder that ascended to Syrax’s back, her hold on the leather steadfast. “Kostan gryves se ōdres. Mazēzi ñuha pāletilla se mazēzi ñuha tala. Bona nyke daor gryves.”
I can bear the pain. They steal my crown and they hold my daughter. That I cannot bear.
Clutching the leather tightly, and with a concerted effort, Rhaenyra heaved herself up with a determined intake of breath, her body protesting as she eased into the saddle, each movement wrought with pain. It was as if she was sitting upon an open wound–and she was. Her cunt was still raw and unhealed from the ordeal of giving birth no more than a day prior. Her bones seemed to groan with a deep-seated ache, her muscles quivering under the strain.
A swirl of nausea churned within her, compelling her to momentarily shut her eyes in a silent plea for respite. She steadied herself, securing the tether snugly around her waist and firmly grasping the saddle’s handles, preparing to confront the ordeal with unwavering resolve.
“Rȳbagon,” She commanded the dragon. “Rȳbās. Tepagon nyke aōha kustikāne se ivestragī nyke sagon mijegon zūgagon. Ivestragī īlva urnēptre zirȳ īlva perzys ēza daor zaltan hen.”
Listen. Obey. Lend me your strength and make me fearless. Le us show them our fire has not diminished.
“Jikagon,” Rhaenyra directed, her voice commanding despite the pain.
Syrax responded with a deep, resonant growl, her massive claws digging into the earth, propelling them forward. They advanced towards the mouth of the cave, where the scent of the sea mingled with the dust swirled by Syrax’s movements. Each step of the dragon sent shivers up Rhaenyra’s spine, her body tensing with every jolt. Clinging to the saddle, she felt every muscle in her body cry out in protest. The ache in her pelvis was a cruel reminder, each movement aggravating her wounded flesh.
Nevertheless, she swallowed the pain, and ordered, “Sōvegon, Syraks!”
Responding with a powerful surge, Syrax unfurled her vast wings, catching the rising thermals, her powerful beats propelling them upward. The wind tangled Rhaenyra’s hair, intertwining with the expanse of freedom that flight afforded, momentarily easing her discomfort.
The world unfolded beneath her, the vast expanse of the sea stretching out, where the relentless waves embraced the rocks in a frothy caress, and the heavens stretched wide, adorned with streaks of clouds. The mingling of sea spray and crisp air filled her senses, and she breathed it in greedily. Syrax sore through the sky, letting her tail trace the surface of the water before ascending higher, beating her wings. Rhaenyra’s heart matched the rhythm of Syrax’s wings, pulsating with a shared vigor–a thrill known only to dragonriders.
Together, they soared above Dragonstone, embracing a momentary escape from the troubles below. As they ascended over the walls, the watchful eyes of the newly stationed men–brought by the lords that had arrived while she was abed–followed their ascent, awestruck by the sight of dragon and rider in flight.
Rhaenyra directed Syrax to the castle’s battlements, between the twin watchtowers. They landed with a loud thud, sending a few guards sprawling on the floor in an attempt to avoid the dragon. Syrax let out a huff, shaking her head. With keen eyes, Rhaenyra surveyed the approach from the harbor, noting the group of men positioned at the landing where the path narrowed towards the harbor gates, effectively controlling access from the docks to the castle. The position atop the battlements allowed her a comprehensive view of the harbor and the solitary galleon docked within, its sails neatly furled, as a delegation made its way towards where Daemon stood.
As the delegation halted before Daemon, Rhaenyra tightened her grip on the saddle, steeling herself for the ascent. At her command, the air trembled with the roar of Syrax, a sound that echoed across the expanse, a declaration of their might. They soared, slicing through the skies to sweep dramatically over the delegation, casting imposing shadows that danced mockingly around the startled men. Daemon did not flinch, instead his eyes seemed to follow her with pride and vivid amusement.
Circling back, they descended majestically, directly over the delegation, inciting a wave of fear and panic, the men instinctively recoiling.
With a command as fierce as the beast itself, Syrax landed upon the narrow path, unleashing a roar that pierced the very air, a potent reminder of the might that Rhaenyra wielded. Positioned high above them, she observed the delegation with a narrowed gaze, a smirk playing on her lips as she reveled in their fear. Her eyes locked onto Gwayne Hightower, whose posture remained defiant but apprehensive.
Rhaenyra gracefully touched down upon the ground, her boots making a definitive connection with the sturdy, unwavering stone beneath her. She expertly concealed any hint of a grimace beneath a mask of stone. Determined not to express even the slightest hint of her unease or weakness, she turned to confront the assembly, maintaining an upright posture and an elevated chin. With an air that commanded attention, she cut through the crowd of traitors as she made her way towards her husband. As she strode past Ser Gwayne Hightower, she caught a glimpse of the subtle yet unmistakable strain that marred his countenance–a frown settling on his features.
Positioning herself beside her husband, she and Daemon’s gazes briefly locked, communicating an unspoken accord before she shifted her attention to the waiting party. Ser Gwayne Hightower seemed nonchalant–though there remained a note of unease to him as Syrax emitted a growl behind him. His hand rested casually on the pommel of his sword, the other hooked in his belt, his armor proudly displaying the Hightower sigil–a tower topped with flames. The green of his cloak fluttered in the breeze, subtly suggesting his allegiance lay more with his own house than with her estranged half-brother that was supposed to be his king.
The air hung heavily with tense anticipation, the distant crash of waves and the whistle of wind through the narrow path providing a heavy setting to the silence. Above, the sun marked its zenith, crasting a harsh light over them as the day began its slow tilt towards evening.
“Princess Rhaenyra,” Ser Gwayne commenced, his head bowing slightly in a semblance of respect, yet the iciness in his eyes hinted at a familiar condescension–one that reminded Rhaenyra of his father.
“It is Queen Rhaenyra now,” she corrected him sharply, her voice cutting through the air like steel. “And you all stand as traitors to the realm.”
The tension in the air thickened as Rhaenyra fixed them with a penetrating stare, the nail of her thumb digging into the flesh of her palm in an effort to maintain her composure. “You are in possession of my daughter.”
Gwayne acknowledged with a simple, “Indeed.”
A momentary flicker of vulnerability crossed Rhaenyra’s face as she sought out Daemon’s gaze, seeking a sliver of reassurance, before her eyes settled back onto Gwayne. Drawing upon a deep reserve of strength, she managed to keep her voice even, “And how is she?”
“She fares well, Princess,” Ser Gwayne responded, his demeanor serious yet imbued with a hint of compassion. “We ensure she receives all the care and honor befitting her status.”
“She is well? Truly?” The question from Rhaenyra came again, laden with a mother’s concern seeking unequivocal assurance of her child’s well-being. A knot of apprehension wound its way through Rhaenyra’s core at the thought of her daughter being wielded as a pawn. She ached for the comfort of her daughter’s company, to envelop her in a protective hug, ensuring her safety within the embrace of her arms. The desire to have her daughter by her side, safe and sound, was overwhelming.
Rhaenyra’s hand drifted unconsciously to the hollow curve of her stomach, touching upon the deep-seated emptiness inside her. The absence was palpable, a silent echo of what had been lost. In her mind, there lingered the hope, fragile yet persistent, that reclaiming her daughter might somehow heal the jagged tear in her heart left by the loss of her second daughter.
At this, a sincere smile broke across Ser Gwayne’s features, his brows lifting in a gesture of empathy and understanding. “Indeed, she is, Princess. She remains unharmed, and I believe, quite hopeful. She is resilient and clever. You needn’t worry so much for her.”
How could she not be consumed by worry? She was, first and foremost, a mother, and her daughter was being held captive. Yet, within Gwayne’s response, there lay a thin thread of comfort, a faint hint of solace that managed to penetrate the dense cloud of her anxiety.
“I demand the return of my daughter,” Rhaenyra declared, her tone laced with both authority and desperation.
Gwayne met her insistence with a measured response. “The authority to grant that request does not lie with me. Nor am I sure your daughter would return to you should she be granted the freedom to do so.”
The implication was clear and it jabbed between Rhaenyra’s ribs. She fixed him with a piercing look, her hand rubbing against the ache in her belly.
A thin smile crossed Ser Gwayne’s face as he slightly inclined his head, his demeanor cool and unmoved by the threat in her voice. “I come at the behest of the Dowager Queen Alicent, mother of King Aegon, Second of His Name, Lord and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms…”
Rhaenyra’s stare grew icier, more intense.
“King Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name–”
“Must you recite the pretender’s title each time his name is uttered?” Daemon interjected, visibly annoyed by the needless formalities afforded to a usurper. His stance was relaxed yet poised, signaling a lack of threat but readiness–one hand rested on the pommel of his sword while the other rested on the pommel of his dagger. He let out an exasperated breath, “Are you here at the behest of my brother’s widow or his usurper cunt of a son? Which is it?”
The smile that Ser Gwayne offered in response was as frigid as his gaze, devoid of any warmth–truly his father’s son. “My presence is at the behest of both the Dowager Queen and her son, the King… who, in his wisdom and desire for peace, is offering terms.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes met Daemon’s, a silent exchange passing between them.
“Acknowledge Aegon as king and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne,” Ser Gwayne stated, outlining the conditions for her surrender. “In exchange, His Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It will pass to your trueborn son, Jacaerys, upon your death. Lucerys will be confirmed as the legitimate heir to Driftmark and all the lands and holdings of House Velaryon.”
Rhaenyra’s fingers unconsciously played with her ring, considering the offer and its implications. It seemed the Hightowers were willing to acknowledge the legitimacy of her eldest children, affirming their rights to their inheritances–offering it up as though they weren’t already theirs to begin with. But in the eyes of the Hightowers, they were generous terms, it would seem. A spark of incredulousness formed within her–would it be enough to erase the stains of illegitimacy they had already cast upon them?
“Your sons by Prince Daemon will also be given places of high honor at court: Aegon the Younger as the King’s squire, Viserys as his cupbearer,” Gwayne added, detailing what else they stood to gain. “Finally, the King, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his ascent.”
Daemon’s response was laced with contempt as he spat out, “I would rather feed my sons to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken, usurper cunt of a king.”
Rhaenyra’s gaze flickered between her husband’s vehement sneer and Ser Gwayne’s provoking response. She noted Ser Gwayne’s demeanor, his words meticulously chosen, each serving as a challenge to her claim.
“Aegon Targaryen sits the Iron Throne,” Gwayne declared with an imposing certainty, each word ringing with the weight of convictions–each word an indictment against her. “He wears the Conqueror’s crown, wields the Conqueror’s sword, has the Conqueror’s name. He was anointed by a septon of the Faith before the eyes of thousands… Every symbol of legitimacy belongs to him.”
Daemon scoffed, his tone laced with disdain as he retorted, “Yet, for all his regalia, he is not Aegon the Conqueror–he is Aegon the Usurper. He is merely a puppet, a mere shadow of the figure you so desperately try to conjure, manipulated by your father’s hands.”
Ser Gwayne’s smile was thin, revealing nothing but a cold amusement. “And then there is Stark, Tully, Baratheon. Houses that have also received, and are at present, considering generous terms from their king.”
Rhaenyra sensed Daemon’s intense stare and locked eyes with him. His face, a silent query, suggested a swift conclusion to this pretense of diplomacy by severing Gwayne’s head from his shoulders. However, with a slight shake of her head, Rhaenyra signaled her disapproval for such drastic measures.
“Stark, Tully, and Baratheon all swore to me when King Viserys named me his heir,” she confronted Gwayne with unwavering resolve, emphasizing the sacred oaths of loyalty and obedience that had once been sworn to her. “You stand before me not as honorable men but as betrayers of your word, forsaking the very oaths you swore.”
Gwayne, unfazed, responded with icy composure, “Stale oaths will not put you on the Iron Throne, Princess. The succession changed the day your father sired a son. It is regrettable that you and he were the last to see the truth of it.”
Anger surged within Rhaenyra, a storm of resentment and fury sparked by his dismissive tone and the undercurrent of belittlement that weaved through his words. “You and your house are fucking traitors and as are all who stand with you. How long did my father uphold my position as his chosen heir? For how many years did his resolve never waver? How often and steadfastly did he proclaim me the true successor to the Iron Throne?”
Rhaenyra advanced, her bearing regal and undaunted, proclaiming her sovereignty. “I stand as the true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and it is under my authority that I will dictate the terms of your surrender.”
Behind her, Daemon’s presence was palpable, an extension of her own will. His movements were those of a predator in wait, his readiness palpable in the air, adding a layer of imminent threat that tightened the grip of the men on their weapons, wary of the impending action from the formidable Rogue Prince.
“With graciousness, I offer a pardon to all who have taken part in the usurpation of my crown,” Rhaenyra announced, her gaze sweeping over those aligned with Gwayne Hightower, then fixing intently upon him. “For his years of service to King Viserys your father will be afforded the courtesy of retiring his position as Hand of the King and he will be allowed to spend the remainder of his days in Old Town. This clemency will be extended to my father’s widow too, Queen Alicent.”
Rhaenyra’s gaze remained coldly on Gwayne, letting her words settle in. He seemed unsettled, his eyes shifting between her and Daemon, who maintained his stance as a relentless guardian, pacing with a predatory grace behind her. “As for my half-brothers and my sweet sister Helaena, they have been led astray by the council of ambitious men. I invite them to come here, to Dragonstone, to bend the knee and seek my forgiveness. In return, I offer them my mercy and a place within my grace.”
The proposal hung in the air like morning mist, and while it was a royal decree, it held a genuine offer of reconciliation. If her brothers were to accept her as their Queen, she would allow them to enjoy the liberties befitting princes, free to pursue their own paths in life. And as for her sweet half-sister, Helaena, she wanted to see her prosper.
Gwayne’s reaction was telling; he sighed, a gesture tinged with resignation or perhaps a calculated semblance of it, as he cautiously retrieved an aged piece of parchment from his belt.
Daemon, ever watchful, swiftly snatched the parchment from Gwayne’s extended hand. With an urgency driven by impatience, he unfolded to reveal a page torn from a book. Holding it aloft, his expression twisted into an accusatory scowl, seemingly annoyed by the triviality of what was in his hand as it held no meaning to him. “What the fuck is this?”
A frown settled on Rhaenyra’s face as she took in the sight of the parchment held by her husband. Gently, she took the page from him, her fingers treating the aged parchment with utmost care. As she recognized the image upon the page, a heavy realization dawned on her, settling in her stomach like a weighty stone. The parchment displayed an illustration of Princess Nymeria’s historic voyage across the Narrow Sea, annotated with descriptive text. The wear pattern on the parchment spoke of its frequent contemplation, suggesting a deeper significance or a cherished sentiment attached to it–Rhaenyra felt that attachment tug at her, felt the weight of its significance.
She was momentarily stricken, her gaze locked on the parchment as a whirlwind of emotions churned within her. The revelation brought a complex tapestry of feelings to surface, intertwining bitterness with sorrow, anger with a poignant sense of what used to be and what might have been. A lump swelled in her throat, and she fought against the tears that threatened to surface, recognizing the profound implications of this gesture.
“The Dowager Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love and bond you once shared,” Gwayne offered gently, his voice carrying an undertone of caution and perhaps, a note of reconciliation–both of which were overt in its manipulation. “It is her wish that you may find some semblance of it once again. No blood need be shed over this, and the realm may remain at peace.”
Daemon let out a derisive scoff, his voice dripping with contempt. “You claim no need for bloodshed, yet what of the blood you have already shed? Lord Beesbury, Lord Caswell? Have you not shed their blood?”
Ser Gwayne’s expression tightened, his eyes cold as ice. “They were traitors–”
“Traitors?” Daemon repeated mockingly. “For supporting the legitimate claim to the throne? It appears the real treachery lies with you. Shall we extend to you the same judgment you passed on them?”
Rhaenyra raised a hand, silencing Daemon with a gesture, her gaze ablaze with a fierce determination. “Alicent kept this?”
“Indeed, she did,” Gwayne answered, refocusing his attention on her.
“And she gave you this?”
He nodded.
In that moment, Rhaenyra recognized the gesture for what it was–a desperate plea from someone who once held a place in her heart, imploring her to flee as Princess Nymeria once did, seeking sanctuary far away. Yet, she also saw it as a tactic, an attempt to sway her into submission under the guise of mercy.
Holding the parchment aloft, Rhaenyra declared, “This holds no meaning to me anymore.”
Even as the words left her lips, Rhaenyra felt the sting of tears threatening to breach her resolve, a tightness constricting her throat, and a profound ache wringing her heart over a friendship long lost. The impact the parchment had on her was undeniable, yet she masked her sorrow with anger. Ripping the parchment in two, it seemed to Rhaenyra as though she was also rending a part of herself, a fragment still clinging to the cherished past they shared as friends.
“Maybe this will carry more weight, then,” Ser Gwayne said, reaching beneath his armor to produce another piece of folded parchment. “Before I left King’s Landing, your daughter tasked me with delivering you this message…”
He presented a sealed letter, its folds secured with a wax emblem bearing the sigil of the Hand of the King. Rhaenyra accepted the letter, her gaze fixed upon the emblem as a surge of emotion threatened to breach her composure–tears prickling cruelly behind her eyes. She felt an intense pang of sorrow and fear clutch her heart, sending waves of pain radiating through her, constricting her breaths and anchoring a heavy weight within her chest.
“Princess Daenera wanted me to remind you that she is still your daughter…” His words weren’t intended as a solace but served as a sharp reminder of her daughter’s precarious situation. This acknowledgement only amplified the sensation of tightness enveloping her chest, making the burden she carried heavier.
Rhaenyra needn’t be reminded that Daenera was her daughter–it was a truth she felt as sharply as a blade grazing her flesh, felt as acutely as the absence of a limb. The reminder bore an edge of cruelty, serving to further hone the blade that was pressed against her skin. Syrax, deeply attuned to Rhaenyra’s inner turmoil, unleashed a fearsome roar that sliced through the air, sending a palpable wave of force through the vicinity. The men nearest to her were caught off guard by the dragon’s fury and instinctively recoiled, staggering backward with terror painted on their faces.
Despite the intimidating roar from Syrax, Gwayne appeared unshaken, though there was a noticeable widening of his eyes and a certain tightness in his features that betrayed his unease. “Her love for you is immense, and she fears what will become of her should you decline our terms of your surrender.”
His words only seemed to drive the imagined blade deeper, letting it slip between her ribs, twisting into her heart and spreading agony throughout her being, reverberating in the emptiness of the loss of her second daughter.
Daemon’s reaction was a guttural sneer laden with venom, “Should any harm befall her, I swear, each and every one of you will become fodder for my dragon.”
Gwayne remained unmoved by Daemon’s fury, his focus unswervingly on Rhaenyra. This only seemed to fuel Daemon’s wrath as he positioned himself protectively near his wife, his hand fast on the hilt of his sword.
“And if that one-eyed cunt you call nephew lays a hand on her, I will personally feed him his remaining eye before splitting him open from cock to throat,” he sneered.
Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on the letter she held, hesitant to break the seal and unveil its contents. It was only when her husband’s voice, laced with threats, cut through the air that she lifted her gaze to search his face. In his eyes, she saw the fierce promise of retaliation should any harm befall her daughter. This display of wrath brought her an unexpected solace, revealing the depth of his protective instincts–even amidst his suspicions of her possible betrayal.
“We have no intention of causing her harm,” Gwayne assured, his words met by Daemon’s reproachful huff. “Princess Daenera wishes for your presence at her wedding… A moment of joy she hopes to share with her family, as you were unable to share her joy at her first wedding…”
Rhaenyra felt the bitter sting of his words.
“It is her desire that you accept the terms as I have presented them, and acknowledge Aegon, Second of His Name, as your King and the legitimate ruler of the Seven Kingdoms,” Gwayne continued. “She hopes you will agree to these conditions, for her sake and for the realms peace and stability.”
These words, intended to pacify, hung in the air–laden with the weight of the decisions yet made and the silent plea of a daughter caught in the middle of the political machinations.
The gentle, seemingly sincere tone of Gwayne’s voice, only intensified Rhaenyra’s disquiet. Tears threatened to surface as she lifted her gaze to finally meet his, feeling an acute pain with each labored inhalation. It was as if a blade had been wedged between her ribs, its sharp point mercilessly piercing her heart with every breath, twisting with calculated cruelty. She fought against the tears, determined not to let them fall in front of the Hightower delegation.
“In the light of your daughter’s well-being, the inheritance of your sons, and for the peace and prosperity of the realm, I implore you to agree to these terms and put an end to the division of House Targaryen…” Gwayne concluded, his voice carrying the weight of the decision Rhaenyra stood before. “Your daughter, as well as the King, awaits your answer.”
Daemon’s response was immediate and venomous, his position on the matter clear, “The usurper cunt might have his answer now, stuffed in his uncle’s mouth along with his shriveled cock. Let’s end this mummer's farce…”
The sharp sound of steel unsheathing sliced through the tension, as Daemon drew Dark Sister with a swift, fluid motion, the blade glinting with deadly intent as he levied it against Gwayne Hightower–a man he had always despised. He was poised for combat, as were all the other men as they drew their blades. “Ser Erryk, bring me Ser Hightower so I may take the pleasure myself.”
Syrax unleashed another roar, towering and spreading her wings wide in a display of intimidation, her snarls directed at the men in front of her. Rhaenyra felt the power of her dragon’s roar reverberate within her, drawing upon its raw energy to fortify her resolve. With the letter and the torn page gripped tightly in her hands, she set her jaw firmly and commanded Daemon to stand down with a simple, “No.”
She fixed Daemon with a piercing gaze that silently implored him to stand down. Their gazes locked, with Daemon’s head canting slightly, a look of discontent marking his gestures as if questioning her certainty. In response, Rhaenyra’s gaze hardened, conveying her decision with an unequivocal turn of her head. With a sigh tinged with frustration and a clear sense of disappointment, Daemon reluctantly lowered his weapon.
Turning her attention back to Ser Gwayne Hightower, Rhaenyra’s demeanor was once again composed, the tempest within her kept in control. “King’s Landing will have my answer on the morrow.”
Gwayne took a step back, offering a bow, while outwardly respectful, couldn’t fully mask the calculating coldness in his gaze–a trait he had unmistakably inherited from his father.
“Princess…” He uttered, with a tone that held more than mere acknowledgement and then he turned to rejoin his men, taking the lead. His departure was not without a palpable tension, the soldiers shifting restlessly under the weight of Syrax’s thunderous roar. Syrax remained in their path, surveying them with her fiery gaze, forcing the men to halt their retreat. Gwayne cast a wary glance back towards Rhaenyra, his eyes fraught with a mix of uncertainty and apprehension–seeming to question her intentions, almost as if he feared a sudden reversal of her forbearance.
Rhaenyra maintained her composure, her breath controlled and steady as she lifted her gaze to Syrax. As if understanding her will, Syrax ascended into the air with a resonant roar, her wings unfurling with such might that the cloak of the Green delegation fluttered violently in her wake. Syrax soared, gracefully circling above the restless sea and rocky outcrops, while the delegation retreated towards the dock, threading through the gateway leading to the harbor. Once they vanished from view, Syrax returned to land, taking up the same position on the bridge as she had before, emitting a huff.
Rhaenyra’s voice carried a blend of inquiry and frustration as she asked, “What transpired with Lord Beesbury and Lord Caswell?”
Daemon studied her for a moment, his expression retaining a sliver of incredulity. “A message arrived from one of my contacts within the City Watch. It informed us of Beesbury and Caswell’s demise.”
“And when did you receive this news?” Rhaenyra pressed, her voice now edged with a clear strain of criticism, signaling her displeasure at being once again ill informed on matters pertaining to her as queen.
“It arrived only as we left,” Daemon disclosed, maintaining a calm demeanor. “Lord Beesbury, it seems, did not survive the council meeting, and Lord Caswell was hanged for treason.” He then reached beneath his belt, retrieving a neatly folded note. Extending it towards her, he added, “The message mentions your daughter as well.”
Rhaenyra accepted the letter, holding both the torn page and the letter from her daughter, as she carefully unfolded this new piece of parchment. As her gaze moved across the inked words, her pulse quickened, a tumult of emotions swirling within her.
In the wake of the King’s passing, a council convened at dawn, with all key figures present. The events within the council chamber remain unknown, but what we do know is that Lord Lyman did not leave the chambers alive.
Rhaenyra absorbed the contents of the letter, her expression darkening as Daemon elaborated the council’s betrayal, watching her closely. “It appears Lord Beesbury was the first casualty of their usurpation.”
“Lord Lyman was ever loyal to my father,” Rhaenyra reflected, her mind drifting back to her youth. She recalled a council session her father had insisted she attend, despite objections from his advisors. Seated on her father’s knee, young and observant, she had scribbled on a scrap of parchment provided by Lord Lyman from his book. “He would never support Aegon’s claim over mine. He knew my father’s heart better than any of them.”
“They murdered him,” Daemon said, and there was a fire in his eyes.
Disbelief and exasperation shaded her voice as she said, “And Criston has been appointed Lord Commander…”
Daemon’s contempt was palpable. “He makes a mockery of the title. Even rats have more honor than him.”
Lord Commander Westerling has since vanished from the capital, his fate uncertain, and Ser Criston Cole has ascended to his role. Any who resisted pledging allegiance to Aegon has been detained, pending charges of treason. Lord Caswell, denied the right to trial, has been hung, alongside two of Princess Daenera’s guards, Ser Kevan Mertyns and Ser Sithric Greenfield. The maid, Joyce Garner, also met her end, while the rest of the Princesses men have been imprisoned in the dungeon.
“Lord Caswell’s allegiance to my right to the throne has always been unwavering,” Rhaenyra remarked, her disbelief evident as she digested the grim news of his fate. Already, a handful of men had been killed over this dispute. “Daenera herself has penned letters acknowledging his support… and her guards…”
Daemon interjected softly, “They were honorable men who died for their Queen.”
“And Joyce…” Rhaenyra murmured, shaking her head. The thought of her daughter’s suffering was almost too much to bear. Joyce had been a constant presence, a trusted confidante, and someone Rhaenyra had relied upon deeply for the care and protection of her daughter.
She felt his attentive gaze on her as she absorbed the contents of the letter, her heartbeat echoing her distress, one hand instinctively resting on the aching expanse of her abdomen, the ache seeming to pulsate along with the beat of her heart.
The princess, however, remains in high spirits despite her circumstances. She is kept in comfort, and is, by all accounts, well. She is allowed to move wherever she pleases through the ground of the Red Keep, though she is never left alone. She is under strict surveillance. Even so, she spends her days standing vigil over her men.
“Daenera remains unharmed…” Rhaenyra whispered, a measure of relief softening the tension within her at the news of her daughter’s welfare. Yet, this assurance did little to quell her yearning to embrace her daughter closely, to offer comfort and protection.
“Holding vigil for Caswell and her men,” Daemon observed, a hint of admiration in his voice. “No doubt to the annoyance of the Hightowers.”
Daemon shifted his stance, his hand curling around the hilt of his sword, “We should have made a bolder statement. Otto Hightower ought to have received his son’s head as our reply.”
“I will not break convention and have you kill an envoy. It is not a precedent I wish to set,” Rhaenyra countered with stern resolve. “This is not the manner in which I intend to begin my reign.”
With an exhale of exasperation, Daemon’s demeanor remained hard and unyielding, his critique sharp. “Few successions have been bloodless. Yours was never going to be. Yielding to their demands would not be the start of your rule, but the end of it–and be assured, it will not be bloodless.”
“They come here in good faith to–”
Daemon interjected with a scoff, “‘Good faith’? They have stolen your throne!”
“Permitting the execution of an envoy would have started a war,” Rhaenyra responded with a sharpness to her voice, carefully modulated to ensure their exchange remained somewhat private. She did not appreciate Daemon opposing her so openly in front of their men, nor did she appreciate his disregard for convention and what it would mean to break it.
“The war has already started,” Daemon contested, his stance unyielding.
“Then should it not fall upon me to quell it before it costs us any more?” Rhaenyra retorted, her gaze fierce, her hand resting against her stomach.
He scrutinized her with an intensity that bore his frustration and disapproval, his gaze as sharp as the sword at his hip. “You cannot seriously be contemplating their offer.”
“Daemon, they have my daughter,” Rhaenyra said, her voice laced with a desperation born of maternal fear–and she wished she could strip her voice of it. Her grip tightened around the letter, it’s touch almost scalding in her hand–unopened and filled with unread words, yet still potent in its very existence. “My only daughter. I cannot–I will not–risk her safety for the ambition of a crown. The terms they offer are good–”
“It’s a farce!” He spat out, his disdain palpable. “They offer crumbs and call it a feast. They mock you by ‘granting’ what is already yours to hold. And your sons, they mean to award them with the inheritances that are already theirs.” He closed the distance between them, his stance imposing, his fury as tangible as the flames of a dragon’s breath. “And our sons… They mean to have them bear cups and shields for that drunken cunt. How do you think they will treat them? Hmm? They will be no more than hostages–if they even live.” His eyes burned with rage. “To accept these terms is to sign our own death warrants–all of us. The moment you bend the knee to the usurper cunt of a king, our fates are sealed. Otto Hightower will not allow any claimant to the throne to live–for men to rally behind.”
Rhaenyra’s own ire surged as Daemon’s words lashed at her, her gaze shifting away, unable to face the piercing truth in his eyes. “I don’t believe Alicent–”
“Don’t fool yourself into believing she harbors any kindness for you. She has a viper for a father and she is sure to have the same venom,” Daemon interjected harshly. “Do not forget what she has put you through. Your father might have yielded to their demands. Do not make his mistakes. Where is your fire?”
Her gaze whipped back to him, fierce and defiant. “They have Daenera.”
“And if you cede to their demands, then you risk the lives of your other children.” The implication of what he was saying seemed to crackle in the air like thunder.
“And if it was your daughter? Would you dismiss her so easily?” Rhaenyra challenged, her voice sharp, slicing through the tension between them. Daemon’s response was a silent, penetrative look that mingled revulsion at her seeming capitulation with his own tempest of anger.
Rhaenyra’s voice was firm as she continued, “I understand your disappointment in Daenera, and I know you fear she has aligned with the Greens. But she is still my daughter. She was prepared to sacrifice herself to prevent this conflict–and we should take that into account. She was ready to sacrifice herself for us, Daemon. That is not something a traitor would have done…”
Daemon’s fingers tapped irritably against the pommel of his sword, his frustration palpable in the tight set of his jaw. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling heavily before he spoke.
“Daenera might not be a traitor,” he acknowledged, each word strained like a tightly drawn bow. “And I genuinely hope she isn’t, but I am concerned that her love for that one-eyed cunt may change that–and I’m concerned that your love for her will cloud your judgment.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed.
“That letter will suggest surrender, and you won’t find any true sentiments of hers in it… If you surrender for the sake of your daughter it could cost you everything else.” His tone was firm, yet there was a gentle quality to it–like that of the flat softness of a blade. “You must not bend the knee, Rhaenyra. Not even for your daughter.”
“My decisions must reflect what is best for our family and the realm.”
With a heavy pause, Daemon stood back, staring at her before he averted his gaze, a gesture so charged with finality and repulsion that Rhaenyra felt as though a wave of icy water crashed over her. Turning away, he began his departure, his movements slicing through the silent, watchful crowd of their guard. They parted for him as he walked through them, enveloped in his own storm of fury.
Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on the torn page and letters she held, carefully tucking them into a hidden pocket within her bodice–a safeguard to ensure their security. Her eyes briefly connected with Syrax’s, witnessing the dragon’s powerful wings flap before she soared into the sky, leaving Rhaenyra to undertake the journey back on foot. Perhaps this was a mercy; she doubted her ability to endure the saddle once more.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Rhaenyra gently touched the area of discomfort in her lower abdomen. The pain was acute, reminiscent of labor, yet her womb was empty–the hollowness aching. With each step, the fabric of her underclothes clung uncomfortably to her skin, exacerbating her discomfort. Her pace was slow, not by choice but necessity, every muscle in her body protesting the movements.
“My Queen…” Ser Erryk Cargyll’s voice broke through her focus, his hand poised near her lower back in a gesture of support. As she paused, resting her hand against the cool, rough texture of the bridge’s wall, the contrast between the stone’s solidity and her own fragile state became apparent.
Rhaenyra dismissed Ser Erryk’s concern with a shake of her head, clenching her jaw tightly to combat the waves of nausea and pain engulfing her. With sheer determination, she walked the remaining distance to the castle gates, her every movement through the courtyard and into the castle’s vast interior a testament to her will. The effort to maintain a composed exterior did little to ease the discomfort radiating along her spine and the acute, burning sensation that plagued her with every step.
Upon entering her privat quarters, Rhaenyra found Lady Elinda Massey at the settee, carefully folding a blanket. Startled by Rhaenyra’s sudden appearance, Elinda’s hands paused, her expression shifting to concern as she abandoned her task and hurried over. “Your Grace!”
Rhaenyra, too overwhelmed to respond, staggered towards the chamber pot and was soon gripped by a bout of nausea, her stomach heaving as the stress of recent events took its physical toll. As she succumbed to the convulsions, tears mingled with her distress, clouding her sight and dampening her cheeks.
Elinda immediately sprang into action, her voice laced with urgency as she comforted Rhaenyra. Her hands traced soothing circles across her back, trying to offer some relief amidst the tumult of her queen’s suffering. “I’ll send for the maester immediately.”
Without a word, Rhaenyra made her way to the chamber pot, succumbing to the urge to vomit, her body wracked with convulsions as tears blurred her vision. The chill of a shudder went down the weary muscles of her spine.
In the solitude of her chambers, Rhaenyra composed herself as Lady Elinda scurried off to summon assistance. With a trembling hand, she brushed away any remnants of tears from her cheeks, the bitter taste of bile souring her mouth. She winced at the sight of the regurgitated bread and cheese in the chamberpot–the scant breakfast she had managed to stomach earlier.
Methodically, she retrieved the papers she had tucked into her bodice, spreading them carefully across the surface of the dressing table. Her fingers clung to the table’s edge, seeking its stability. Lifting her eyes to meet her own reflection in the mirror, Rhaenyra faced the weary visage that stared back at her. The strain of the day’s revelations was etched deeply into her features, revealing the heavy burden of her royal duties and personal sorrows.
Her complexion remained pallid, a fine layer of perspiration glossing her skin, while the wind had left her hair disheveled and her eyes reflecting the depth of her fatigue and distress–there remained a haunted look to her weariness. With hands that trembled slightly, she reached up to unburden herself of the crown that rested heavily upon her head, setting aside the emblem of her authority and heritage.
The crown of Jaehaerys was a marvel of craftsmanship, combining gold and silver in a delicate yet imposing design. The front was adorned with the sigil of House Targaryen, the formidable three-headed dragon, symbolizing her lineage’s power and her claim. Encircling the band were the sigils of the Great Houses that had all bend the knee of Aegon the Conqueror–Houses Stark, Arryn, Tyrell, Tully, Baratheon, and Lannister.
Every one of them had knelt before her, swearing fealty with their houses’ strength and unwavering loyalty. Now, with the shadow of possible war stretching across the realm and the specter of turmoil beckoning, she wondered the steadfastness of their support.
As the crown lay beside her, a silent question hung in the air, mirrored in her weary gaze: How many of these houses would stand beside her in the trials to come? And would it be worth it laying waste to the realm for her to sit the Iron Throne?
“Help me with this,” Rhaenyra’s voice was hoarse with weariness as she fumbled with the fastening of her cloak, her hands trembling.
Elinda, ever attentive and seasoned in her role as lady-in-waiting, approached with gentle haste. With practiced hands, she eased the cloak from Rhaenyra’s shoulders, allowing the heavy, dark material to rest over the back of a chair. She then proceeded to assist her with her dress, carefully undoing the fastenings of the gown, the rich fabric whispering against itself as it was opened and slid down to pool at her feet. Following this, the inner layer was also removed, leaving Rhaenyra in her undergarments–a chemise of fine cotton and breeches, both stained with blood and clinging uncomfortably to her skin.
Seeking a moment’s respite, Rhaenyra moved towards a chair set before the warmth of the hearth. Elinda was quick to cushion the seat with a soft pillow, before Rhaenyra lowered herself, easing down on it, a sound of discomfort falling from her lips.
The distinct sound of Maester Gerardys’s approach was heralded by the gentle clinking of his maester’s chains, a sound that carried the weight of his office and expertise. He entered the chamber with a furrowed brow, his expression etched with concern as he navigated the room to place his medical satchel upon the table adjacent to Rhaenyra. In tandem, Elinda approached, bearing a basin filled with steaming water. With care, she set it beside the maester’s bag, then soaked a cloth in the warm water, gently pressing it against Rhaenyra’s damp forehead.
“Your Grace,” Maester Gerardys gently approached her, settling himself on the stool positioned in front of her. His tone was laced with concern, his eyes settling on the blood on her undergarments. “You’ve pushed yourself beyond your limits, you should not exert yourself in such a manner.”
The stool scratched loudly against the floor as he moved closer. “Please, Your Grace, if you will…”
Obligingly, Rhaenyra shifted closer to the edge of the chair, angling her hips and spreading her legs as she gathered the hem of her chemise to grant the maester access to her injuries. Her gaze lingered on the deepening frown of worry that marred the maesters forehead as he assessed her.
His eyes flickered up to her, his head shaking softly as he chided at her, “You shouldn’t have ridden–and a dragon at that. You’ve exerted too much pressure and a stitch has come loose. It is imperative that I cleanse the wound before applying a new stitch to prevent any further complications and let the tear heal faster…”
Rhaenyra pressed her thumb to the inner corner of her eye, making a dismissive sound, and with a faint, weary nod, her gaze drifted to the ceiling, her eyes tracing the intricate patterns etched in the stone as Maester Gerardys rummaged through his satchel. TThe soft clatter of glass vials and the gentle clinking of bottles resonated in the quiet room as he searched for the necessary instruments.
“You might find relief in some milk of the poppy,” Maester Gerardys suggested, his voice a blend of compassion and professional advice, intending to ease her forthcoming discomfort.
“No. I’ll have none,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice tinged with fatigue. She had witnessed firsthand the numbing haze induced by the milk of the poppy, observed its hold on her father, who under its influence, seemed adrift, scarcely aware of his own daughter and brother beside him. Such a clouded existence was not something she wished to endure.
“The application of the stitch might bring considerable discomfort, Your Grace,” Maester Gerardys cautioned. “You should not have to suffer the pain of it.”
“No milk of the poppy,” Rhaenyra asserted firmly, a note of annoyance weaving its way into her tone. “I can bear the pain. I will not have it cloud my mind, I need my senses with me.”
The pain of the procedure seemed minuscule compared to the trials she had already endured. The thought offered her a cold comfort; if she could withstand the tempests that had battered her during labor, surely she could bear the sharp bite of a needle’s stitch.
Acknowledging her decision, Gearardys sighed softly, placing the bottle with a foggy white liquid back into his bag. His hands then emerged holding what appeared to be slender sticks. “Your daughter procured these from the Kingswood.”
“Twigs?” Rhaenyra said skeptically.
A small smile formed on Gerardys lips. “It's the bark of the white willow tree. It should alleviate some of your pain.”
She eyed the bark with a skeptical curiosity, “You want me to eat these?”
“They are not for consumption but for you to chew on,” he clarified, presenting a few shavings to her. “The white willow’s bark acts as a natural alleviant. It is not as effective in relieving pain as milk of the poppy, but it should offer some comfort.” He turned to Elinda as she, too, was eyeing the bark. “Lady Elinda, if you could steep these shavings in boiling water, it would make a beneficial tea for Her Grace.”
He handed Elinda a portion of willow bark and a small pouch of hers, presumably, to enhance the tea, she nodded and moved to the hearth. The maester then dampened a cloth, wiping some of the blood off her inner thighs, a concentrated and worried expression on his face.
Rhaenyra, still somewhat dubious, reluctantly took a bite of the chewy bark. The earthy, bitter taste spread across her tongue, overpowering the acrid taste of bile that had otherwise clung to her tongue. The sound of water being set to boil filled the chamber, the crackle of fire a familiar and comforting.
As the water cascaded over her swollen and wounded cunt, Rhaenyra couldn’t help but wince, the sensation akin to flames licking at her already tender flesh. She tensed, a grimace forming as she braced herself for the pain, hastily stuffing the rest of the bark shavings into her mouth and chewing with a visible grimace.
Maester Gerardys proceeded with utmost care, washing away the blood with a gentle touch. He delicately removed the remnants of the torn suture, prompting Rhaenyra to clench her jaw tighter, her fingers embedding themselves into the wooden armrests of the chair as she fought the urge to recoil. The maester’s eyes, full of concern, met hers as he signaled his readiness to mend the tear with a new stitch.
With a barely perceptible nod, Rhaenyra allowed her head to recline, her gaze fixed on the ceiling, seeking distraction in its cold, unyielding expanse. The needle’s entry was a sharp bite, a pain so acute she could only grit her teeth harder, her entire being coiled in the anticipation of more pain. A low, pained sound escaped her lips as she endeavored to swallow the bitterness in her mouth, hoping it would alleviate the sharp sting of the needle as it drew through her wounded flesh.
There was a certain clarity to the pain, a singular focus that pierced through the fog of her weariness. It was a sensation both known and oddly comforting, different from the deep, unyielding emptiness that had taken root within her. The physical pain of childbirth was a familiar force, one she had faced down seven times over. But the sorrow of this birth, the sheer magnitude of the losses she had suffered, cast a shadow far deeper than any physical wound could inflict. It was a desolation amplified by the absence of the child she had hoped to hold, leaving her with nothing but the echo of her pain and the void of her embrace.
She couldn’t help but admire the strength of her own mother, who had endured this cycle of hope and heartbreak time and time again. How had she managed to bear the weight of so many lost possibilities, so many silent cradles? The thought burrowed deep, mingling with her own grief.
Rhaenyra stifled a grunt, her form tensing as the needle pierced her once more, the maester’s murmured apology barely registering. Her gaze was fixed on the flames flickering across the room, their glow casting the stone ceiling the flames, an intricate dance between light and shadow.
“Done,” Gerardys announced, tucking the needle and thread back into his satchel with a finality that seemed to echo in the quiet of the room.
With effort, Rhaenyra raised her head, spitting the chewed willowbark into a chamberpot Elinda had thoughtfully positioned at her side. She rinsed her mouth with sweet wine, her face contorting at the clash of flavors–the residual bitterness of the bark wrestling with the wine’s richness. She chased the lingering bitter bark with her tongue, spitting repeatedly into the pot, striving to cleanse her pallet before finally pushing the wine aside with a soft, “Thank you.”
Her leg muscles quivered as she adjusted her posture in the chair, inhaling sharply through the discomfort. As she positioned herself more upright, the tender, swollen skin of her cunt brushed against the cushion beneath her, sending a wave of pain through her body.
“Rest now, Your Grace,” Maester Gerardys urged gently, his voice a blend of concern and wisdom. “Allow the body the time it needs to recover… the soul as well.”
“Rest seems more a luxury than a necessity at this moment,” Rhaenyra replied, extending her hand for support, her tone resolute. “I will rest when I am dead.”
This response only deepened the furrow in Maester Gerardys’s brow, his gaze laden with concern as he assisted her to rise. Holding her hand, he imparted a moment of solemn counsel, “Such words are born of youthful fervor, Your Grace. True wisdom lies in recognizing the need for rest, particularly when the body and spirit yearn for it. An eternally vigilant mind risks losing its way.”
“I don’t intend to forsake rest altogether,” Rhaenyra clarified, offering a weary smile. “However, now is not the time for rest, and I fear that should I try, I will not find it.”
Despite her body’s exhaustion, Rhaenyra was besieged by a whirlwind of thoughts, the looming shadow of war hanging over her and the decisions she had yet to make. What would war mean for the realm? Death and despair? For her? For her children? The notion of sleep felt like a fanciful dream, a fleeting escape from the weariness that had seeped into her marrow. And out of the periphery of her mind, there lingered a fear, a trepidation that in the quiet of rest, she might confront the vast emptiness within, a silence filled only by the remnants of her losses.
Maester Gerardys, ever observant, cast a look of understanding her way. “When you are ready, I shall prepare a draught to ease you into sleep.”
“Thank you, Maester,” Rhaenyra replied, her gratitude genuine though suffused with fatigue. She squeezed his hand a little before releasing it.
As the Maester moved through the chamber, the soft chime of his chain punctuating the silence, Rhaenyra’s gaze drifted to the blanket draped over the settee. A surge of emotion tightened her chest as she approached and lifted it, her fingers tenderly trancing the embroidered flowers adorning the plush fabric. With each touch, her heart splintered further, tears welling in her eyes as she brought the blanket close, searching for a scent that might connect her to the daughter she would never know.
She had no frame of reference for what her daughter might have smelled like–the coppery essence of blood, the peculiar aroma of birth waters–these were all she had. Would her daughter have carried the scent of lavender that seemed to follow Daenera, or perhaps the richer undertone of pine that marked Jace? Or maybe she would have possessed the indescribable scent unique to newborns until she had grown too old? Yet the blanket offered none of these; it bore only the clean, impersonal fragrance of soap and rosemary–of being clean.
The absence of any familiar or discernible scent left her feeling hollow, an unexpected layer of loss adding to her grief. The disappointment was a quiet, gnawing presence, a silent echo of all that had been lost already. She thought, at the very least, that it should smell of someone.
All that remained to her of her daughter, her little Visenya, was a lingering ache within her womb and the throbbing pain that haunted her every step.
“Elinda, could you return this to Luke?” Rhaenyra asked, her voice ragged with weariness. Ever since Daenera had gifted it to him, Luke had taken to sleeping with it every night. At the tender age of six, with him just shy of four, her youthful fingers had awkwardly moved the needle through the fabric, her inexperience visible in every imperfect stitch. Years had passed, yet time had done little to refine her skills in embroidery. Despite its flaws, each stitch was imbued with warmth and affection, and Rhaenyra held it to her face for a moment, once again breathing in the scent of no one.
Elinda offered her a nod, approaching her with a warm cup of tea. “Of course, Your Grace.”
“And before you leave, would you help me dress? I need to be presentable.” Rhaenyra let the blanket rest on the settee before moving around the sitting area, each step marked by the discomfort from the fresh stitch and the residual ache of childbirth. She moved to the water basin, splashing her face with water, the coolness a brief respite, and gently patted her skin dry, erasing the traces of her ordeal. Elinda then carefully untied the chamise, letting the stained garment drop to the floor.
With gentle hands, Elinda dabbed at Rhaenyra’s skin with a damp cloth, soothing away the sweat and the poignant smell of dragon. Once cleansed, Rhaenyra was helped into fresh undergarments–a new chamise and cotton breeches, thoughtfully prepared with an extra cloth for added protection against any further bleeding. The first layer of her dress was then draped over her, followed by the outer layer, each piece meticulously fastened with small golden clasps.
Seated before the mirror, Rhaenyra allowed Elinda to carefully release her hair, working through the tangles that had formed during her flight on Syrax. A dull headache throbbed with the tempo of her heart, and she nursed the bitter tea, feeling it somewhat ease the tension.
Her gaze, reflective and distant, landed on the torn page. With a sense of purpose, she reached out, gathering the remnants, letting them rest before her.
A tide of bitterness surged within Rhaenyra, accompanied by the familiar sting of tears threatening to break through once again. The memory of her recent promise to return to King’s Landing haunted her, along with the fragile hope Alicent had sown–a hope for reconciliation, for mending the fractures of a friendship that had once been steadfast. Now, reflecting on that hope, Rhaenyra felt it might have been a fool’s wish. The chasm between them had widened too much, irreparable as the torn page that rested before her.
Yet, she had chosen to preserve the page. Despite the option to discard it, Alicent had kept it all these years.
And with a cruelty that was once love, she had used it in this way.
The message was twofold: a plea from the friend of her youth, imploring her to flee to safety across the narrow sea, as Princess Nymeria had once done. And from the Queen, a solemn warning: the consequences of remaining dire.
Her gaze found the lone flame flickering in the quiet room, and she contemplated the act of burning the torn pieces in the fire. Yet, a part of her soul, a vestige of hope or perhaps what was left of the friendship, resisted.Thus, she carefully placed the torn pieces into a wooden chest, a repository for the letters her daughter had sent her during her time in King’s Landing. Her hand rested on the wooden chest, thumb caressing its surface before pushing it back into place.
“The council has gathered, Your Grace,” Ser Lorent Marbrand announced, standing at the threshold of her chambers.
Rhaenyra acknowledged Ser Lorent with a slight nod and lifted herself from the stool, her movements rigid and laborious. Her hand trailed over the smooth wood of the table, hesitating when her fingers encountered the sealed letter resting there. She lacked the strength to break its seal, her apprehension of the known veiled as dread of the unknown.
With a weary sigh, she left the letter where it lay, untouched and unopened, the wax seal remaining intact–a symbol of her reluctance to face what was written inside. The room seemed to close in around her, the weight of decisions unmade pressing heavily upon her shoulders as she turned away from the table.
Rhaenyra was almost through the threshold of her chambers when Elinda’s voice called out, a note of urgency in her tone. “Your Grace, your crown!”
Pausing, Rhaenyra turned to see the crown, the physical embodiment of her duty and burden. It lay on the table, its intricate metalwork gleaming dully in the muted light. Her gaze rested upon it, feeling its weight in her very soul.
“It is a heavy one, indeed,” she murmured, her voice raw with resignation. She turned and walked out.
As Daemon strode along the walled path leading back to Dragonstone Castle, irritation pulsed beneath his skin like a relentless itch. His grip on the pommel of his sword tightened with each hurried step. Frustration seethed within him, fueled by Rhaenyra’s hesitation–her reluctance to decisively reject the Hightowers audacious terms, her failure to support his impulse to strike down Gwayne Hightower as the traitor he was, gnawed at him. But above all, his frustration mounted over her contemplation of the enemy’s demands.
Despite his agitation, a small part of Daemon understood her predicament. He acknowledged the weight of recent losses that clouded Rhaenyra’s judgment, the unbearable thought of additional losses pressing down upon her. Yet, he believed she needed to recognize her responsibilities–not just to their family but as Queen as well. The dual burdens of personal grief and the demands of leadership tugged at her, yet Daemon felt she must rise above the emotional turmoil to see her duty clear. The kingdom required her strength and resolve now more than ever, and he reprehensible that she would even consider the terms they had given her.
As Daemon had left Dragonstone to confront the green delegation, he had encountered Ser Brandon Piper, who had breathlessly rushed towards him with a letter in hand. Daemon had hastily broken the seal and read through the contents, which seemed to quell some of his inner turmoil regarding Daenera. The letter, penned by a reliable ally, confirmed that she was alive and well, subtly resisting the Greens in the limited ways available to her–standing vigil over those they perceived traitors.
Each step he took brought him closer to the towering gates of Dragonstone castle. Guards lined the walls, their presence dispersed along them in a vigilant display of force. Yet, despite the fortress’s fortifications, a restless agitation continued to drive him forward.
Perhaps he had been too quick to judge her actions as those of a traitor–and he had been relieved to hear that that might not have been the case. Daenera was not a traitor, but a hostage, a role that Daemon found easier to forgive.
Yet, despite this understanding, the seed of doubt sown by her prior betrayals–the lies and deceit for the sake of keeping her relationship with Aemond quiet–had taken root deep within him, and it was not so easy to uproot.
Daemon paced up the steps, his thoughts stormy as he mulled over Daenera’s impending marriage to the one-eyed cunt. He couldn’t deny that she had fallen in love with the boy, but this affection, Daemon feared, could turn her away from her family–and this he could not forgive.
The Greens meant to use Daenera as a way of influencing Rhaenyra, a simple tool to force her into submission. Daemon found the mere thought intolerable. The idea that Rhaenyra might even consider yielding to their demands ignited a fierce rage within him. To accept their terms would be to expose their throats to the vipers, a surrender that would only lead to their destruction. Once they showed weakness, the Greens would not hesitate to eliminate any threats to their power, starting with those who had more claim to the throne than them.
Daemon was beyond exasperated by Rhaenyra’s willful blindness to this peril–like her father before her, she refused to accept that they had to fight for their crown and secure their rule. Accepting the Greens’ terms would not only be accepting of a grave insult but a fatal error.
He had observed a flicker of determination in Rhaenyra as they confronted the demands from the Greens, even going as far as giving them her demands. He had swelled with pride at her initial defiance, only to be disheartened as her resolve waned, shaken by the reminder of them holding her daughter.
War was inevitable, and sacrifices necessary–something which Daenera appeared to grasp more than her mother.
As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, its departing light threw elongated shadows across the stone paths of Dragonstone. Daemon, driven by a restless energy, bypassed the castle’s inviting warmth and instead ascended the winding staircase to the battlements. From his elevated vantage point, he watched Rhaenyra’s arrival through the castle gates. Her appearance was a blend of determination and weariness: cheeks flushed from the long walk, her usually poised hair tousled by the wind, creating a striking image of her internal turmoil as she moved through the courtyard and into the castle.
Daemon’s chest tightened with a mix of indignation and frustration as he contemplated Rhaenyra’s possible compliance. Within him, apprehension coiled like a serpent, whispering that she might succumb to the same weaknesses that had plagued her father. He had ceaselessly warned Viserys of the Hightowers’ ambition, yet his caution had been dismissed, his presence often shunned for the truths he dared voice. How many times had he been cast aside for laying bare the venomous reach of the Hightowers? Otto Hightower had woven his web meticulously around the king, ensnaring Viserys and poisoning his mind against his own brother. Viserys had always been weak of will, had always sought to placate and be amiable–he was a good man, but he did not possess the resolve to be a good king, and House Targaryen had suffered for it.
And now, Rhaenyra displaced the same tendency. He could not comprehend why she, fierce and fiery far beyond her father, seemed ready to restrain her own formidable spirit. In his eyes, her willingness to negotiate, to delay, projected weakness–a stark contrast to the blazing dragonblood that flowed through their veins, which demanded dominance and commanded respect.
They were dragonriders, they were the blood of the dragon, and they should not be made to grovle at the feet of serpents.
Daemon believed that if Rhaenyra would just let him loose to unleash chaos, to do what he was born for, they would swiftly defeat their enemies. He could have the heads of their enemies adorning the castle walls before the moon turned, if only she gave him the chance. Rhaenyra could rightfully claim her throne, surrounded by her family’s unwavering strength and unity.
He brooded over the past, convinced that if his brother only listened to his warnings about the Hightowers, they would not be facing the conflict they were now–The Red Keep would not be the home to a nest of vipers. These serpents slither through its halls, spreading their poisoned lies and deceit, turning the castle into a breeding ground for treason and corruption. It would instead be a home for dragons, as it was meant to be.
Had Viserys taken Daemon’s counsel to heart, they would not be facing the threat of war. There would be no disputes tearing at the fabric of the realm; instead, there would only be the unchallenged might of House Targaryen. The realm would be united under the strong and undisputed rule of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen–and Daemon would be at her side, protecting her as he was meant to.
Even if it was from herself.
#a vow of blood#hotd#house of the dragon#aemond targaryen#aemond fanfiction#hotd aemond#aemond one eye#aemond x reader#aemond x oc#aemond targaryen x oc
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Hi!! I really enjoyed the hc you posted of Curvo and Cara noticing y/n picking up on their habits, and was curious if you could write something like that for Káno and Mai?
Thank you, darling! 💚
Ps, those hc were really cute 🥺
Noticing you've picked up their mannerisms - Maedhros and Maglor
Author's note: Here you go! Some soft moments for our favs. Glad you liked the other HCs🧡 I was listening to tavern music when I wrote this and got carried away, this song really captures this post's mood *swoon*
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Maedhros
He sometimes struggles with his concentration, especially when working at his desk
Whenever that happens, Mai tends to doodle. He doesn’t really notice, it’s more of a subconscious thing
You watched him zone out gradually countless times and it's the cutest thing ever
He’s always so put together and knows how to handle his concentration, but you knew he’s had more tea than usual that morning and tea always seemed to infiltrate his thoughts and make his eyes extra droopy
You were sitting on the couch behind the desk he was working at, practicing your beading skills, when you heard him draw a rather long breath
He’s doodling again, you thought, let me see what it is
Over time, you’ve picked up on some of the characters he would always draw when lost in thought. A small bird (you’ve come to the conclusion that it’s supposed to be a swallow) in particular would always make a comeback on his papers
Sometimes you pocket pieces of paper he was going to throw away, just for the sake of his little doodles.
He’s so prim and proper, always on top of everything, so dutiful and disciplined, typical eldest son behavior
But his little doodles always show you that even the firstborn prince is just a person with cute quirks
One day, you find yourself sitting in the library, studying for a poetry recital that is coming up rather soon
You know there’s going to be a discussion afterwards, that is why you have taken it upon yourself to refresh your knowledge about this particular branch of elven poetry
What started out as an inspired, enthusiastic study session has now turned into your eyes burning from the dust flying around in the air every time you’d turn a page
Why do these books have to be so old? You’re lucky if you don’t develop a dust allergy after this
The handwritten verses in your notebook are becoming sloppier and sloppier until you find yourself zoning out completely and thus forget about the quill in your hand
When you return to your chambers, Mai is there, curious to see which poems you’ve picked for the recital
So you unknowingly hand him your notebook and his eyes dart back and forth between the page and you — like what’s up huh
"That looks familiar," he smirks, pointing at the little swallows adorning the bottom right corner of the notebook’s last page. You rub your eyes — did you really draw his infamous doodle?? Wild
Mai just traces the doodle with his finger, his warm eyes scanning the page while smile lines start to form on his friendly face
He always knew you had a soft spot for his doodles, and to see you actually adopting them into your own subconscious studying habits just warms his heart in a way he cannot describe
He feels so connected to you in that moment, so happy and safe, knowing that you cherish his little quirks which he always deemed as embarrassing proof of his concentration struggle
"Can I keep it?" he lets it slip, and feels a blush creep onto his cheeks at your smile. You nod enthusiastically and tear the page from your book, giving it to him
When you enter his study later that day, you find that he’s framed that page and placed it on his desk, next to his quill and parchment :)
Maglor
Laurë is an early bird
He’s always been one to greet the world, to watch it wake up. To see the sun rise and warm every creature, no matter how small and inconspicuous, to make them feel like every day is going to be a great one.
He finds himself sitting alone in the gardens, especially in the spring time, when everything is misty and dewy and the silence seems almost eery.
You’ve gotten used to waking up without him, but you cannot hold it against him, really. Because he always kisses you on your forehead before he makes his way into the green grass and hanging trees, the roots and still tired flowers
And every time you wake up, your forehead feels warm because of his lingering fëa on your skin, coaxing a smile onto your face, before he returns to your chambers shortly after, with a freshly picked flower to sweeten your morning
And so, one fateful morning, you wake up before he does. And you can tell that dawn draws near
Somehow, Mother Nature is calling out to you, and the gardens look so utterly beautiful in the distance, clouded by the misty air, you just have to go see for yourself
You slowly get up and dressed, take an extra scarf because we wouldn’t want you catching a cold!
And then you step to your beloved Laurë, bend down and brush your lips against his forehead
A ghost of a smile appears on his relaxed features I’m simping
Your feet follow the trail he left from all his previous trips and you arrive just in time for the sun to peak past the horizon, lovingly greeting you, the newest creature in this setting
And so Makalaurë awakens, lonely for once, the memory of your kiss still on his forehead
When you come in moments later, a lone rose in your hand, hair frizzier than usual because of this morning’s humidity, eyes sparkling with the optimism of having witnessed Arda’s serenity, he’s falling in love with you all over again
"Good morning, Laurë!" You beam and stretch your arm out to present your little token of love and he MELTS
He’s never expected you to ever indulge in this little morning ritual of his, knowing how grumpy you always get if you didn’t sleep enough
He just falls into your arms, inhales your scent which is now infused with flowery morning dew
Your scarf feels warm against his cheek from the residue sunlight and he squeezes you tight and just sighs
"Good morning, my sweet Y/N"
I’m gonna cry
#maedhros#maedhros imagine#maedhros headcanon#maedhros x reader#maitimo#maglor#maglor imagine#maglor headcanon#maglor x reader#makalaurë#request
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Hi👋🏻 I saw that you were answering a poppy war related question so I was hoping to get your thoughts on something (sorry if the question sounds dumb). Do you think Vaisra was using Nezha as a means to gain Rin's trust? Was Nezha only getting closer to Rin for this reason initially (in the poppy war and dragon republic)?
Hi! Great question! This took longer to reply to because I had to think over everything. Yes, Vaisra used Nezha to gain Rin’s trust, but I don’t think that gaining her allegiance was his conscious motivation for getting close. In TDF, the first thing Vaisra does upon Nezha’s release from the Federation war camp is send him to go ‘pick up an old classmate’, asking if she would come with him [Nezha] specifically. Nezha states Vaisra didn’t even ask if he was okay first, which reaffirms the fact that he only cared about putting himself ahead, in this case by ‘obtaining’ Rin by utilizing Nezha’s former connection to her. Later, when the Hesperians arrive and knock Rin out, she wakes in a locked room, with Nezha specifically, not anyone else. Yes, Vaisra was in a meeting, but I don’t doubt he specifically placed Nezha with Rin in order to get him to manipulate her (whether he knows it or not) into later relenting to the Hesperians’ demands. And it works. She understandably freaks out initially but Nezha calms her down with platitudes and reassurances (I would die before letting them hurt you, etc) and eventually when she meets the Hesperians she does relent to their demands, in part because she trusts Nezha and his promises. And Vaisra knows that. However, I think Nezha’s conscious motivator was that he genuinely liked Rin and wanted to get closer to her. They’d formed a temporary ‘battle bond’ during the Battle of Sinegard and she saved his life. It was that moment when their relantionship changed and he was able to open his mind to seeing her as an ally and not a nuisance for the first time. Afterwards, throughout tpw, i do think his motivations were genuine in that he wanted to be friends. During tdr however, after that scene with Vaisra in tdf, I think all his actions were underhandedly motivated by a desire to keep her allegiance, whether he realized it or not. Vaisra wants Rin. Nezha will do anything for his father. That desire to please is imprinted onto his subconscious, and although he genuinely likes her and their relationship developed mostly ‘naturally’, from both of their perspectives, his actions were always colored by that underlying motive of carrying out his father’s goal of gaining her trust. You can’t separate Nezha’s desires from his father’s because although he has his own wishes, he will always submit to his father’s will. Vaisra likes rin. Therefore, nezha is ‘allowed’ to freely like rin. Vaisra wants Rin on their side. Therefore, Nezha is free to flirt, cajole, comfort or get close to rin since it will ultimately help his fathers goal (also because he wants to, but his desires always take a backseat). Do I think nezha was fully aware that he was actively carrying out his father’s will in his actions? No. From his perspective, his actions and feelings were genuine. But the only reason those actions and sentiments were expressed at all is because Vaisra ‘allowed’ them to be, because it fits within the confines of their goal. Just like the Dragon, Vaisra subconsciously dictates all of Nezha’s actions. That familial loyalty and duty is embedded too deep to ever be extricated from his character. So yes, I think Nezha may not have been fully aware he was developing their relationship for his father’s purposes, he genuinely thought it was real (and it was as real a relationship as they could have had), but in the end, he was acting in his father’s desires anyway. After all, when Rin says they could have been enemies since she was a former militia soldier, he simply smiles and says “aren’t you glad we’re not?’ this is after they’d fought at Sinegard, saved each others’ lives, became friends and then subsequently lost each other. Yet he doesn’t deny that they would’ve been enemies, doesn’t apologize. he would’ve fought her. he wouldn’t want to, but he would. And when she no longer benefits them? Nezha’s hand might be on the blade, but it’s Vaisra’s voice in his head, the combination of duty and filial ties driving him to betray her. Nezha is simply the puppet and vaisra’s hands have always held the strings.
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I saw the OC Link generator @kate-m-art posted (art here | generator here), and I know I have lots of work to get done today, but it’s been a while since I wrote or drew anything sooo ... meet Aatto!
Some very quick world-building went into this: Aatto is from a small pre-Calamity village nearby Lake Mekar (not too far from Rauru Hillside). The village is protected by two deities, the White Sparrow and the Purple Hare, and as the village’s Lost Walker, Aatto is in their service. With their help, he was able to evacuate the village to the Lost Woods just before the Calamity struck, and the village has been living in limbo for a century now, more or less unchanged, as they wait for the world beyond to become safe again.
(800-word draft of an opening of Aatto’s story below.)
When the world died, we hid. Its destruction was never ours. We swaddled our children and disappeared, soundlessly, into the fog that had curled along the edge of our consciousness for centuries. In the fog time loses its meaning. There is no tomorrow, beyond “the day of our return”, and there is no yesterday, other than “when we lived in the sun”. It is one long day, in which we sleep and eat and go back to sleep. We wait. We are safe.
I am Aatto. I brought us here. It is my sacred duty to oversee our safety.
When we lived in the sun, I was our village’s Lost Walker. I learned the whims of the forest beyond the water, and found the paths that would keep us safe. I carried the White Sparrow’s Bracelet, a sacred item, to be used only when our need was greatest. And on that day, it was.
At noon, the White Sparrow brought news: Hyrule Castle had fallen to its own evil. Before my mind’s eye, I saw many-legged contraptions — Guardians — crest the hill above our village and rain fire down upon us. I saw raging inferno, and my partner and our daughter dead before me. In a field, far beyond my sight, the Princess and the Hylian Champion had failed.
I called for a meeting before the Shrine of the White Sparrow and the Purple Hare. I relayed the message. I promised safety. And as I spoke, the Bracelet glowed.
Perhaps that is what convinced them.
We took what we could carry, and slowly gathered on the bank by the water. With the power of the Bracelet, my form changed. I became the avatar of the Purple Hare. Soundlessly, I led them across the water, and as night descended, our village lay abandoned.
———
“Dad?” It is late. My daughter should have been asleep long ago, but recently her dreams have been restless, much like mine. Streaks of purple have started to show in her hair. She has been marked as my successor.
“Hello.” I welcome her into my lap. She appears no older than when we lived in the sun.
She nestles against my chest. “The White Sparrow showed me a cave and a boy sleeping in a pool. There was a korok there.”
“A korok?” I raise my eyebrows.
She nods. “It was planting a cherry tree in the boy’s chest. There were pink flowers everywhere.”
I hum. Within, I feel the Purple Hare shift. It is alert. Has been for a while now. Change is coming. “That’s a big vision.”
“Do you know what it means?” She looks up at me with large brown eyes. There is uncertainty on her brow. Fear.
I smile and kiss her forehead. “It means good things are coming.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Her head returns to my chest. “I miss the sun.”
———
When she falls asleep, I carry her back to our tent. My partner is sound asleep. I lift his covers and place our daughter next to him. Gently I touch his cheek. “Caro.” It is enough to wake him. He has brown eyes, the same as our daughter’s. Like hers, his hair is white. Neither of them were born in our village. Still, I took them in. They are now part of us.
Caro smiles. “Hi.” The warmth in his eyes could have thawed a winter.
“Hello.”
“Did she have another vision?”
I nod.
He sits up, carefully, so not to jostle her. “They are becoming more frequent.”
“They are.” Within, the Purple Hare turns its head. It is listening. “Promise me you will do your best to guide her through them.”
Caro stares at me.
I swallow. “Visions can be terrifying. If she is frightened, you have to be calm. Help her understand what she has seen. Do you understand?”
“You’re leaving.”
“The Purple Hare is moving, I have to —”
“You’re leaving.” Caro’s eyes are wide.
“I am.”
“Aatto —”
“Something is happening. Or about to happen. If I don’t go, the Purple Hare will take her instead.” I hope he understands. I need him to understand. “It has already marked her.”
Caro looks like he wants to say more. His jaws are tight. “Come back.” He swallows. “When it’s done, come back.”
I take his hands and kiss them. “I will.”
———
Although day and night don’t matter anymore, I know it has been a long time since we lived in the sun. Where before my skin was tan from long days outside, it is now pale. I know I used to have freckles. I don’t know if I do now.
I pack little: a bow, a hunting knife, rope, and a satchel of food and elixirs. The White Sparrow’s Bracelet is still on my arm. It won’t come off until I die. I pull my hood up. Within, the Purple Hare stretches its legs. It has rested too long. We are ready to move.
#botw#loz#i have no idea where this is going or if it's going anywhere at all#maybe it'd be good to write the story in a sort of fairytale-esque style? like the winter fae story i did for four swords?#would anyone be interested in hearing more of this?
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waiting for my dead ends queue thinking about atlas in ultima thule. 12 thousand years they're locked in a stalemate with meteion, except that's not really what it is. while atlas too is comprised largely of dynamis and by all definitions is an entelechy, venat didn't INTENTIONALLY do this the way hermes did when designing them. further, atlas is only able to draw upon themself throughout the conflict, whereas meteion's power grows with the despair they amass from the meteia's spread and the dead stars they leave in their wake.
atlas was designed by venat as a 'beacon of hope', so their inherent nature is to try and guide those lost to grief, anger, fear back to the light; to bring hope back to their hearts. atlas cannot willfully cease to try and do this. even if they COULD abandon venat's orders of them when she sent them after meteion, their very being can't actually stop. they will save meteion, or they will die trying.
and the truth is they ARE dying, by the time the warriors of light arrive in ultima thule. atlas doesn't even have a physical form anymore; they're just a voice, faint and tired, yet even then, diminished to near nonexistence, they guide the way to salvation. meteion's salvation, of course, and by extension that of all etheirys—but their own salvation too. because with the endsinger's defeat, atlas is restored.
12 thousand years they carry out this impossible duty on behalf of venat, their creator, the one they love—and finally, at journey's end, they can go home. they can see her again. except... she's already gone. their purpose, the person they were first designed to protect from the throes of despair, has spent the very last mote of her hope and placed it in the hands of her champions.
and atlas will carry on, because even if they didn't want to, they are designed to. but they can't help wondering, had they only returned a little bit sooner, could they have saved venat as they were made to?
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The Forgotten - Chapter 2 'In Which Discussions Are Had & Plans Are (Sort Of) Made'
The BeanBean Kingdom has lived peacefully for centuries, due to the wild ocean and towering mountains that surround them. No one being able to get in or out. Which makes it strange when a stranger enters the kingdom, but not in an expected way.
Close to death and with little memories about his previous life, Peasley has to uncover where this 'L' came from. As well as who would want to hurt this confused human.
Fandom: Super Mario & Related Fandoms Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Relationships: Luigi & Mario (Nintendo), Luigi/Prince Peasley Warnings/Additional Tags: Luigi don't remember who he is, AU to Super Star Saga, There will be mentions of torture, PTSD, Bowser's gonna be intense in this, At least far more than in comparison to the games, Mario's a worried older brother, It's a dangerous game of cat and mouse
The announcement of a possible intruder did cause a ripple of fear to travel through the kingdom. Just as predicted. However, the citizens also responded with determination. Wanting to do what was possible to keep themselves safe. Numerous volunteers stepped forward to act as watchmen. Anything to bring awareness of any possible dangers to their home.
None aware of the unexpected guest to the secluded kingdom.
Said guest had yet to wake. Even with Dr. Pinto giving positive daily updates, the human hadn’t stirred once. To Peasley, who had stopped by every morning as part of his duties, he couldn’t see much improvement. Granted he wasn’t the castle's physician. But the human was just as pale and frail as when he was first discovered.
The first noticeable change came about a week later, when the human’s cheeks started carrying a red hue to them. Peasley, upon arriving for that morning’s check in, quickly placed his books and paperwork aside on the small bedside table. Reaching out without a second thought and cupping the cheeks carefully. Shocked to feel warmth emitting from them.
“Dr. Pinto!” Peasley frantically called out. Eyes quickly scanning to see if he could find any other issues. Not looking away from the sleeping form as he hears footsteps draw closer.
“Your highness, what’s wrong?”
“The cheeks, they’re red, why are they red? And burning! I-Is he sick now too? What’s happening?”
“Prince Peasley, I need you to please calm yourself…and release my patient’s face.” Peasley was not pleased with how flustered he felt being caught cradling a stranger’s face. Stepping away slightly as Dr. Pinto positioned himself on the other side of the medical bed. “Rosie cheeks and warmth is a good thing. It informs us that our patient here has regained enough of his own blood. This will help in his recovery.”
“So…this is a good thing.”
“Absolutely. He’s still in a heavy recovery period. But this tells me that he’s over a big hurdle. It may still be a while longer before he wakes again, however.”
Peasley tapped the metal bar on the bed, eyes still on the sleeping form. “You mentioned blood. What is that?”
“It’s the human equivalent of our sap, what keeps him alive.”
“And that’s why his cheeks are red?”
“Yes, because his blood is red. Seeing flushed cheeks is a sign of good health…or the human is cold and attempting to regulate body heat. But I assure you, this means he’s recovering well.”
The prince falters slightly. Getting a sudden flash of memory, when he first found the human under the mudslide. “There..was red. Under his nose and from the corner of his mouth.”
“That would have been blood.”
The answer seemed to cause Peasley’s stomach to churn. Arms moved to wrap around his midsection, as if it would offer some self-comfort. “How…could anyone be so cruel to another living being?”
“Sire…this is not meant to be a negative mark against your life. But there are evil, truly evil people out there. I’m sorry to say that this is a very negative first experience to the world outside of our walls.”
“It’s…It can’t be helped. A situation no one in this room has any control over. I’m content in knowing he is in our care.” Peasley commented calmly. Reaching out once more to gently brush the human’s hair to the side. “I will say though that I’m discontent with waiting. I wish I was able to help more than just…check in.”
“You could read to him,” Pinto laughed softly at Peasley’s raised brow, “I’m not sure why it works. But patients in comas or heavy states of unconsciousness have reported hearing people talking to them while they sleep. Saying that hearing voices helped them wake up. Sort of like leading them out of a fog.”
“All I have are farmland reports and housing requests.”
“I think our human friend here would prefer something a little different than legal documents. Try fiction, entertainment if you will.”
“Very well, I’ll start tomorrow. It might put me a bit more at ease until he wakes up. …Dr. Pinto?”
“Yes, your highness?”
“How did you know he was human?”
“As a doctor, I have to be ready to help any patient that’s presented to me. I don’t know a lot about them, as not much has been written in either the medical or social aspects of these beings. Humans are very rare for this world.”
“How are they here then?”
“I’m unsure… I’ve heard that one of the kingdoms is actually ruled by a human.”
Peasley perked up at this. “Which kingdom?”
Pinto gave himself a few moments to think before answering, “I…believe it’s the Mushroom Kingdom.”
“I may be drawing a wrong conclusion,” Peasley bit his lip, “But could this kingdom know of our patient?”
That gave the doctor another pause. “...It could be possible. If anything we can’t rule it out. The problem will be how we can get a message out to them. The old walkways out of the mountains have been blocked for centuries.”
“Our patient got in somehow.”
“I certainly don’t want to go the way he did.”
“Ah…fair.”
“But bring this up with the Queen,” Pinto continued, “She may know of another way to get the message out. In any event, it’s a place to start.”
“I’ll go talk with her now about it. Thank you Dr. Pinto. I’ll be back later with a book in hand.” Grabbing his papers from the small table, Peasley left.
When the topic of the Mushroom Kingdom, namely with the idea of sending a message, Queen Bean was in favor. “I’m not sure why I didn’t think of this before.”
“Do you know the ruler there?” Peasley asked.
“No, nor do I know the previous rulers. But I was aware of the humans ruling over a kingdom from my own parents. Millennia ago, we apparently had a relationship with the Mushroom Kingdom, trading purposes mainly. Before the paths out of our kingdom were blocked.”
“Why…were they blocked?”
Queen Bean looked over to her curious son. “I wish I could give you an acceptable answer. But the most I was ever told was that it was for our kingdom’s protection.”
“From what?”
“I wish I knew.”
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…Was…he dead?
No…pretty sure death meant nothing…
And he was thinking…
That must count for something…
So…if he wasn’t dead…
Where was he?
Maybe he was just asleep… How long had he been asleep?
Because he felt so heavy, absolutely weak. But why?
What had happened?
Was he-
Wait.
Who was he?
Why couldn’t he remember anything?
‘...turn from your battle, that’s all I ask.
I’ll do what I can. I’ll do everything that I can do to return to you.’
Who…was that?
Their voice was unfamiliar. Which really meant nothing as he remembered very little to begin with.
But what were they saying? It was strange, as if they were talking to themselves. Just carrying their own conversation. Were they…reading? Why were they reading? Were they reading to him?
Even after the cart disappeared over the horizon, Mellisa hoped that it would return. To bring her beloved back to her. But the hours passed and the house remained as empty as before.
This was so confusing.
He really wished he could figure out what was going on.
But everything still felt so heavy.
He attempted to let out a groan of frustration. All that came out however was a small squeak of a sound. His throat felt absolutely raw with something blocking his mouth. The nearby reading suddenly stopped, now hearing someone shuffling. He couldn’t help but wince when something warm and soft was pressed against his cheek. Unable to tilt towards the soft touch. It felt so foreign for some reason.
“Dr. Pinto, he’s waking up!” The reading voice called out desperately.
He released a small whine as he took a deep breath in. Slowly opening his eyes to find the world an absolute blurred mess. Shifting his attention to a moving figure leaning over him. Skin a vivid green, warm brown eyes furrowed in worry, golden shoulder length hair, dressed in brilliant white garments. It was this person’s hand that was resting on his cheek.
Who…Who were they?
They disappeared before he could dwell on that. Now more people entered his vision. All saying something quickly towards each other, he wasn’t able to keep up. His mind eventually offered that they were probably doctors or something similar. The one who was giving the majority of the orders (this being Dr. Pinto possibly?) gave a few more notes before turning to him.
“Hey, can you hear me?” The doctor asked calmly. He could only reply back with another small moan. But that was enough to answer the other. “Good, good. I need you to take deep breaths through your nose. We’ll be removing something from your mouth…”
He attempted to comply, wincing as something large was extracted from his mouth. Quickly gulping down air when his chin was released.
“Calm down, slow deep breaths for me, you’re doing great. Keep giving me those slow breaths. We’re going to sit you up a bit further.”
He closed his eyes as the world shifted around him. Only opening them when the bed settled once more. He was surprised at how large the room was. An elongated hallway style that held enough room that both sides held two rows of medical beds. Each having a small side table and curtained partitions. All other beds were empty.
Tucked into the corner, near where he was currently resting, was a large room. Numerous windows outlined the area, acting more like walls than windows, all blocked off with thick curtains. Unable for outside viewers to see what was inside. He could only assume it was an office space for the medical team.
He was pulled away from his musings when a glass of water was gently pressed to his lips. Greedily sucking down the cool liquid, soothing his rough and swollen throat. The glass was pulled away sooner than he wanted. Until he realized that he needed to breathe again.
“You’re okay. We’re not going to deprive you. But you need to pace yourself.”
He took a few deep breaths, calming himself before choking out. “W-Where…am I?”
Dr. Pinto seemed surprised to hear the other talk, but quickly responded with, “The BeanBean Kingdom’s castle, specifically the infirmary wing. Does the name sound familiar to you?”
He frowned, thinking as well as his foggy mind would allow. “No…it doesn’t… I’m sorry…”
“You’re fine. No worries. Do you think you could tell me your name?”
Tingling on the edge of his consciousness, he felt the beginning build up of panic. “N-No…”
There was a flash of concern over Dr. Pinto’s face that was quickly buried back down. Pulling his calm smile back and replying with, “Okay, it’s okay, you’re going to be okay. Can you tell me anything about yourself?”
He swallowed weakly, eyes traveling over the white walls as he racked his brain. Was there anything he could remember? It was all just a blur. A dim, muted blur. That was bad, right? How could it not be? Is it even possible to just not remember a single thing about his own life? “I…I can’t- I don’t…remember…”
Peasley, who had stood aside when the medical team arrived, frowned hearing how heartbroken the humans sounded. Attempting to figure out how he could help in this situation. But what could he possibly do?
The answer arrived when his eyes landed on a familiar green cap resting on the small bedside table. One that had been washed and carefully tended to since the human arrived. The prince picked said garment up and stepped around Dr. Pinto. Giving what he hoped was a gentle smile as blue eyes turned to him.
“This is yours, right?”
The human’s eyes widened slightly upon seeing said cap. “That’s mine… Yeah, that’s mine…”
“There’s an ‘L’ embroidered on it. Does your name start with ‘L’?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah… Yes, I think so…”
“Can we call you that for now?”
“...I-I’d like that, yes…”
Peasley smiled softly, placing the cap under L’s less injured hand. “Well, L, I do wish our first meeting was under better circumstances. But I welcome you to the BeanBean Kingdom. I am Prince Peasley.”
L gave a wobbly smile in return. “T-Thank you…”
There was a moment of silence as L’s attention went back to the green cap. Thumb slowly running over the letter. When another flash of something entered his mind.
“Mario.”
Peasley inched closer at this. “Who’s Mario?”
“I don’t know… But I need to find him…”
_____________________________
“L, the name our guest has been asked to be called, is recovering well. While his intake of food and drink is minimal and very slow, I'm happy to know that he’s able to keep things down,” Dr. Pinto sighed before looking up to Queen Bean, “But now we have another issue. L remembers very little. What we are aware of is that the green cap does belong to him, his name starts with ‘L’, and he’s looking for someone named Mario.”
“Another human?” the queen asked.
“I can only assume. I’m not aware of this person however.”
“Neither am I… What are our next steps?”
“I will continue to work towards L’s full mental and physical recovery. A new concern now is understanding what prompted the memory loss.”
“Do you have a theory about what caused it?” Peasley asked.
The doctor shifted. “As stated before, due to the placement and clearly purposeful intentions behind the wounds, L was tortured. I’m theorizing that the memory loss was a sort of safety measure. A way to keep himself feeling somewhat safe. The items he has clung to are those he determined that are most important.”
“Do you think his memories will come back?”
“That is a dangerous question. Ideally, yes, getting his memories back could happen and would be beneficial. But recalling what’s befallen him, this may cause further damage. As well as his own mind will cause stress if we or anyone forces him to try and remember. It will be best if we ease him into pulling his memories back.”
Peasley frowned, tapping his finger on the handle of his sword before looking towards his mother. “Have you decided if it would be possible to send a letter to the Mushroom Kingdom?”
Queen Bean gave a short sigh but nodded. “It’s currently our best move to figure out a solution. However, it will take time to plan a way safely out of our kingdom. If it even is possible. As well as deciding what we even write about.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re in the middle of a great unknown,” Lady Lima answered, “We still don’t know what caused the injuries on L. While expecting the worst is not the best way to approach this,we can’t exclude the possibility someone from the Mushroom Kingdom was the cause of this. It’s a hope we can inform the people who need to know without tipping off what’s truly going on. To keep this L and ourselves safe.”
“But we can’t sit on this for to long,” Peasley quickly argued back, “Twiddling our thumbs will help with nothing!”
“Neither will rushing in,” Queen Bean reached over to place a hand on her son’s shoulder. The prince relaxed slightly by the touch. “This is nothing that we can just snap our fingers and solve. We are breaking walls that have been left untouched to kingdoms we have not interacted with for so long. Worrying about an unknown but dangerous threat. To us, this human L, and our kingdom overall. We need to be cautious.”
“...I understand.”
“No one is happy about this situation, Prince Peasley. No one wanted to feel unsafe in their own home. But it’s how we respond that will help us in finding a solution.”
“Then what shall I do?”
“Your priority is L. He’s lost, confused, and is still in a battle for his life. Provide him some form of stability. Become a person he knows he can rely on. Do you understand?”
“...Yes mother.”
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The Dream-titans of Gaggunaŕkul, the Fuligin City
A band of Titans under the influence of the Tower-within-Dreams establish a empire in southern Tuula, reliant on slavery, dream magic and blood magic.
After the scattering of the pearls, great many Titans awoke in the wildernesses of southern Tuula, which was inhabited by fewer other mortals. The Titans gathered in small communities as their whims took them, and many of them fell under the sway of the Tower-Within-Dreams.
One band of Titans had a particularly strong connection to the Tower, and these Titans dreamt of it often. When they scaled its heights they learned the secrets of bewildering the minds of other mortal folk, or of disquieting them until they flee, or trapping their thoughts in circles. This band named themselves the Havonaar, and they migrated across all of southern Tuula, searching for something they could not name. For many decades they served as mercenaries in the Sanguinary Wars; they learned the blood magic of the Dzadek from magisters who they captured and tortured with visions of the Tower, and learned many other secrets besides.
As the League of the South was founded and the Sanguinary Wars came to an end, the Havonaar departed the lands of the Dzadek. They journeyed south and west, towards the sea, where they took what the desired from the communities of TItans and Usfir that dwelt in the region. Yet still they were unsatisfied. Hearing of the existence of the Reflecting Gallery intales from distant Thorfuidir, many of the Havonaar grew avaricious, and decided to claim the bounty of knowledge within for themselves.
With their power over Dreaming, it took little effort for the Havonaar to enter the Reflecting Gallery. They explored there for a while, and learned many secrets before their intrusions were caught by the Seraki who acted as curators of the Gallery. The curators expelled them utterly, and many of the Havonaar woke to find themselves struck blind, or unable to move, or with their senses jumbled. Some never woke at all. But the damage was done.
Journeying towards the ocean, the Havonaar sought out two Deep Ones whom they had learned of; Sīnobbe and Alēmdanna. They enticed the two Deep Ones to put forth drones to commune with them, trapped the minds of the drones, and carried them off to their camp to bind them with Dzadeki magics. With the Deep Ones enslaved to their command, the Havonaar embarked on a campaign of conqest, eager to imitate the victories of VOrul whom they had heard about, far to the north. They enslaved other Titans and Usfir who dwelt in the region, and with the labour of their slaves and bound drones they raised the great temple-city of Gaggunaŕkul. Miles across, the city is a maze of great ziggurats, deep pools touched by dreaming magic, long galleries decorated with frescos of terrors and wonders glimpsed in dreams, wide shallow basins where algae is cultivated for bound drones, arenas where slaves fight for the amusement of the Havonaar, and slums where the slaves dwell.
Once the stone of the city was grey and white, yellow and red, brown and beige, but over time all colour has faded out of it, replaced with an oily blackness. In the day it is a place where the sun’s light is weakened; at night it is a place of utter blackness, a abyss in the form of a city. And beneath a full moon, it is a city where dreams can walk the waking world, the Black Tower looms in any direction you look, and slaves make desperate attempts to escape into the safety of the worlds of dream.
Yet even as their power waxed, the Havonaar began to struggle. The sleep of the Titans came upon them more and more, and they struggled to maintain unity; each Havonaar was suspicious of the others, and expected others to attack them for their own gain while in deep slumber. To solve this, the Havonaar began to bind themselves to each other with their stolen magics, binding vows to do no harm or support each other or carry out each others duties when one slumbered into their own blood. Yet these vows did not stop the Havonaar from scheming; they merely forced the Havonaar to become cunning about the ways they sought power within their fractious community.
At any one time the majority of Havonaar are asleep and Dreaming; those awake fulfil their vows, scheme for power within the confines of their contracts, and advance the power of the Havonaar as best they can. The Havonaar are steadily growing in number, but older Havonaar also spend longer asleep, and the need to maintain control over their vast populations of slaves and keep Sīnobbe and Alēmdanna bound limit the ability of the Havonaar to exert their great power on the wider world. But the Havonaar are Titans, and Titans are patient creatures. The day is coming when the Havonaar will send their armies northwards, desiring more slaves, more bound spirits, and more knowledge of the secrets of the world.
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What is my Dharma? What is my life Purpose?
I'm I had every intention of waking up on my birthday early to practice gratitude and meditate. However, as it turns out, I had a restless night, then opened my eyes early in the am, only to find myself face down, planted in my pillow and my back screaming at me. A very subtle reminder from the Universe that every day is perfectly imperfect. So I embraced the message.
If you've read my recent posts, you know that I view my birthday as an opportunity of growth. I "train" for my birthday, Truth be told, this year I was not referring to workouts, but an exploration into a deeper understanding of my health and how it effects my lifestyle, or vice a versa.
In August, I will complete 500 hours of Yoga Training. I stepped into Yoga a few years back, to enhance my flexibility, and, to destress from work before heading home.
When the Yoga door opened, my curiosity about my journey peaked. I began to recognize that Yoga is not only the physical Asanas, but it's a path into your deeper Self. So, I decided my birthday milestone of better health and fitness, would now include the element of Spirit.
It was the perfect storm for me - Yoga, my increasing age and the Pandemic. The trifecta of "greater awareness."
I was never afraid of the Pandemic. I found I was open to the sudden pause it placed on my frenetic lifestyle. During that time, my awareness and curiosity about life grew larger. I stumbled upon the concept of "life's purpose." In Yoga the Sanskrit term is “Dharma.”
In the "yoga" world, and, in many ancient spiritual practices, there is a belief that we are all part of a divine energy that is in every living form that inhabits the earth. We are all truly connected - the birds, the trees, our dogs, our partners, etc. Each living creature is here on a journey. Each living soul has a purpose to fulfill - Their Dharma
Dharma/Purpose isn't necessarily a job. Dharma comes from Sanskrit and means many things but all of them are related to the path and duty of man. Some specialists translate Dharma as a "goal in life" or "moral principles."
Sahara Rose defines Dharma beautifully- “The word Dharma is an ancient Sanskrit word that refers to your soul’s purpose—the big reason why you are here,” Sahara says. “And it’s not just what you do, but how you do it, and why you do it. Your dharma is not a career, or a project, or a certain role you play. It’s the unique vibration that your soul carries to everything that you do and every way that you are.” For instance, someone’s Dharma can be to bring beauty to the world, and how they do it can look in so many different ways, such as through being an artist, an interior designer, or a hairstylist.
How you live your Dharma, or not, is up to you. As Yoga teachers, we are taught the "Yamas and Niyamas," the ethical codes to living.
In following the "Yamas and Niyamas" we place ourselves on a path of truth - truth that resonates with our physical being as well as our divine awareness. For example, we can chose to live our life with anger in our heart and soul projecting it at all that we touch through our interaction. Or, we can seek to live a life in harmony with all souls - albeit a bird, a tree, a dog, your neighbor.
Identifying your Dharma is only the first step. Living your purpose and respecting all life, knowing that each soul is living their own Dharma, without judgement is the second and the more challenging.
When you see a homeless person on the street, you may not chose to give them money, but you can smile at them. We can chose compassion over judgement, love over hate, silence over gossip.
This year, my spiritual challenge is following my Dharma. I believe I have identified my purpose, now my goal is to perfect how I live it. I hope to love more deeply, for example, knowing that the sad soul sitting on the park bench with their life's belongings in a small bag seated next to them, only needs a knowing loving smile instead of being ignored.
What’s your Dharma?
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you get kidnapped by the fatui headcanons (diluc & kaeya)
prompt: Diluc and Kaeya headcanons for reader getting kidnapped by the Fatui before they have a chance to confess that they’re in love with her, as requested by @lohai-of-favonius
word count: 2.1k (lol “headcanons”)
characters featured: diluc, kaeya
reader: gender-neutral/female/male (can be read any way, it’s in second-person pov)
style: headcanons w/ angst then fluff
warnings: possible spoilers for diluc & kaeya related info, light descriptions of injuries, kidnapping, light descriptions of violence
a/n: i made these into headcanons, i hope that’s okay! i was getting a little longwinded on the both of them and i feel like the scenarios would’ve turned into full length fics otherwise haha. i definitely need to learn to write less. i hope i interpreted the prompt well!
“I have a commission awaiting me,” You stated, refusing to make eye contact with the man in front of you as you absentmindedly fiddled with the sleeves of your shirt. “In Liyue. Looking for a missing person. Should be routine stuff, I’ll be back in a week, max.”
You glanced at the man in front of you. If you could notice the concern he wore on his expression, you failed to verbally acknowledge it and instead took one of their hands in yours, squeezing it lightly.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon. You don’t have to ring the alarm bells just yet!” You joked, plastering a small smile. As the man in front of you realized his expression was morphing into one of worry, he smoothed over his expression and composed himself.
He knew he couldn’t control your actions, nor had any room in stating which course of action you should take when it came to accepting your commissions. Missing person cases, while a valiant cause, often led to bad news. But, you were a hero at heart and here he stood, merely a friend of yours. Now wasn’t the time for a heartfelt confession of love that he desired to send your way. Doing so would only unfairly manipulate you into staying and he knew you were strong enough to make it back on your own.
But, a week later, as he awaited your arrival at the gates of Mondstadt, worry plagued the man who had fallen in love with your heroic, dutiful spirit over the last few months. As the hours ticked by, he realized he needed to have a new course of action...
KAEYA
Upon you going missing with little to no information, Kaeya would notify the Knights of Favonius, first and foremost. In fact, he speaks to Amber first, as he believes her to be trustworthy and her status as an Outrider makes her most likely to encounter you first.
However, despite his growing concern, he remains optimistic. You’re a strong fighter who has helped him clear countless hilichurl camps. He knows you can handle yourself well. You’re likely just taking longer than expected or picked up extra work in Liyue before returning.
A few days later, Fischl, one of the Adventurer’s Guild’s investigators, approaches him with information on your whereabouts. However, after lots of back and forth between the two, he finally understands (with the help of Oz’s translations) that you’ve been kidnapped by the Fatui.
Kaeya immediately panics, but manages to keep his cool, charming facade up until Fischl leaves his presence. Now left alone in his office in the Knights of Favonius headquarters, Kaeya paces around, trying to think of a plan.
Kaeya wants nothing more than to ride a horse straight into Liyue and search for you, taking down anyone that gets in his way. However, there’s one thing that limits him: Diplomacy.
Kaeya’s a part of the Mondstadtian government, meaning that any action he takes in Liyue directly reflects on the nation of Mondstadt as a whole. It wouldn’t look good to dirty his hands with Fatui blood in a land that isn’t his own. Not only would it be detrimental to his well-being, it would also put the freedom of Mondstadt at risk, which goes directly against the promise he made when being sworn in as a Knight.
Therefore, he has to use the next best thing: Connections. The Adventurer’s Guild has been extremely helpful on intel, he has friends in the Liyue Millileth, and he’s even willing to swallow his pride and reach out to Diluc if it means your safe return.
Diluc, despite his tense relationship with his brother, has always had a soft spot for your presence, so he’s more than willing to help by spreading word around the tavern.
As days go by, Kaeya gets antsy and right when he’s about to say fuck it and mess up the entirety of Sneznhayan-Liyuean-Mondstadtian geopolitical relations by murdering some Fatui to get you back, Amber bursts into his office and doubles over, trying to catch her breath after sprinting to the Knights of Favonius headquarters.
“We found her. With Barbara,” She manages to wheeze out. Without caring for the state of the Outrider’s lungs, Kaeya shoves past her and immediately sprints to the cathedral.
He rushes to the back where he’s met with your figure lying in a hospital bed. As he enters your room, your eyes flutter open to give him a bleary-eyed smile, despite all of your injuries.
He opts for sitting next to you and taking your uninjured hand in his, hesitant to move you a lot in fear that it would only hurt you. However, he wants nothing more than to wrap you in his embrace and never let you go. But instead, he simply brings your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles lightly, whispering a thank you to Barbatos for your safe return as his lips ghost along your skin.
The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes as Kaeya plays with your fingers, trying to think of the words to say. You, on the other hand, are content with sitting in silence, far too tired to explain everything that had happened to you over the course of your adventure.
“Who rescued you?” The first words out of Kaeya’s mouth are not a love confession, but rather embittered words, laced with jealousy. He wants nothing more than have to been the knight to bust down the door of wherever you were held captive and whisk you away to safety, solidifying the image of him in your eyes as a protector.
“I rescued myself,” You speak softly, a smirk spreading across your lips. “I beat up those Fatui jerks and escaped myself.”
Kaeya looks up from gazing absentmindedly at your hand and makes eye contact with you. Before he can stop it, a proud laugh escapes from his lips and you begin to laugh with him too. Despite all his worries, you had come back alive and in one piece, just scraped up. You didn’t need him to play protector -- you had yourself. He was just designed to be your cheerleader. As this thought settled into his head, his laughter subsided and a content smile graced his lips.
“I’m in love with you,” He confesses in the comfortable silence between the two of you. Kaeya was normally the type for bald-faced lies, but tonight, he felt as if he wanted nothing more than to peel back his layers of mystery and be honest with you.
You beam at him, rotating your hand in his grip and squeezing back. “I know. Aren’t you lucky that I feel the same way?”
DILUC
When you go missing, Diluc immediately expects foul play. He’s definitely more worrisome than Kaeya, but Diluc is more fearful of losing the one he loves. He’s experienced loss before and has built up walls around himself to avoid losing that again and, while Kaeya does the same, Diluc is far less charming and suave with his words.
Diluc has let you in as both a friend and has fallen in love with you. He doesn’t want to lose you before he can tell you how you’ve broken down his walls.
He trusts you to be able to take care of yourself, but even the mightiest of warriors can be kept off guard. Therefore, Diluc begins using his wealth to find information out about your location and what happened to you. While it might not result in the most reliable information, Diluc knows money can get people to talk more than anything.
Diluc quickly learns that the Fatui are holding you hostage and finds out where. The location is in Liyue, so Diluc does what Diluc does best: He sets out to rescue you himself.
He doesn’t take much with him besides a horse, his claymore, some food and medical supplies, and your weapon of choice. He doesn’t know what shape you’ll be in, but he knows that if you’re even remotely conscious, you’ll want to help him fight.
When he infiltrates where the Fatui are holding you, he’s filled with rage upon seeing your bruised and beaten form in the corner, chained to the wall, as if the Fatui had tried to get information out of you but failed.
Determined to rescue you safely, Diluc realizes that he’d have to fight the multiple Fatui that were now alert to his presence as well. The four Fatui members in the vicinity look like they had already had a rough time capturing you and are less than thrilled at the prospect of fighting Mondstadt’s Darknight Hero.
However, Diluc will be damned if he lets them run. He makes quick work of the Fatui members, thanks to your assistance in fighting as hard as you could before being captured.
Once the Fatui are defeated, Diluc immediately crouches by your figure, breaking the shackles holding you with his claymore.
“My hero,” You sigh in a dreamy voice as a mischievous grin forms on your face, causing Diluc to both sigh in exasperation and flush red at the same time. However, your voice becomes sincere as you utter your next words. “Thank you.”
“You would do the same for me,” Diluc responds, his words filled with truth. Diluc trusts you more than anyone else in Teyvat. He scoops you up bridal-style and carries you over to his horse. The two of you ride back to Dawn Winery in silence, with you sitting in front of him as he holds the reins. His arms around your waist prevent you from falling and the rhythmic motions of the horse lull you into sleep.
You awake in one of Dawn Winery’s beds with fresh bandages. At your bedside, fresh water and fruit had been placed for your consumption upon waking, but you’re not too concerned with either at the moment. You decide to eat some before going to find Diluc, realizing that he’d probably chew you out for not taking care of yourself if he found out.
As soon as you’re finished, you hobble out of bed, determined to find Diluc. You spot him on the balcony and as you creak open the door, Diluc whips his head around and frowns at you.
“You should be in bed,” He chastises, immediately rushing over to you. He notices the fact that you have to lean against the doorframe for support and sighs. “Why would you ever get out of bed with your injuries?”
You let out a small giggle. “I wanted to see my charming hero, who is just as excited to see me too,” You croon, enjoying the way the tips of his ears flush red at your teasing. You reach out your arms to him. “Carry me back?”
Diluc sighs and picks you up once again. “You have me wrapped around your finger,” He murmurs into your hair as he carries you back. You’ve latched onto him like a koala, with his hands supporting your thighs and your arms around his shoulders. You bury your face into his neck and sigh with content, causing him to flush an even deeper shade of red.
Despite his embarrassment about the current situation coloring his face, Diluc realizes that he doesn’t mind if everyone else in the winery sees him carrying you like this. It would showcase that you were clearly his.
As the two of you return to your room, Diluc gently lays you down on the bed and turns to leave, but you grab his wrist before he can make his escape. His face is still flushed a deep scarlet when he turns around to face you, causing you to let out another laugh.
As the morning sun filters in through the window, your eyes twinkle with delight as you stare up at Diluc, happy to be in his presence. Diluc looks down at you, entranced by how carefree you look, despite the hell of what you had just gone through. Despite all the bandages that cover your face, arms, legs, and torso, Diluc views you as a sculpture crafted with the finest materials by the gods themselves.
As he brushes the hair out of your face, Diluc realizes that he would rescue you a thousand times over if he could relive this moment of you being happy, without any of life’s typical worries etched into your face. That’s when he fully realizes how he feels about you, embracing the feelings he had long sought to push away.
“I’m in love with you,” He states, gently cupping your face in his hand. You reach up and cover his hand with yours, smiling softly at him.
“I’m in love with you too, Diluc,” You murmur as he closes the distance between the two of you and presses a sweet, chaste kiss to your lips.
#genshin impact x reader#genshin impact headcanons#genshin impact scenarios#diluc x reader#kaeya x reader#diluc headcanons#kaeya headcanons#diluc#kaeya#genshin impact#*headcanons#*writing#*diluc#*kaeya
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Scarface - Young!Remus Lupin x Reader
Summary: Somebody decides to mess with Moony.
(A/N): This can be interpreted as a platonic or romantic relationship between Remus and the reader, it hasn’t been specified! Also, as far as I know, I have created the names and characters of Michael Bershire and his crowd.
Warnings: violence, blood, mention of scars, heavy swearing. If you are sensitive to these things, please do not continue below the “keep reading” line.
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It was a typical Sunday night for Remus Lupin. As per usual, he had picked up prefect duties for this evening, and wandered throughout the corridors of the castle.
Midnight was fast approaching, and Remus paused for a moment. Due to him being a werewolf, his senses were amplified, meaning that one of his abilities was superb hearing.
Lupin cocked his head towards the dungeon staircase, where he heard a bit of commotion. He didn’t even have a moment to approach the noise before the cause was revealed.
Michael Bershire and his Slytherin gang.
Remus forced himself not to roll his eyes. Of course, they just had to be out while he was on prefect rounds.
It seemed that the five lads didn’t notice Remus until he cleared his throat. They quickly snapped their heads in his direction.
“Lupin, ol’ chap! What’re you doing out so late? Haven’t you got a book to read?” Michael Bershire held his head up high, an annoyingly perfect grin plastered on his face. His gelled auburn hair reflected so strongly the candlelight in the halls.
Remus had to refrain from rolling his eyes as Bershire took a few steps forward. “Gentlemen, it’s approaching midnight. I’ll have to ask you to return to your dormitories.”
“Oh and that we will do! It’s just, we’re a bit preoccupied at the moment. Isn’t that right, lads?” Bershire looked back at his companions, who nodded fervently.
Remus was taller than Bershire, but because of his horrible posture, they seemed to be on the same level. He bit back a grimace when Bershire’s painfully minty breath stung his eyes.
“Now if you’ll excuse us, we have business to attend to.” Bershire dramatically turned, his house robes swishing behind him.
“Well then,” Remus says, “I’m afraid I’ll have to report you to your head of house, and I don’t believe you’d want that to happen. So if you don’t mind-”
And just as dramatically, the Slytherin boy whipped around again.
“What was that, Scarface?”
Before Remus could even form words, Bershire was stalking towards him.
“How dare you speak to me in such an authoritative tone? After all, you’re... well you’ve got mud in your veins!”
“And blood on his face.” one of the boys behind him added. Remus recognized him to be Adam Percival, the greasiest boy he knew.
“You’re right Perce, he does have blood on his face. What, was ol’ Minnie upset you didn’t grade her papers for her? Or was it-”
“Shut it, Bershire.” Remus tried his best to compose himself, but couldn’t seem to look away from his shuffling feet. The full moon was only a few days ago, and he’d been left with a couple scrapes around his jaw and cheeks.
Michael Bershire was baffled. That is, until he came up with another one of his clever ideas.
“Boys, I’d say we teach Lupin a little lesson. After all, he should know - given his crowd - that snitches are frowned upon.” The 5 Slytherins slowly stalked towards Remus. “And you know what they say-”
“Snitches get stitches.”
It was then that Remus was swiftly grabbed by two of the boys, and his arms were held behind him as Bershire swung at his stomach. Once they’d decided he’d had enough, Remus’ arms were dropped and his knees buckled under their forceful kicks.
They pushed him onto the ground where they continued to harm him; kicking and hitting with all their might. It seemed like ages before they let up.
Slowly, they backed away, but not before Michael could kneel before Remus’ shaking form.
“Remember what I said, Lupin.”
And with that, he stood up and hurried away, while Remus was left alone in the dark corridor.
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Sirius’ head perked up as Remus entered the common room portrait hole.
“Moony you’re back! Merlin we thought you got lost-”
“Where ya been, mate?” James cut him off. “We had to play three extra rounds of exploding snap waitin’ for you!”
Peter sat up from his position in front of the fireplace. “Alright Moony? You seem kinda quiet-”
“Good Godric Remus, you look awful!” Sirius shouted when Lupin faced them.
“Yeah, and I feel just as great.” he said, taking a seat on the worn out couch.
James came to sit on the armrest beside him. “What happened Moons?”
After Remus came to explain the series of events, the rest of the Marauders were fuming.
“Oh I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him!” Sirius shouted as he kicked over a coffee table.
“Sirius please, not now!” Remus groaned, covering his ears. “All I want right now, is to go to my room, and get a good night’s rest. Alright? I’ll deal with this bullshit in the morning.”
“Here, we’ll help you up.” James offered his arm, to which Remus took politely. Just as they were lifting the lycanthrope off the couch, they heard giggles coming from the staircase leading to the girls dormitories.
“Who’s there?” Peter whisper shouted, receiving a “You bloody idiot!” and a slap from Sirius.
“It’s just us!” Marlene whisper shouted back, as she, followed by you and Lily, entered the common room.
“What the hell are you doing up?”
“Nice to see you too, Black.” Marlene raised an eyebrow.
“If you really wanted to know, we were hungry, and figured the house elves might have some snacks for us. What’s your excuse?” Lily said, crossing her arms over her pajama top.
“Remus just got back from prefect duties, figured we would-”
“Sweet Merlin Remus, what happened to you?” you suddenly exclaimed, making Peter jump.
You rushed over to him, taking hold of his face, forcing him to look at you.
“It’s nothing (Y/N), really. My transformation was a little rough, that’s all-”
“Remus, your transformation was three days ago. What the bloody hell is all this?!”
“Bershire beat him up.” James confessed.
Remus turned to face Potter, shooting imaginary daggers at him.
“She was bound to find out anyway! Besides, look what he’s bloody done!”
“Michael Bershire did this to you? That bastard-”
Remus gently removed your hands from his face. “Listen, I appreciate your concern, but I really don’t want to deal with this right now. Can somebody please just help me to my room?”
The boys swooped in and half carried Remus to their dormitories, while you and your girls quietly said goodnight.
“Can you fucking believe that?!”
“Marlene, hush.”
“That fucking twat. Oh, I can’t wait to see what the boys have in store for him. I bet-”
“Marlene, please! Remus said he didn’t want to deal with this right now, so we’re dropping the subject. I say we go back to our rooms and get some rest.”
“But I’m hungry!”
“Swallow your spit. Now c’mon.” Lily ushered Marlene back up the stairs, before turning back and taking your hand.
“You alright, (Y/N/N)?” she gave you a knowing look.
“I’m with Marlene. I can’t wait to see what’s in store for him.”
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Lily was the earliest riser in your dorm. That being said, she took it upon herself to wake the rest of you up in the morning. You’d had a half decent sleep, and as you rubbed your eyes awake, you heard the playful banter of Marlene and Alice.
“Marls, get a move on!! You know what we said about those Hollywood showers!”
“It’s Americano, Ally!”
“I don’t give a damn what it is! Get out!”
You and Lily were ready before the rest of the girls, so you walked arm in arm down to the Great Hall. It wasn’t until the Marauders sat at your table you recalled everything that happened last night.
“Alright (Y/N/N)? That vein in your forehead looks like its’ bout to burst.” Sirius said while grabbing a stack of pancakes.
“Do you have an bloody clue what you’re going to do about this?! Remus, you can’t let Bershire off this easy.” you turned your head towards your favorite (and slightly bruised) lycanthrope.
“I swear, I’m fine. And besides, the boys will work up something eventually.”
“Yea, eventually.” James exclaimed through forkfuls of food. “Moony made us promise to not even look at Bershire for a week!”
“A week?!”
James nodded enthusiastically, cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk.
“Since when do you defend bullies, Remus?!” you practically yelled, clenching the cutlery you were holding.
“It’s not that (Y/N), it’s just-”
“It’s because he’s afraid of him.” Peter blurted out, making everyone’s heads turn. His hands shot over his mouth in realization.
“Why is it the only time you open your mouth it’s to say something stupid?” Sirius said, hanging onto a glare.
“You’re afraid of Michael Bershire?! Remus that’s not healthy! That’s- that’s horrible! Sweet Merlin Rem, I’ll show him what to be afraid of-” Remus cut you off.
“I’ve told you already, please don’t make me repeat myself again.” Remus placed his hand over yours. “The boys will handle this eventually. If you really love me, stay out of it.”
You settled down then, but still scanned the Hall for any signs of Remus’ attacker. The rest of breakfast carried on as usual, the rest of your friends joining you for the meal.
Sirius walked you and Mary to class, giving you each a courteous bow.
“Shall I pick you up after your lesson, my fair ladies?” he said in a deep bow, with a rigid posh accent. “The gentlemen and I were planning on.. err.. skipping our courses.”
You giggled at Sirius’ poor attempt of finding a replacement word for “skip”.
“Yeah, why not. See ya then, Black!” Mary turned towards the door.
“I bid you farewell my lovelies!” he then proceeded to bound down the hallway to Astronomy, which was on the complete opposite side of the castle.
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Your class, Defense Against the Dark Arts, passed fairly quickly. And just as he had promised, Sirius came to pick you up, now with James and Marlene in tow.
Marlene beamed at the sight of you and Mary.
“Thank Godric you’re here! I was getting tired of these two.”
James gave her a light shove. “We’ll be meeting Moony and Wormtail towards the east end.”
“Couldn’t convince Lily to come along?”
James looked like he was about to protest, but sighed in defeat. You and your friends continued down the corridor, eventually meeting Remus and Peter after their rigorous Astronomy note-taking. You soon found yourself squished between James and Remus, marching down the main hallway.
“Hey, I thought we were sticking to the east end?”
“Silly (Y/N), we were meeting in the east end.” Sirius explained, as if he were speaking to a child. “Now, we’re on our way to the west end.”
“Ah right, and it makes perfect sense to take the busiest corridor in the school.” Mary quipped, and Marlene giggled.
The walk was pleasant, and filled with greetings from fellow classmates. Every now and then, James and Sirius would snicker about something, or mutter jokes to the group. It was then, that you saw him.
Michael Bershire, proud and tall, lead his pack of nuisances opposite you down the bright hallway. Most students ducked out of the way to avoid him, and a few first years were visibly shaking at the sight of him.
Your vision went red as you locked eyes on your target. It was time.
“James,” you slipped your bag off and passed it to your left, “mind holding this f’me?”
“Uh, yeah su- (Y/N)!!”
In the blink of an eye, you had left your friends’ sides and found yourself hurtling towards Bershire. Although you were smaller than him, the sheer impact of your collision with him knocked the two of you off your feet. You landed on top on him.
He knocked his head off the stone floor, and for a moment you thought he’d lost consciousness. But the bewildered look in his eyes told you otherwise. It was now or never.
“YOU BLOODY BASTARD!” you screamed, letting hell rain down on Michael Bershire. You swung left and right, pummeling his once perfectly sculpted face. You could feel the bruises forming on your knuckles already. “HOW DARE YOU TOUCH REMUS LUPIN?! WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, YOU BLITHERING FUCK!”
Somehow, Bershire had managed to wrap his legs around your waist, pulling you towards him and flipping your bodies so that you were beneath him. He pinned your wrists beside your head, and you felt the concrete sting your hands.
‘No, how dare you, you muddy little bitch?!”
And that’s what set you off. You produced a sound that could only be described as a battle cry, and flung your forehead up and into his. Distracted by the headbutt, Bershire’s tense core loosened the slightest bit. It was enough for you crunch up and bring your knees into his groin, causing him to cry out in pain.
Using his own momentum against him, you successfully flipped around again, resuming your position above his quivering form. Your hands found themselves around his throat, and without realizing it, you were bashing his head in the ground.
thunk, thunk, thunk.
It was only Professor McGonagall’s shrill cry of fear that brought you back to reality.
“MISS (L/N), GET OFF OF THAT BOY!”
You felt strong hands wrap around your arms and shoulders, whipping around to see that it was the four Marauders pulling you away from Bershire. The Slytherin gang was dragging said boy’s writhing and groaning form onto a cot from the hospital wing.
You only stopped your kicking and resistance when McGonagall approached you, pointing her finger in your face, looking more angry than you’d ever seen her.
“My office. Now.” she spoke, in such a tone that visible shivers went down your spine. The boys had yet to let go of your arms, and half carried you down the hallway of gawking and goggling students.
Once arriving to her office, McGonagall stood in the doorway. She looked expectant and impatient all wrapped into one. You were finally let go of, and slowly turned to the four boys behind you.
James and Peter still looked a bit shocked, and you found little comfort in the proud look Sirius was trying to hide. But Remus’ face is what hurt you the most.
“Rem, I-” you croaked. He wouldn’t even look at you. “I’m so sorry, I don’t-”
McGonagall cleared her throat bitterly behind you, cutting you off. You whispered another, barely audible “I’m sorry”, before following the Professor into her office.
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Hello my lovelies!! Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed. Let me know if I should follow up with this fic!
Also, a reminder that requests are open!! <3
~Aurora
#Remus Lupin#Young!Remus Lupin#Young!Marauders#remus lupin x reader#remus lupin imagine#remus lupin fluff#young remus x reader#young remus x y/n#young remus imagine#marauders x reader#marauders era
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I'm reading too many fanfics and today I want something more cute than romantic, so I would like Stella with an S/o to be her personal butler who took care of her during her childhood and adolescence (bonus if S/o used to sing to Stella when she was a kid) . obviously the S / o must have a great preparation to be worthy of taking care of the daughter of the parents who were certainly one of the causes of Stella to be like this
Stella's personal Servant and S/O
You had spent years in preparation for when you would meet your mistress.
It was a common practice amongst the nobility.
You take a child from a lower house, train and raising them to become the personal servant to a child from a higher noble family.
You were of lower stock, your family heavily reliant on Stella's family, and being the youngest of your line, you found yourself chosen to be her servant.
Although the agreement basically surrendered one of there own to a life of servitude, it also brought prestige to there household, while also placing one of there own at the right hand of the next head of a powerful household.
Despite your years of training, you were still increadibly nervous upon meeting her, terrified you'd do something wrong and screw it up.
But much to your surprise, she wasn't some terrifying ice queen who could vapourise you with a glare.
She was just a girl. A young, normal looking noble girl. Seemingly not much older than you.
Your meeting was somewhat awkward, you being unsure how you should interact with her outside of the cold formalities you were taught.
Your relationship was an unusual one.
As while, yes you were her servant, you were also expected to be her closest allie and truest friend.
You were expected to take on every burden she had, to carry and guard them to the death.
A concept that hadn't fully registered in your young mind yet, but despite your age, you quickly acclimated to your new responsibilities.
You had, of course, been give training for your new duty, but much of it was learnt in the field.
You found yourself working into a schedule; wake up before her, get clean, have breakfast before waking her up at 7:30 sharp.
From there you would help her dress, something you were quite flustered about the first time around. Then you accompanied her to breakfast, then to her first lesson of the day.
You were often dismissed during her lessons, returning to her room to tidy up, or have her clothes cleaned.
It took time but eventually you were just as capable at cleaning and serving as any veteran servant of the household.
Now, initially Stella was quite... cold towards you. Treating you not much better than any other servant of the home.
But she did eventually warm to you, starting the night you heard her having a nightmare.
Much to her annoyance you had been moved into the room besides her, giving her 24 hour access to you, and you to her.
So you were easily capable of hearing her toss and turn in bed, her whimpers getting louder and louder. Until she awoke, with a scream.
You instantly shot into action, sliding into her room and pulled her into your embrace.
Holding her to your chest, you did your best to sooth her. Barely being a boy yourself you were quite inexperience with such things.
So you did the only thing you could, you sang to her.
You sung her the song your wet nurse used to sing you when you had a bad dream. Holding her for what felt like hours, gently singing to her until she fell back to sleep.
The next morning she insisted you call her Stella, unlike before when she demand the customary 'Lady' or 'Mistress'.
Not long after that she began addressing you by name. The two of you seeming to enter a level of mutual respect.
Similar events would happen several more times during your youth, each time you sang her the same song, holding her close and soothing her.
You brought up the nightmares to her parents, the two seemingly didn't care. Her parents just coldlt telling you 'They were something she needed to get over herself.'
And her parents weren't the warmest family, both her parents seemed obsessed with there appearances, placing politics over the well bing of there own daughter.
So you made her well-being your top priority, always asking if she was OK or if she wanted to talk.
In preparation for you new duties you had already received extensive training in everything from cleaning to first aid.
But as the the two of you grew, you began getting lessons in far more hands on fields.
As you were expected to be her faithful guardian. You were trained in various forms of combat, with everything from knives, to assault rifles.
Followed by several specialised first aid courses, each one dedicated to a different field of medicine.
You excelled through each course, taking the role as both servant and protector as your own.
Despite being younger then your charge, your mentality quickly matured beyond your years, willing and prepared to fight to the death for your charge.
You fully embraced you postion, putting aside everything you were and giving yourself to your new role, absolutely.
As the two of you grew older, you also grew closer and closer. And due to your special status as her personal servant, having less limitations put on you then a regular servant of the house, you could act as more of a friend to the girl. Acting as a trusted confidant for the girls troubles.
As you matured your skills, both physically and mentally, you learned to better dedicat your new skills to what would most efficiently aid your liege.
While you excelled in your training dedicating your self to the task before you, the main problem you faced was, Stella.
It may seem petty, but Stella being of a higher and more powerful cast meant she grew to tower over you by at least a foot.
Something she was sure to rub in your face.
And it may not seem like that big of a deal, but protecting someone much taller then you, was a constant struggle. As they were far more visible then yourself and could be targeted from angles you weren't able to see.
But you did your absolute best, going above and beyond as her steadfast companion, hapily waiting on her hand a foot.
It seemed like a blink if an eye and the beautiful young lady you once served had grown into a beautiful young woman.
And much to your shame, over the years spent together, you had developed a deep affection for her, an affection that went far beyond friendship.
Of course you would never publicly admit such a thing, your years of training alloweing you to keep such your feelings suppressed. Only allowing your affection to show through in what would be expected of a typical platonic relationship.
When Stella came to the age of 17, her parents decided to send her to an academy famous for its education of young noble women.
The problem was, it was an all girls academy. And you being her private servant, and right hand, the two of you could not be sepperated for such a long period of time.
It took a fair bit of political manoeuvring and more then a few favours to get you in, but by the end of it, you found yourself enrolled right besides her.
You were to attend every class as well as share quarters with Stella. You were not to leave her side unless absolutely necessary.
You were far from the only servant to accompany there mistress.
You found a variety of them, from Imps to hellhounds. You even saw a few succubus amongst them.
But the thing that really stood out, was that you were the only male, even amongst the staff.
Initially life at the academy went fantastic.
Stella, with her confident nature and families status thrived at the academy, easily rising the social ranks, making friends and allies.
The whole thing bringing a great sense of warmth to your black heart.
You stood back and proudly watched as she excelled amongst her peers, only having to step in to aid her in her day to day.
But unfortunately, problems did arise. And much to your shame, they were spawned from you.
Now, you had already received a fair amount of attention from the Student; Stares, love letters, lustful gazes. But you were there for Stella, the affects of there attention quickly dissipated as you focused on Stella.
Now you being a fairly attractive young man, in exceptional shape from years of work and being the only male in a school of a few hundred young hormonal women.
But initially, being Stella's servant stopped anyone from pursuing you, as relations with someone below them was punished severely by both the school and there families.
Unfortunately the question of who you were was quickly raised, Stella without much concern or thought, told them all about your special status as both a noble and a servant.
And that's were the problems really began.
You see, sleeping with another family's servant, was an excellent way to get yourself disowned by your family.
But a fling with a servant, whom was also a fellow noble... that could be tolerated.
You were greatly surprised to find just how tolerant the school was of such behaviour.
It would seem that despite there rather strict policy on student/Staff relations, that being pubished severely.
But the school was unwilling to take serious action against noble children for have relations amongst themselves.
It seemed they allowed the students to let out there rebellious phase in small ways, perhaps a method to help make them into proper nobles.
Needless to say, you had never been so happy you were Stella's servant.
You'd heard how some of them talked about you, and if Stella wasn't your mistress, your quite certain you'd be used as a tool for political gain, regardless how you felt about it.
Ironically, you found Stella becoming far more possessive of you, especially whenever someone began to show interest in you.
Now she had always been possessive of you to a degree, snapping at anyone who dared to treat you poorly or acted like you were supposed to serve them, something that happened quite often amongst nobility.
You liked to think it was her way of marking her territory, all the while showing you that she had your back. And with all the attention you were getting, it only made sense for her to be a bit more possessive.
Adding to your growing shame, seeing Stella becoming such a strong, confident woman had only strengthened your feelings for her.
In your mind, you had kept your feeling for Stella perfectly hidden. Only allowing your affection to show, through your friendly and platonic behaviour.
Apparently you were wrong.
Parties were surprisingly common on the school grounds, with a major party seemingly occurring at least once a month.
Stella being ever the socialite, was of course invited. The young lady flirtaciously telling you were invited as well. Following her to the party, you found a small herd of teens sipping wine from plastic cups, talking amongst themselves.
Playing nobility.
It was fun for the most part.
Everyone was dancing and drinking. And much to your surprise Stella was quite lax when it came to alcohol, drinking more than her fair share.
A little tipsy, she found you, demanding you dance with her.
Now you, on the other hand, did not party. You did not drink, you did not fraternise and you most certainly didn't dance.
You were her guardian, you were supposed to watch over her, not get drunk with her in some random dormroom.
But Stella ordered you, not having the will to refuse her, you complied.
You danced and drank and partied. And for the first time in your life, you let yourself he a teenager.
And you enjoyed it. You enjoyed being with Stella.
The mood quickly soured when, as Stella left to get a drink, some random girl grabbed you by the collar and rather aggressively tried to kiss you.
You were able to hold her back of course, even inebriated you were still strong enough to hold back a drunk teenage girl.
You were freaking out, unable to think of what to do, only for Stella to appear and violently rip her off you, beating the crap out of the her right there infront of all the other party goers.
She screamed at the girl, telling her to never touch what belonged to her again. Before without saying a word, grabbing your hand and dragging you out of the party.
She dragged you into a nearby allyway, ranting and raving about how dare someone touch you, you belonged to her and she was sick of having to remind people.
Her words becoming progressively more possessive, you just half drunkenly stumbling your much taller mistress.
Raising the question of her increasingly possessive language, you saw her entire body shift.
Walking up to you, she pressed her body up against yours, effortlessly pinning you to the wall.
It was pointless to struggle, as even with all your training she was still stronger.
With eyes you had never seen before, she stared into your own and asked if you liked her.
You were both shocked and terrified, you were so sure you had been careful.
You sputtered something out, trying to hide your feelings before she cut you off with a passionate kiss.
She held you close as she told you all about how she knew you liked her, about how she knew you always held yourself back.
But she understood why.
You were left stunned when she told you the reason she knew why, was because she'd been doing the same. She confessed she had fallen for you, but like you, she had kept her feeling secret because such a relationshi wouldn't be "proper"!
But she didn't care anymore.
She was sick of keeping her feelings for you a secret, sick of watching other women get to speak and act freely while she was forced to hold her tongue.
She wanted you and she was going to have you, no matter what anyone thought.
She dragged you back to your dormroom, although it was more like a small apartment before dragging you to her bed.
Sitting above you she asked if you wanted this, unable to think of the right words you just gave her another passionate kiss.
The two of you spent the night together.
Your relationship was kept a secret for the rest of her time in the academy. The two of you agreeing it would be best and with Your position already giving you the best possible excuse to be close together.
Once you both graduated, Stella's parents tried to have an arranged marriage set up for her, hoping to achieve greater prestige for the family.
But much to your surprise, she blatantly refused.
Instead she using her new-found political connections and usurped her parents, taking the family name and the role of head of household as her own.
Her first act, openly declaring your relationship.
You were deeply relieved the outcry was very minimal, contained to only a few already outspoke critics that apposing her anyways.
And so you stood by her ever since. As bother her loyal protector and faithful lover.
Hey hey, this one was a challenge, but I still enjoyed it. If any of you have a request or want to submit a prompt, go right ahead. Check out my master list for what I won't write and go for it. Thank you all for reading.
#helluva boss headcanon#helluva boss#headcanon#x reader#helluva boss x reader#helluva stella#stella#stella x reader
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Can I request for a fluffy friends to lovers fic with Venti and a human gn reader? They’re good friends (but the reader doesn’t know his real identity) and when reader brings up their desire to see a wind wisp in real life Venti decides to surprise them by transforming into his true form and paying them a visit. The reader finds this mysterious little wind wisp at their doorstep and gets excited, takes care of it, and while feeding it apple slices starts talking about how their good friend Venti would love to see them - but oh, he’s less of a friend and more of a crush who I’ve loved for a long time… wait, where did the wisp go? Wait, Venti?! When did you get here?!
featuring: venti x gn!reader
warnings: none
published: june 30, 2021
form: imagine
a/n: thank you for sending this in—i need more venti requests, he’s my baby <3
you could tell that the drink was beginning to hit you hard when you felt your muscles go slack. it was your fourth pint of the night, and although you thought that you could hold your drink fairly well, you could never hold a candle to your bard friend’s seemingly bottomless appetite for wine. venti was on his seventh--or was it eighth?--mug of cider for the night, and was still fairly unfazed, if you consider his usual bumbling amiability to be his default. after a long day of working and whatever it was that venti did in the daytime, you two had decided to meet up at the angel’s share that evening for a drinking night between friends, and to catch up on life and whatever else goes on in the city of mondstadt.
the night had begun with a mug per person, as you and venti caught up with each other. due to your duties at home, and his rather inconstant job as a traveling musician, it was oftentimes difficult for you and the bard to stay in touch--responsibilities always seemed to get in the way. so, naturally, you took advantage of every opportunity you could get to see venti, one-on-one, and simply talk. after knowing him for quite a while, he really was a delight to talk to, always full of witty riddles and forever knowing the right thing to say at the right time. venti really was quite remarkable.
he also had the unique talent of contagious alcoholism; after having spent an hour or so drinking and chatting with him, you unwittingly started drinking more than your usual limit, absolutely carried away with whatever small conversation venti had you engaged with at the moment. the conversation had somehow strayed into the topic of myths and legends of mondstadt. venti was speaking of some strange conspiracies surrounding the origin of the anemo hypostasis up in the mountains, and as the alcohol began to break down your proper judgement, you began to go on and on about how you, as a child, dreamed of seeing an elusive wind wisp.
you had heard stories about the boy revolutionary, armed with his bow and his words, accompanied by a little white wind wisp, leading mondstadt’s journey to freedom. the story had enchanted you when you were young, and clearly you still had not given up hope of meeting a similar wind wisp. perhaps it would bring you the same joy and power to change your life for the better, just like it did for the hero of old mondstadt.
venti listened to your reminiscing closely, looking at you with a quizzical look of interest. your intoxicated state made it so that you didn’t notice the look on his face as if he was plotting something, but, to be fair, venti’s poker face was notable for its impregnability. the night ended with him having to walk you home, propping your arm over his shoulders so that you wouldn’t trip and fall on the cobblestone streets. the last thing you remembered was him tucking you into bed, and singing you one of his funny little songs.
the next morning, you woke with a pounding headache and the bright noon sun peeking through your shutters. archons, was it so late already? you pulled yourself out of bed, trying not to stumble, distracted by the pounding in your head. you had a long list of things to do today that you had to complete, and you severely regretted drinking so much and so late with that damned bard last night (though you could never really hate him--he was too adorable).
slipping on whatever clothing closest to your bed and sluggishly following through with your daily morning routine, you got ready to head out the door to water the carrots and potatoes in your backyard. as you pulled open the door, prepared to step out and face the piercing daylight, you caught yourself as you almost stepped on the little figure at your doorstep. lying there on its side, was a wind wisp. yes, just like the ones you had read about all your childhood and you had mused about endlessly last night. it had its little eyes shut, sleeping probably, its delicate little form curled up on the step.
you were bewildered, partially at the coincidence of it all, but mostly by the rarity of what had occurred before your eyes. a wind wisp, something most people never even saw once in their lifetimes, suddenly showing up right at your doorstep after you had talked about your desire to meet one just the night before. crouching down, you scooped up its little body in your hands. the little thing began to wake, hands rubbing its eyes sleepily, as it made a chirping noise. it was ridiculously adorable.
“hey there, little guy”, you cooed. “what are you doing here?”
as it began to regain consciousness, the wisp floated up off your hands, small gusts of air emitting from its form, and it flew up to nuzzle against your face. it felt like a warm breeze brushing against your cheek, and you heard it chirping in your ear.
you giggled. “well aren’t you the cutest little thing!” you raised your hand to pet it, and it made a little gurgling noise, leaning into your touch. something about its mannerisms felt so familiar, almost like something you had known in a past life perhaps, but you couldn’t put a finger on it. its presence was just endlessly comforting, even though you had only known it for a few minutes.
reaching into your pantry, you pulled out some apples you had picked the day before, and cut it into small slices. the wisp watched you eagerly as you went about your business, like it could understand everything you did. holding up a thin slice to the wisp, a little hole in its void of a face opened up and enveloped the slice whole. a little shocked but certainly entertained, you gave it an approving head pat.
as the day went on, the little wisp continued to follow you throughout mondstadt as you ran your errands. you went outside, behind your house, to take care of the crops you were growing. as you watered your plants, the little wisp helped you disperse the water more efficiently, blowing a gentle wind from your watering can so that you didn’t have to walk as far to water the faraway plants. you go to pick some apples and sunsettias nearby, and the little fellow would fly up to the hard-to-reach fruits and throw himself against them to knock them loose from the branches, right where you could catch them. you worried a little bit whether he was hurting himself by doing so, but he appeared to be pleased just to assist you, and he certainly was not ashamed to take a few bites from the fruits of your shared labor at the end of the day.
considering how efficiently your errands were completed today, of course all thanks to the helper you acquired that morning, you thought it would be nice to use the time you had in the late afternoon to take the wisp out for a picnic dinner at windrise to show your appreciation. gathering some of the fruit the both of you had collected, and some sandwiches you made, you placed it all in a little wicker basket and set off for the great tree with your companion upon your shoulder.
upon arriving, you laid down a gingham blanket in the shade of the great tree of windrise, just a moments away from the ancient statue of barbatos. you felt like a child again, remembering the summers of carefree exploration, tunneling through the thickets in the forest, or catching frogs by the creek, or tumbling down the hills by the sea. and now, a wisp joined you, taking you back to the memories of those years, when life was much simpler.
you couldn’t help but to think of venti, the bard, the friend, who had brought you such comfort through difficult times, whose music, like the warm touch of the wisp, reminded you of home and the beauty that life could bring. your companion was now feasting comedically fast on the food you had brought along, swallowing up fruits whole, and chewing for several moments before helping itself to another. you chuckled and gave it a pat. “greedy little fellow, aren’t you?” you couldnt help but to think venti would have loved to meet the wind wisp, considering his love for nature and all sorts of fauna, and considering the small resemblance between himself and the creature.
“stick around for a bit and i might introduce you to my friend, the bard”, you told it, not really caring that it probably couldn’t understand you. “im actually not sure that we are friends, to be honest. these days we rarely see each other but...” you trailed off, distracted by the sound of the breeze through the branches. the wisp stopped eating and watched you intently. “well”, you began. “i sometimes find myself wishing him and i were more than friends. maybe not lovers, not right away but... i just know that dearly. i cannot be sure that he feels the same, but that is of no matter.” you pat the wisp’s little head again. “if i can make him happy, even just as friends, that is enough for me.”
out of nowhere, a strong wind blew past you, knocking over your wicker basket and sending it flying several feet away. agitated, you scrambled up to chase after it, finally grasping it before it could fly too far. you were perplexed—where in the world could such a strong wind have come from? the sky was clear, and there were no clouds obstructing the setting sun. how odd, you thought to yourself.
you turned around to bring the basket back to your sitting spot, but to your surprise, the wisp was gone. no, in its place was now your bard friend, venti, sitting there on the blanket like he had been there all along. how in the world did he get here without you noticing, and where in the world did the wisp go off to? you hurried over to venti, questioning, “since when did you get here?”
the bard smirked, and fiddled with his lyre that you just noticed he had brought along with him. he had that look on his face again, the one he wore whenever he had some sort of plot in mind. “whatever do you mean, [y/n]?”, he replied amusedly. “i’ve been here all along.”
#genshin impact#genshin headcanons#genshin impact x reader#genshin imagines#genshin impact fanfiction#genshin x reader#venti#venti x reader#venti headcanons#venti imagines#venti fanfic#venti x y/n#venti x you#fluff#venti fluff
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Even Stars Burn Out
As he enters the Jedi temple, reinvigorated by a new, unspeakable purpose - Anakin Skywalker feels nothing.
There are no thoughts in regards to the countless lives he is about to snuff out in his mind. There are no feelings of remorse or hesitation in his heart. He has already decided, he has already weighed the lives of his former fellow Jedi against Padmé’s. It was never a contest, there was never any question as to whose life mattered more. Anakin keeps his lightsaber in his hand, his loyal 501st battalion have his back. Order 66 is nigh, the termination of each and every Jedi the rule which he must obey.
Do the Jedi deserve such a grim fate? Anakin thinks being part of the order, a constitution that has molded and used him for years, is crueller.
Do they deserve to die? Anakin thinks death will bring relief, as the misled become one with the Force.
He strikes down the first meager padawan, and still he feels nothing. No guilt, no remorse. Only anger.
His rage burns red hot, his hatred thrumming like the rhythm of a drum within his chest. The pounding of his heart is the only beat he follows, as he strikes down another familiar face. And another. And another. Until the faces all blend into one, until blaster fire and the buzz of clashing plasma blades overpower his senses.
They fall. They all fall.
Anakin is powerful, he has always been powerful. Talented, the Force syphoned within his very cells so much more than that of his peers. He has less training, yet he outmatches each and every one of them. Master Cin Drallig proves to be some competition, but even he must fall at the swipe of Anakin’s blue saber.
Master Jurokk stands no chance.
Shaak Ti is caught meditating, unaware of the one time hero of the Republic coming to end her life. Anakin stabs her in the back, and she slumps limp to the side as her light burns out. Anakin keeps no count, he has no idea how many bright eyed young men and women he has struck down. They seem to him like spider-roaches; like an endless flood of vermin pouring from each and every entrance like spider-roaches from a damp crack in the wall. He deals with them with the same dissociation, with the same emotional dissonance. His master's words echo in his head; his praise and his promises. The Sith Lord will aid Anakin in his crusade to save Padmé, and Anakin is desperate.
The hall seems serene, a clean slate save for the heaps of fresh bodies stacked along the ornate stone floors. Their hollow eyes stare at Anakin, locked in horror and what he feels might be accusatory glares. They will judge him, and he accepts that fate. Their thoughts of him matter little.
Anakin closes his eyes, senses further life forms. Senses Force signatures that are unstable; some weak, some fluctuating. Some reeking of fear and confusion. Youthful. He knows what must be done.
Only now, does Anakin take a moment to weigh his options. Only now, for a brief second in which clarity finds him, does he stutter. The moment passes, almost as casually brushed aside as if the doubt was naught but thin air. He ascends the grand stairway, makes a well aimed leap to the second suspended level. The pale, tear stricken faces of the hidden younglings greet him as he enters the juvenile training hall. They have hidden behind the scarce furniture provided. Anakin senses their terror, and he tries to relish it. He takes a deep breath, steadies his trembling hands.
Do these children deserve to die? Anakin knows they will be hunted relentlessly by the clones, and by his master, should they be left alive. Him killing them is a blessing, it's a mercy that he will take such pity on them.
Sors Bandeam approaches, the blonde boy barely even a toddler. He speaks, but Anakin hears none of it. He shuts out the hushed whispers and murmurs, and acts. He thinks of Padmé, of the child she is carrying. He tries not to picture the face of his daughter or son in the place of the younglings' as he strikes them down. Padmé must live, nothing else matters. These younglings would have grown to develop the same traitorous, poisonous views as the Jedi council. They are merely the next generation. His master asked him to spare none, and Anakin obeys. He will always obey.
When it is done, he doesn’t linger. He doesn’t dwell upon his heinous crime. He exits the chamber, leaving the children as they lie. Helpless, hapless, innocent and forever suspended in time. They shall never age, they shall never reach adolescence. They have found peace.
When Anakin exits the smoldering Jedi temple, there are no survivors. Thick black smoke billows out of the giant construction, his trusty platoon of clone troopers left behind to guard the tattered remains of what was once Anakin’s home away from home.
Bodies litter the exterior stairway. Anakin steps over them with little reverence. He smells only the ashy, pungent stench of death and embers.
He thinks he can sense Padmé’s distress from afar. Something in him tells him to go to her; to reassure her, to feed her any lies necessary in order to soothe her pain and fear. She is distraught, as he comes to her. He is disheveled, still numb and empty and hollow inside. He thinks only of her, as he kisses her lips and strokes her cheek, and offers her what he hopes is an affectionate smile. She is unconvinced, fretful, and he cannot stop her wandering thoughts. He tries, he explains what little he can. He has further duties, his master expects him to follow through with his mission. He can’t stay, despite her pleas.
The flight to Mustafar is quiet, solemn, and stifling. Anakin blocks out his barrading thoughts, thinking only of Padmé’s beautiful but sad face. He thinks of her swollen belly, thinks of the baby kicking as he presses his palm to its curve. He does this for her, for their child. For them. Only them. Only her. He lands, resolute. The separatists must fall, like Count Dooku before them. The war must end, a new era is about to dawn.
The heat of the lava planet is pressing, sweat pouring down Anakin’s furrowed brow. His reception party is confused, and he smirks at them. He quips, voice dry with sarcasm as he adds two more lives to his conscience. He is focused, clear headed and determined. His strides are fast, and the Neimoidian viceroy Nute Gunray of the Trading Federation appears bemusingly shocked as Anakin interrupts the meeting. Whatever his master promised Gunray was a lie, and the viceroy realizes this. Anakin hates Gunray, he hates the Trading Federation, he hates everything they stand for. That unbridled hatred feeds his rage, and steers his saber.
If Anakin felt nothing killing his fellow Jedi, he feels even less slaughtering the ring leaders of the faction he has spent years of his life battling. War has changed him, desensitized him and he slices through their hideous bodies like butter. Like paper, they rip and tear and break. Gunray pleads for his life, and if Anakin were a cruller man he might have relished in it. Instead, he finishes the job.
An eerie silence once more overpowers him, as he reports to his master. The now Emperor Palpatine praises him, but the compliments ring hollow. They are meaningless, and Anakin knows this. He accepts this as par for the course. His master has never been honest, and deep down, Anakin has always known this.
Still, the solitude is claustrophobic. The walls seem to be closing in.
Anakin finds himself desperate to move anywhere at all. He paces the room, avoids making eye contact with the dead as they glower at him - mocking him, just as the fallen Jedi had. The balcony suspended sixty feet above the rivers of scalding lava below becomes his refuge. He fixes his eyes upon the mesmerizing molten rock; yellows, browns, reds and oranges capturing his attention. The river twists and warps into random shapes and patterns, and its roar seems to bring to mind cries of agony and misery.
Anakin shakes his head, the anger dissipating bit by bit. In its wake, there is pain. Clawing at his insides, clutching at his heart. Padmé must live, he thinks. Nothing else matters. But Anakin knows he can never go back. The moment he agreed to aid his master's vicious scheme, he was lost. The stricken faces of the younglings flash before his eyes; little Sors' big blue eyes full of admiration. Expecting to be saved, to be taken away and kept safe by one of the biggest heroes of the Republic. Instead, his frail body now lies cold and lonely lightyears away.
What might Padmé think, if she knew?
What might Padmé say, if he ever told her?
Anakin’s hands tremble, and he wraps his arms around himself to still their treachery. The Sith yellow of his eyes, a sickly hue that had overtaken them as he allowed darkness to engulf his being, fades. It is the last time it will ever fade.
Pale blue eyes regard the lava river, even as they are clouded with tears. Anakin thinks of his mother. He thinks of her kindness, her love, and her demise. He thinks of how heavy her withered body felt in his arms as he brought it home, thinks of how he failed her. He will not fail Padmé. He will not bury Padmé.
There is guilt now.
Guilt so raw, so blunt, so immense that it tears Anakin’s heart in two. He feels conflicted. He feels lost. He feels alone, and afraid, and disgusted. He feels hurt, and used, and enraged. He feels small, and helpless. He feels powerful, and untouchable. He weeps, and he allows himself to mourn the Jedi. He weeps for them, and for himself.
Cin Drallig.
Shaak Ti.
Jurokk.
Sors Beam.
Anakin will forget them, eventually. Their features will fade, as his memories disappear into oblivion. Only Padmé remains a beacon of hope, only Padmé can save him now. Anakin cries, and he sheds a piece of himself with each scalding tear. He cries, and he willfully suppresses the disappointed, horrified faces that comes to mind.
Mother.
Qui-Gon.
Yoda.
Windu.
Ahsoka.
Obi-Wan.
Padmé.
Anakin dries his tears, holds his head high. There is no use in weeping over what has been done. His future lies ahead, bright and open wide. He forces himself to believe in this mantra, forces himself to discard rationality and reason. What else can he do?
Then he loses everything.
He loses the battle. He loses his limbs. He loses his sight, his hearing, his voice, his soul. He loses Padmé.
And for what? What was his sacrifice all for?
Master was right, it is ironic. Anakin never betrayed the Jedi for Padmé. He did it for himself, and he loathes himself for it. Anakin is alone, locked in a prison of his own making. Anakin is but scraps of the man he used to be; a traitor, a coward and a monster. He suppresses himself, relying solely upon his hatred. There is an endless supply of that, now. He is despicable, and thus, there will forever be a steady stream of loathing to feed off of. He needs no one, he deserves no one.
Does Anakin deserve such a fate? Yes, his brain whispers. He deserves all of this, and more.
Does Anakin deserve to die? No, the same voice concludes. Death would be relief, a sweet blissful slumber to save him from his demons. He deserves no such relief, he must be punished and tormented.
Anakin killed Padmé, and this is his reward. He knows this. He accepts this. Anakin burns in his own flame, he has flown too close to the sun. He has snuffed it out by his own hand, and all he is left with is an endless night. All his fears have been realized. All his dreams have been crushed. He has done it himself.
Anakin feels nothing. He is a husk of a man, more cybernetics than living flesh. He has no autonomy left, he lives only to serve his master. He locks away his past, refuses to look at it, refuses to sifle through it. It brings only agony and suffering. He refuses to retread his steps, to reconsider his choices. If he did, the guilt would eat him alive. If he did, he would succumb to his own unbearable, irrefutable remorse.
Anakin Skywalker is consumed by regret. In his heart, he knows this.
Anakin Skywalker deserves no less.
***
You can probably tell I was very much inspired by Matthew Stover’s writing style in the RotS novelization, though much less poetic. I had fun however, and it was nice exploring a different style. Hope you enjoy it too! It’s an addition to The Mask of Death series on Ao3, link below.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/24049894/navigate
#anakin skywalker#darth vader#star wars#sw#pt#prequel trilogy#prequels#rots#revenge of the sith#episode 3#episode iii#order 66#the clone wars#tcw#anakin#skywalker#skyguy#ani#the hero with no fear#fic#fanfic#fan fic#fics#my fics#fan fiction#fanfiction#vader#lord vader#sith lord#jedi knight
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Cold - Finan
Pairing - Finan x gn!reader
Word Count - about 1k
Warnings - None (I think)
A/N - First time writing for TLK and Finan, so I hope I did well, any feedback is appreciated! Requests are also open!
The sun was setting through the trees as the five of you made your way through the forest, coming upon a small clearing, the perfect place for an overnight camp. The sound of babbling water echoed throughout the small space, an indication of a nearby river, meaning you could finally bathe after days on the road.
‘We should stop here for the night’ Uhtred declares, pulling his horse to a stop and climbing down. ‘I’m going to check around the area, make sure no one’s around. I assume the three of you can handle building a fire?’ he asks inquisitively, a smirk upon his features, sending a wink your way before looking towards Finan, Sihtric and Osferth.
They roll their eyes and give him varying answers from yes to a sarcastic comment from Finan, but they get on with setting up the area.
Uhtred stalks into the darkening forest, leaving the four of you in the clearing. You stand there, unsure of how to really help them with setting up. You have been friends with them all for going on a year now, meeting them in Coccham, having lived there your whole life. But every time, until now, you asked to accompany them on their travels, you were always shot down with a resounding no, especially from Finan. It was no surprise since he was consistently flirting with you, but you thought nothing of it, thinking it to just be harmless joking between friends.
You set your things down on the ground, laying out what little things you brought with you to act as your makeshift bed, making sure everything will be comfortable after you come back from bathing, so you can go straight to bed and get some rest. The day had been exhausting, having spent most of the day on horseback.
‘I’m off to find the river to bathe, I'll be back soon’ you announce, walking towards the edge of the makeshift camp, towards the river.
‘Do ya want me to come with ya, darlin’? Make sure you’ve got some protection?’ the Irish tone carries across the space, causing you to turn to look at him.
‘No, I think I'll be ok’ you respond, looking him in the eyes, a blush forming on your face. You turn back around.
‘Well let me come as company then, so you’re not alone’ he flirts, winking at you before he starts to cross the camp towards your current location.
When he reaches you, you look up at him and sigh, responding no for a final time.
‘If I'm not back within 10 minutes, then you have my permission to come and find me, but not before then’ you counter, before turning your back to him and walking away, leaving him there speechless.
When you’re out of earshot, Sihtric turns to Finan and laughs out 'I think they like you', causing Finan to give him a shove, before they both continue with their duties.
-----
Arriving back at the camp, you spot the four men huddled around the campfire, drinking and conversing about their adventures. The rest of the forest was deathly silent, apart from the occasional uproar of laughter from the men. You move towards them, taking your own place at the fire in the empty space between Osferth and Finan.
They greet you with warm smiles and your own cup of ale, as you join their conversation naturally. You all chat for what must have been hours, the night turning from dimly lit by the setting sun, to pitch black, with nothing but the glow of the moon and stars lighting the sky. All of you, except Finan who offered to take first watch, move to your respective bedrolls in the clearing, and settle down to try and get some rest before another long day ahead of you. The sound of the crackling fire drifts you off into a peaceful sleep.
-----
At some point in the night, you wake up. Some light is fighting its way through the trees, but the camp is deathly quiet. The fire has burnt out and the air is chilly around your arms, as you try to curl up under the thin blanket, attempting to preserve your body heat, but to no avail.
Turning over onto your other side, you see Finan laying an arms reach away from you, but you notice he's not asleep. He looks at you curiously, as you give him a soft smile.
'Well, what are you doing awake, darlin?' He whispers in his Irish lilt.
'Just woke up, it's very cold' you reply, starting to shiver slightly in the cool early air. He notices your shivering and beckons you towards him and opens his arms out to you. You gladly accept, this isn't the first time this has happened, as you crawl towards him, and into his arms. The touch of his skin on your own is comforting, and the blush on your cheeks warming you up in no time.
'There we go, now, go back to sleep, I'll keep you warm and safe' He whispers, placing a gentle kiss to your temple, pulling you close to him to get comfy. But before you fall back asleep, you hear a faint whisper to you again, 'I love you sweetheart.' You're sure you must be dreaming, but the gentle kiss placed upon your hairline wakes you from the dream-like state you were in. You turn in his arms, looking up into his eyes, and he realises he's been caught.
'Did you just say you love me?' You mumble quietly to him.
A look of shock appears on his features, unsure of what to say, but all he can do is nod. You smile, and place a gentle kiss upon his cheek.
'That's good because I love you too' you murmur. And he holds you tight as the two of you drift off into tranquillity, aware of the teasing you would face in the morning, but it was worth it.
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hiii idk if u still take prompts but "i’m never going to let [her/him/them] hurt you again" for Obitine?
Ahhh thank you for the prompt! This is actually the last prompt in my inbox! I'll open up prompts again soon, but for now, I'm going to try and focus on a few bigger projects.
This one got away from me, so you can read the whole thing under the cut, or read on Ao3!
---
When he is brought to her, it is like he isn’t even there.
“What’s wrong with him?” Satine asks when Anakin stumbles down the ramp of his ship, Obi-Wan slung over his shoulders. His eyes are open but vacant, almost as though in death.
“He was drugged,” Anakin growls.
“What did they give him?” she asks.
Anakin’s eyes are dark with rage. “I don’t know. But I can assure you, Duchess, that the ones who did this to him are dead.”
Satine bristles.
“Self-defense, my lady,” Anakin says before she can say anything about fair trials or neutral zones.
“Uh-huh,” Satine accepts mildly, paying more attention to Obi-Wan and his current state.
“Is there a medical facility here?” Anakin asks.
“I sent for healers as soon as you called,” Satine says. “They’re awaiting him in my quarters.”
“Thank you, Duchess,” Anakin says, the tight line of his jaw softening ever so slightly. “Lead the way.”
Satine leads Anakin through the palace entrance and down the long and winding corridors that lead to her quarters. Guards flank them on either side, though Satine thinks their presence to be unnecessary with Anakin there — even if he is carrying another Jedi with him.
By the time they reach her rooms, Anakin is panting. Despite his obvious exhaustion, he sets Obi-Wan down with gentle care.
Obi-Wan is fully unconscious now — a fact Satine is grateful for. The vacant staring was unsettling, especially coming from Obi-Wan whose eyes were always so full of life and curiosity. Conversely, a wild look still lingers in Anakin’s eyes, and it flashes as healers descend upon them.
“Can you tell us what happened?” one of the healers asks Anakin.
“He was captured by some Separatist scum. I found him, but he was drugged. I… I can barely feel him,” Anakin says, panic finding its way back into his voice.
The healer whips her head up and looks at him more closely. “Are you okay? Were you drugged too?”
“What?” Anakin asks. “No, I was never—”
“These two are Jedi,” Satine interrupts. “They share a mental bond. They can sense each other through it.”
“Ah,” the healer says. Whether the healer feels any ill-will towards the Jedi, as many Mandalorians do, she does not give it away. She continues to work dutifully on her charge.
“What are you doing to him?” Anakin asks as the healer begins drawing blood and waving scanners over Obi-Wan’s body.
“We’re just running some tests. We need to figure out what he was drugged with. I don’t want to give him anything that might mix poorly with what he was given.”
Anakin nods, but Satine can still see the way he clenches his fist and jaw.
“We need you two to give us some room,” the healer says, before she seemingly remembers who she is speaking to. “Respectfully, Duchess,” she adds.
“Of course,” Satine says graciously. She takes a step back, but sees Anakin frozen in place. Gently, she grabs his elbow and nudges him along. He follows her to the edge of the room, where they wait for the healers to help Obi-Wan.
Satine doesn’t know how long they stand there, hovering awkwardly from afar, when a scanner goes off.
The healer picks up the scanner and examines it. “Good,” she says to herself.
“What was that? Anakin asks.
“The results from his blood test. The drug they gave him was a pretty heavy-duty sedative. Not the type we use in med centers and certainly not comfortable, but it won’t kill him. He’s going to be groggy and confused when he wakes up, but he’ll be fine.”
Satine and Anakin let out a breath at the same time.
“You two can stay here with him if you wish. We’ll check up on him in a few hours, but do send for us if he wakes up or appears to need medical attention.
“Thank you,” Satine says, bowing her head.
Satine sits on a chair beside the bed and Anakin paces around.
“Anakin,” Satine says calmly. “You heard the healer as well as I did. He’s going to be alright.”
Anakin pauses in his pacing and moves to stand next to where Satine is sitting. “I know. I just… I can barely feel him,” he repeats. “I was… when they first drugged him, I thought…”
“I’m sorry, Anakin,” Satine said sympathetically, standing to meet his gaze. “But he’s alright.”
Anakin offers a small nod and takes a shaky breath. Satine notices the dark circles under his eyes and the unusual pallor of his skin. “You should rest.”
“I’m not leaving him,” Anakin says stubbornly.
“He’ll be just fine right here. Anakin, you’re exhausted. I don’t need to be bonded to you to see that,” Satine says.
“Why are you…”
She nods her head at Obi-Wan. “He would want me to make sure you’re okay. And I care about your well-being too.”
Anakin blinks his eyes a few times. Whether he’s trying to wake himself up or fight back tears, Satine isn’t sure.
“But, I—”
“Go, Anakin,” she says softly. “You are dead on your feet. Go get something to eat and a couple of hours of sleep. I’ll watch over him while you’re gone, alright?”
Satine watches Anakin’s reluctant gaze fall on Obi-Wan.
“You’ve done enough for him, Anakin,” she insists.
Anakin stares at Obi-Wan for a moment longer.
“You’ll send for me if he wakes up? Or if anything changes?”
“Of course,” Satine says. She turns to a guard. “Take him to the guest quarters, please. Make sure some food is brought to him.”
“Yes, Duchess,” the guard says.
Anakin looks taken aback by the accommodations—unused to such opulence—but he goes along with it easily enough. A guard leads him away, but another guard remains in the room.
“You may leave us,” Satine says.
“Yes, Duchess,” the guard says, though she can see the hesitation in his eyes.
She sits on the bed and leans back against the headboard. She looks down at Obi-Wan where he lays, still asleep.
“What am I going to do with you,” she murmurs, running a hand through his hair.
The hours march on like so many dutiful soldiers and Satine feels them weighing heavily on her. She is about to submit to sleep when Obi-Wan stirs beside her.
“Obi?” she whispers hopefully.
He lets out a quiet whimper, and it is then that Satine notices the sweat coating his brow.
“Hey,” she says quietly. “Obi, wake up.”
If Obi-Wan hears her, he is ignoring her. He tosses his head to the side and a sliver of light from the high windows rests on his face, revealing a tear track. His chest rises and falls rapidly.
“Wake up, Obi-Wan,” she says again, more forcefully this time. His eyes flash open and he blinks at her.
“Are you with me?” Satine asks.
Cloudy eyes look right through her, unfocused and unsure. I guess not, then.
“Come on, snap out of it,” Satine says. “You’re okay.”
“No,” he murmurs weakly. “Stop, stop.”
Satine yanks her hands away from him.
“Obi, please,” Satine says. “Obi-Wan, it’s me.”
Obi-Wan turns his head to her. The fog lifts from his eyes. “Satine?” Obi-Wan asks, confusion still evident in his tone.
“It’s alright now,” Satine soothes. “It was just a nightmare, you’re safe.”
“No, I—”
“Yes. You’re safe,” she reaffirms.
“Where…?”
“You’re in the palace,” she says.
“Palace?”
“My palace. On Mandalore.”
“Why…?”
“You and Anakin were far from Coruscant and you needed medical attention. Mandalore was the closest stopping point to your location. Anakin called me in a bit of a panic. I told him to come.”
“I was with the Separatists,” Obi-Wan says, his fingers clenching around the blankets. “They had me, they…”
“Shhh. It’s alright now. I’m never going to let them hurt you again,” she murmurs, knowing she has no real power to actually keep him safe from the Separatists, but she is willing to say anything to calm the Jedi lying in her bed. “Besides, if I can’t keep you safe, Anakin will surely protect you from them.”
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, his eyes flashing with a mix of concern and fondness. “Anakin was here. Where…?”
“I sent him to the guest quarters to get some sleep. He asked me to wake him if you woke up, but I’ll give you a few more minutes to wake up.”
Obi-Wan shakes his head and looks at her incredulously. “You asked him to sleep and he just went?”
“I don’t know what to tell you, my dear. People have a hard time saying no to me. Even your supposedly bull-headed Padawan.”
“There is nothing ‘supposed’ about it,” Obi-Wan says in indignation, becoming more coherent by the minute. “He is bull-headed.”
“Oh, so he does take after you then,” Satine smirks.
Obi-Wan scoffs. “Hardly.”
“Mmhmm.”
Obi-Wan glares at her but tilts his head back, his energy fading once more.
“You should get some more rest.”
“I don’t want to. I’ve been resting.”
“You’ve been drugged. That is not the same as resting.”
“Ah yes,” Obi-Wan says quietly, rubbing his eyes. “That explains a few things.”
Dust dances in the beams of light cascading through the windows. The sweet melody of a bird welcoming the morning permeates the silence that stretches between the Jedi and the Mandalorian. Satine grabs Obi-Wan’s hand and caresses his knuckles with her thumb. He doesn’t shrink away from the touch.
“You know,” she says, breaking the silence, “it seems that every time we are together, one or both of us is always in some form of mortal danger.”
“Yes, well, it certainly keeps our relationship interesting,” Obi-Wan replies. He chuckles lightly to himself.
Satine scoffs and rolls her eyes at him. “That doesn’t make me feel better about it.”
“Well, if it does make you feel better, I’m not in mortal danger anymore.”
“No,” Satine replies, continuing to circle his knuckles with her thumb. “No, you’re safe now.”
Satine hopes it will stay that way, even for just a little bit longer.
#the last prompt in my inbox!#thank you for the prompt!#my writing#obitine#tw non consensual drug use#obi wan kenobi#satine kryze#anakin skywalker
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