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slasherstories123 · 1 year

Note

Hello there! I saw that your starting to write slashers as dads so I got an idea! Jason voorhees, Micheal myrs, pennywise, and art the clown (of u write for him) reacting to kid reader being bullied (also this is when the slasher already took him in) how would the slashers react to this:)? Ty and have a great day

Jason, Michael, Pennywise, and Art the clown’s reaction to kid! Reader being bullied

Tagslist: @dootys @callmemeelah @mehidktbh @slash3rl0v3r @the-anxious-youth @mrs-heelshire @alexxavicry @vexeliers-breakroom @naxxsstuff @beel-mcburger @emychan @charliedawn @sleepypersonblog @slasherscrybaby @anim3l0v3r @kawaistrawberry21 @l0sercat

Jason Voorhees

Jason was looking everywhere for you.

He thought you might’ve gotten lost in the forest, it even cause his mother to freak out in his head thinking you got trapped in one of his traps set up for the trespassers.

Ever since he took you in he set up more traps for trespassers so they won’t hurt you, he didn’t want to think of the sight of you being hurt

Once he heard laughing in the distance, he stopped walking, slowly hiding behind the trees to see what was happening.

A group of kids were picking on you, he could tell that you were trying your best not to cry.

“Knock it off! Or I’m telling my Dad!” You yelled. One of the kids laughed at you, “Aw what’s your Dad gonna do? He dosen’t even know you’re here!”

Jason was livid, seeing those kids bully you reminded him of himself. He wasn’t gonna let that happen to you. Jason silently walked up behind you, you didn’t feel the dark presence radiate off Jason, but the kids sure did.

Once they saw him they ran away in fear. You felt him pick you up, it took you by surprise but you still hugged him.

“Thank you dad.”

Michael Myers

If you bully his child it’s over for you. But clearly a few kids didn’t get the message.

When it comes to you Michael will do anything to protect you, that’s why he watches from afar to make sure you’re okay and no one hurts you

He lost track of you since you were running away from a bunch of kids.

Once he caught up to you and the kids, he watched them from afar. Seeing them push you around while you begged them to stop. “Stop it!” They didn’t listen.

Once you fell on the ground you thought you saw him in the distance, but once you got up he was gone. You then heard a few of the kids run away

You turned around, seeing Michael having one of the kids in a death grip by his shirt while looking deep into his eyes. The kid tried to pry himself away. “Dad wait!” You yelled, grabbing onto his arm

Michael let out a huff towards you before dropping the kid, he ran away along with his other friends.

He then looked at you, your hands were still on his arm, you quickly pulled them away. You didn’t hear him, but you could see him let out a big sigh from his chest. Placing his hand out for you to take

You took it, now walking home with him.

Pennywise

You must be god himself if you think you can get away with bullying Pennywise’s child. There’s a lot of bully’s in Derry and besides the losers club they like to pick on you

A group of girls were chasing after you on their bikes while laughing at you. You managed to escape from their attack, trying to pour trash all over you.

“Come back y/n!” One of them screamed.

You kept running until you mad wit to the sewers. Hoping that your father Pennywise was still in there.

One of the girls let out a scoff. “Going in the sewers huh Y/N? No wonder why you smell like shit!” That caused the others to laugh too.

A loud growl made them all stop laughing, one of them even going into the sewers themselves. A balloon floated in front of them, once it popped Pennywise bolted towards them with his razor sharp teeth

The girls screamed before running away. Even though he wanted to chase after then, you came first.

“You can come out now little human.” You slowly poked your head out from behind one of the corners, his yellow eyes then turning back to blue,

“They won’t hurt you as long as I’m here.” He’ll make sure to terrorize them in their dreams once you fall asleep.

Art the Clown

Not many people know your father and that was okay, considering the fact that he does leave a lot, but he comes back rather quickly just to make sure you’re safe

Art has his own way of taking care of you unlike the others, even though his ways are wicked, you still love him as a father

A boy wouldn’t stop following you, calling you names as you tried to walk back home. Art heard him too

Once you passed an alleyway, Art jumped in front of the boy with his trash bag. Waving at him. You turned around and let out a sigh of relief

The boy was confused, even calling Art names too, but names don’t affect him, instead, it fills his ego

Art held up his finger, telling him to wait as he looked in his trash bag. Knowing him, he was probably gonna pick out a weapon of some sort

He pulled out a fire gun up in the air like it was a trophy. Then pointing it at him. The boy put his hands up in defense, once Art pulled the trigger, the fire shot out, nearly hitting the boy if he didn’t back up in time, screaming for help while running away from the two of you

Art nodded his head when the boy left, putting the fire gun back in his bag before excitingly extending his hand out towards you.

You smiled and grabbed it, you both slipped down the street together to go home.

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arabellasleopardcoat · 10 months

Text

Last Man On Earth (Aemond Targaryen x reader)

Summary: No one told King Aemond about the Song of Ice and Fire. As the daughter of Rhaenyra, you have one last mission left.

Warnings: Violence, death, mentions of sex, smut, toxic dynamics. Misuse of biblical verses

A/N: I'm about to make so many people angry.

And to the woman, the Father said:

“I will make your pains in childbearing very severe;

with painful labor you will give birth to children.

Your desire will be for your husband,

and he will rule over you.”

(The Father's Book. 4:22-26)

The letters stopped getting there on your eight and ten name day. Childishly, you waited a few more weeks, telling yourself it must be only a delay. Perhaps the war that went on, or the weather, had detained the ship that carried it. Perhaps your mother had simply forgotten. But deep down, you knew something had to have happened. Rhaenyra Targaryen was not a good woman, perhaps even not a good mother. But she had always remembered your name days.

Your brain refused to believe it, but you knew, deep in your gut, that it was not a mere delay. You had mourned too much already to deceive yourself. Luke, Jace, Joffrey, Daemon, Helaena… The time spent in the Free Cities had served you well, when it came to learning the deep pang of sadness.

First, it had been the death of Luke. Your beloved twin. Then, the loss of your home. Vanished from Dragonstone by your mother, to keep safe. After that, the separation from your half brothers, by then mere babes. It was best, not knowing where they were. If you were captured, it wouldn’t mean the end of Rhaenyra’s line.

Despite the eagerness displayed by both your mother and Daemon to get you out of the Seven Kingdoms, no one had come looking for you very hard. Every once in a while, an overzealous sell sword got lucky, and you had to relocate, yet the occasions seemed to become further and further apart. No one cared enough to keep looking for the only Targaryen unable to claim a dragon, after all these years.

But at the beginning, you had survived on a network of favors. A chain, if you will, set up by your stepfather. First, it had been that friend of his in Pentos, where you posed as his niece, a dark haired, brown-eyed thing no one actually believed came from such a man. Then, you were the daughter of a courtesan in Lys, recently reunited with your mother and with aspirations of becoming a priestess. After that, you had been the cousin of some Lord in Volantis, then a Septa in training in some forgotten convent in Myr. And so on it went. You had perfected the art of shedding names and titles as if they were an old dress. Yet you never claimed to be Valyrian.

Most would think it had been your lack of dragon, the reason for being sent away. It would even be used as an argument against Rhaenyra, in the years to come, “Isn’t she so progressive? But she sent her daughter away because deep down she knows women are not meant for war.” Others would say it was your nature, a meek and shy thing that always faded in the background when your outspoken brothers and cousins were around.

No one would ever guess the real reason. It would mean giving much credit to Rhaenyra Targaryen, the whore. She had realized, a long time ago, that war was brewing. Rhaenyra, much like you, tried lying to herself. But she knew it, deep down. So, when the time came, for her to prepare her heir, the Princess didn’t tell the secret to just Jacaerys. She told Luke and you.

An heir. A spare. A safeguard. And so, you were sent away. When the letter didn’t come, you realized your mission just started. A painfully long journey, hours in the sea. You would think, with how much you had traveled, you would have gotten your sea legs by now. But it seemed even the sea knew the truth about you.

Normally, a Princess would travel with a retinue. Or at least, if she insisted on the lack of formality, her sworn shield. You had not the funds, nor the need for it, anymore. You had left King’s Landing a girl and returned a woman. In your common cloak, and with your dark hair, no one would have ever mistaken you for a Princess.

The ship docked early in the morning, King’s Landing not yet awake. It was a merchant’s ship, filled with spices and a few other passengers. You disembarked in silence, taking in the surrounding city. It shook you to your core. These were not the streets you remembered, filled with people preparing for war. Nor were these the streets your mother talked about, when she reminisced the time when she and Daemon had fallen in love for the first time.

The city was dirty. The stench was much worse than you remembered, and quite different from other capitals you had visited. It smelt coppery and rotten, as if of old blood. At the gates, there was a head on a spike, a cloud of flies so great surrounding it that you had to bat them away to walk.

Silver hair, no eyes, the softest hint of a quirk in the mouth among the rotting flesh. The same one that you often see in the mirror. It was a head you knew well. It was your mother’s.

You tried hard not to gag, and walked past it at a breakneck speed. Careful not to stare. A woman feeling faint at the sight was expected. A woman falling to her knees and bawling her eyes out was treason.

It was hard, after that, to want to help Aegon. The pig had no redeeming qualities. He had been a bad husband to your aunt, an awful commander and a drunk. You had no doubt now he was going to be a poor King. There was, of course, the fact that he had killed your mother and not even granted her the kindness of a Valyrian funeral.

Still, you had to. You had to because the last time you had heard your mother’s voice, you had promised to. Promised that if you ever were captured, the firsts words that you would utter would be those, and not a plea to the Greens for mercy. You wiped at your eyes, harshly brushing the tears away, and put one foot in front of the other. A step. Another. Easier each time.

“This is bigger than we.” Your mother had said, the night you were to depart. Cloaked by the night, a ship was set to sail towards Pentos. Only a cargo of sheep, it declared at the port. Of sheep and a tiny princess, scared out of her mind. “No matter…” She had choked up, the death of your twin still fresh on her mind. In yours. Luke. Your other half, now gone. The possibility of losing the war, before not even a thought on your mind, now a reality. The first loss of many, even if you didn’t know it then. “Aegon’s dream. No matter who wins, in the end. You have to pass it on.”

“You will win, mother.” You had replied, brushing your own tears away. You didn’t know, that evening, that you would see her again, nearly in the same place, lifeless and empty - eyed. “You have to.”

“Oh, my dragon. My sweet dragon.” Rhaenyra had cradled your face in her hands, placing one last kiss to your forehead. “Promise me. You will help them if I die. You will tell. Because it is not about who sits on the Iron Throne now, but when the Song of Ice and Fire will come to pass.”

“Mother…” A sob broke out your throat. “Mother, I can’t. Don’t ask me to betray you like that, not when…”

“You will. You are my daughter. My only daughter. The strongest out of your siblings because you are a Targaryen, but you are also a woman. Your body was made for pain, your spirit to remain unbroken. Remind that, daughter.”

Your ship had sailed away, the figure of your mother getting smaller and smaller on the horizon. But the duty remained at the forefront of your mind for the years to come. And you intended to fulfill it. No matter what.

The state of disarray King’s Landing was in made it easy to sneak into the Keep. Among the mass of beggars and injured, no one noticed a girl making her way through the streets. You snuck in, using a passage Jace had written you about a long time ago. You got in, your presence unknown to the sleeping servants and barely awake guards.

Perhaps it was the fact that it had been Jace, who had taught you how to get in like that. Or maybe it was just a sudden fit of nostalgia. But with the sky barely pink, the Keep strangely empty, you figured there was no danger in visiting the courtyard.

The servants and the Kingsguard had not yet risen. Too early for even the lowliest of servants. Without a second thought, you lowered your hood. The space was vacant, you had dark hair and a common cloak. No one would notice you if you kept your eyes lowered.

The space looked odd, without the sparring men and the flock of admiring ladies. Still, it looked smaller than you remembered. That thought triggered a memory. Jace. Jace had said the same thing, and then he had turned and…

You walked a few steps and pressed your hand to the mark on the wall, eyes closing. A tiny sob escaped you. It was still there. So much had changed, yet the mark on the wall remained. You could picture him, clear as day, hair windswept, eyes sparkling with wonder. Slightly younger than you, sweet. Warm. Yet your hand only found cold stone.

Lost in those thoughts, you didn’t notice the light footsteps approaching you. You only did, when a familiar voice spoke, a heavy hand falling on your shoulder.

“And who…” Before you even had a chance to try to flee, your uncle, the man that you hated the most, was turning you around. Aemond. Now, nothing in your life has been easy. That was probably why you should have expected the first member of the Greens you would encounter to be him. “…Niece?”

Slowly, as not to startle him, you lifted your hands, pushing your hair back, so he could get a good look at your face. You drank him in, familiar, yet so foreign. He no longer wore the eye patch, but the sapphire eye and the scar were as prominent as ever. Responsible for the death of your twin and stepfather, and turned a formidable commander by the end of the war, having been humbled by defeat. Too many, dead by his hand.

Aemond looked startled at the sight, as if he was looking into the eyes of a ghost. His face paled, lips stretching into a tense grimace before the mask fell back into place.

“What are you doing here?”

"Uncle Aemond." You lowered your head, feeling clueless about what to say. Here’s the man you have nightmares about. Here’s the face that haunts him so. "How have you been?"

"I had better days.” Aemond took your hand, placing it in the crook of his elbow. His eye glittered dangerously, madly. “Walk with me.”

The years had done him good. That much was clear. He had now the look of a man who was used to getting his way, to never being told no. You wondered if sleep proved so elusive to him as it did to you now.

There was almost a pained expression on his face, all sharp angles, that the soft light of sunrise did nothing to light up. Aemond was skinnier than you remembered, taut muscles and dark circles under his eyes adding to his handsomeness. Your uncle had always looked otherworldly, fae like, but now, he looked barely human. Targaryens had always been closer to gods than men, Daemon had used to say. It had never resonated with you in the way it did now.

“You put me into quite the conundrum.” Aemond said, walking you towards the gardens, pace unhurried. He barely dared look at you. You figured, for him, it was more painful. Lucerys must wander his dreams in the same way it did yours, yet you had grown accustomed to seeing the face looking at you in the mirror.

For Aemond, it must be his personal haunting, seeing in you what Luke could have been, had he not cut his thread so early on. You had played that game enough. So many afternoons spent in front of a mirror, watching your reflection get further and further away from what Lucerys had been. So many, thinking that your face was blurring his.

Here’s a secret. Losing a twin is like having a severed limb. An extension of yourself you took for granted and are not, ever, getting back.

Just as you are, Aemond is gathering himself. So, you wait the silence out. You don’t notice the two guards falling into step behind you, when you pass a more transited hallway.

“What is it that you seek? Surely, you don’t intend to rally an army.” He finally asks, and it comes out wrong. Short. Clipped. But not hateful, in the way it used to be, when he crowed Lady Strong in your ear. It feels wrong. Calculated. Like a dragon playing with its food.

“No, Kepa.” You muttered, words sweet, hoping High Valyrian would soothe him. There is something in you telling you to run. Pure, raw instinct, the one we all have. When you see a predator, you run and don’t look back.

Aemond turned towards you, and raised your hood, placing it tenderly over your head. The touch a parent would give to a child. You closed your eyes, delighting in the softness of the touch. You would despise yourself for it later, thinking you had encouraged him. But right now, it has been so long since someone with your same blood touched you. Someone who shares your eyes. For a second, the familiarity makes you think of better days, when both of you were children and Jace and Aegon and him ran around these same halls.

“If you go now, I won’t chase you, little niece. Too much blood has already been spilled for me to wear the Conqueror’s crown. I do not know what prompted you to come here, but I can…” But whatever he was going to say, it was nothing more but static in your ears. You felt like one of the dolls your mother gifted you when you were a child. Head full of wool, limbs weak as if made from string.

His mouth kept moving, lips forming words in a distance. Yet you didn’t hear. Your mind could only fixate on one thing. You stumbled, feet getting tangled in the edge of your dress and cloak, or maybe you were just dizzy with shock. At your sudden move, Aemond’s grip tightened against your arm.

“Niece. Niece.” He muttered urgently, pulling you outwards with such force it would bruise. “You didn’t know, I take it.”

“I didn’t know, Ke… Your Grace.” You dropped into a hurried curtsy, pulse beating loudly in your ears. Your body felt like it was on fire. It explained the changes in him. It made sense, despite your reluctance. Aemond wore the crown well.

“What did you think, byka tolīmorghon?” Aemond chuckled, humorlessly, pulling you to your feet. “So it wasn’t defiance, but ignorance. Hardly a worse sin.”

“I thought… Aegon, or his children…” You trailed off, realizing what it actually meant. If Aegon was not wearing the crown his family had fought so hard to place on his head…

“Dead. Aegon killed your mother, but not before she gutted him like a pig.” Aemond shook his head, seemingly unaffected by the topic of discussion. “His hubris killed him, more than Rhaenyra. He dared set a dragon against a Targaryen, but didn’t count on her being the truest of them two.” Then, as if realizing what he said, he fell silent. Remembering the time he too had dared set a dragon against a Targaryen, but won.

“Experience always trumps, does it not, Your Grace?” You regretted the jab the moment it left your mouth. Aemond let go of your arm, angrily pushing you away. His hand went to his belt. You looked at the sword, hanging there, and felt the urge to retch. Dark Sister. Not only had he killed Daemon, he had taken his sword as a souvenir.

“I don’t know what to do with you.” He said, purple eye burning with anger. His frame towered over you, yet you didn’t flinch. You were the blood of the dragon, as much as he was. More so. Stronger, with an iron will. Because you were half Targaryen, but you were a Targaryen woman. “The blood of Rhaenyra lives on you, contesting my claim to the throne. Despite it, you have marched into my hands willingly. The Seven know with what purpose, byka tolīmorghon. Do you have a death wish?”

“How many dead, Kepa? How many of us left?” You needed to know. Needed because it was essential to your task. No matter how much it hurt.

“None of yours.” Aemond said, and you covered your mouth with your hand, choking back a sob. “None of mine, either. Mother and Helaena… Neither could take it. I rule over ash and bones. The great houses, diminished beyond belief. The dragons… I rue spilling your blood, niece. 'Tis the source of my conflict.”

“I came here to tell you a secret.” You blurt out, before he gets second thoughts. Your eyes keep watch of his sword arm, just because his hand is too close to his belt. It’s not because it makes it easier, not looking at him. At all.

Aemond listens to your story in silence. You tell him all you know, from the blade your mother had said still exists, to the belief your Grandfather and her had in the dream. How he needs heirs, desperately. Anyone, as long as it is his blood.

“I had suspected.” He finally says, shoulders dropping. Aemond looks exhausted. You wonder exactly how heavy the crown is on his head, how much of a burden it is to try to rebuild a country that has been through a civil war and a conquest in less than fifty years. The coffers must be empty, and he speaks of no nobles to tax. To do so on his own… You would go mad. Perhaps he is, already. Too much blood and the latent Targaryen madness, always ready to pounce. It had taken your mother, too.

But there is no one else to rule. You don’t voice those thoughts. You just stare at him, waiting to be dismissed.

“There is no written mention of it, of course. Or else either your stepfather or I would have found out. I have read every book on our history I could get my hands into. I bet Daemon did, too.” And he speaks of it so casually, too. You want to slap him. You can’t. To do so it’s treason. Instead, you curtsy at him, intent on being dismissed, even if you have to prompt him.

He glares. He does not speak a word. You risk a look at his face. Aemond is angrier than you have ever seen. And it’s nothing like it was before the war. It’s a cold thing. A quiet anger, that twists his face into something that reminds you of the portraits of Maegor the Cruel. You take a step back. Then another. Somehow, you know, he will not let you leave these gardens alive. You still try.

“You are the same as your mother.” Aemond said, quietly. You stop, dead in your tracks. “Just as irresponsible.”

“Excuse me?”

“You came here, to drop your mess in my lap, and now you intend to leave?” His hand grips at your wrist, painfully tight. Tight enough to bruise. Aemond snarls, baring his teeth.

“What do you want, Your Grace?” Your tone comes out pleading. Scared. Like a dog showing his belly to a more dominant one. You hate it. “Let me go.”

“You think I will let you leave, byka tolīmorghon?” Aemond laughs. It sounds… Ugly to hear, all twisted. It holds no humor, only disdain. For the poor, silly little girl who thought she could get away.

“Are you going to kill me?” You take another step back, shrugging off his grip. Someone unsheathes his sword. Startled, your eyes are drawn to the source of the noise. And when his guards started to approach? They are cornering you. You have one on the left and Aemond is taking the right. Your back hits the wall.

“No, you won’t walk away that easily. You are staying, niece.” Aemond pressed closer, cornering you even more. Here was a man pushed past his limits, his eye seemed to say. A sudden thought crossed your mind. He was the King. But there was no mention of a Queen.

“I… No. No, uncle. Let me go, now.” You started struggling, dread pooling in your stomach. Surely, you had misinterpreted his meaning. He could not, not when he prided himself on being a trueborn Targaryen.

Aemond merely smirked. It was clear he had noticed, by your increased panic, that you finally understood. A slap. Skin against skin, both of his hands trapping your wrists now. The sound, so loud to you, so similar to the closing of cuffs. He couldn’t. Not with how much he scoffed at your bastard, dirty blood.

“You have Targaryen’s blood. And I need a wife. Kind. Sweet. Pure.” His grip shifted, now holding both of your wrists in one hand. With the other, he pulled you close. You didn’t resist. You just looked at him, helpless. The guards, probably used to seeing much worse from their King, didn’t even flinch. “Strong. To be queen, to give me many heirs.” Aemond nuzzled the top of your hair, hands coming to grasp at your waist, hugging you against him.

“You are insane.” You tried to shrug him off, aware that if you kicked or pushed him too hard, he could have you charged with treason and put to the sword. You didn’t dare fight him in earnest and he knew it. Trapped. He had you cornered.

“Maybe. Maybe. But you are staying. And you know it.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, and you shrieked, as if your skin was crawling at his touch. It was not. You hated it. He was warm and hugging you, and you hadn’t been comforted in so long. None of the guards tried to help you. They didn’t even glance at you.

“That’s not… You can’t, Your Grace, please.”

“You could have sent a raven. Or a pageboy. Yet here you are, pretty little tolīmorghon. Mine to ruin. You will marry me.” You understood, then, what he meant to do. Aemond didn’t even like you. He was going to break you. Just as he was, shouldering the same weight you had tried to push on him.

Aemond was as tortured as he was dutiful. He wanted to drag you into his hell, too. Because it had been unfair, in his eye, that so many of your family had escaped responsibility by death. He was not giving you the chance to do the same.

“Uncle…” You begged, starting to tear up. Aemond released you, roughly. He gestured to a guard, who wordlessly slid into step besides you.

“Go change, niece. That is not proper attire for the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” And with a little shove, you were made to march towards your old chambers by his guards.

The Mother blessed them and said to them,

“Be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it. Rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, and over every living creature that moves on the ground.”

(The Smith's book. 1:32-36)

“Your Grace.” The maid said, becoming him over. Aemond rose from his seat immediately at the sight of her. Corlys, his hand, remained unbothered and nodded in approval. He, too, felt this matter was more important. Ambition. The death of many good men.

“Ah, Margaret. Has the Queen finally worn herself out?” Aemond asked her, noticing her slightly concerned expression. He wasn’t too worried. No dragon liked chains. A bit of destruction was expected from your sudden captivity.

“Your Grace, I don't think she is fine.” The maid whispered, worriedly.

“Did she hurt herself?” Corlys asked, plainly. Aemond knew he was not truly interested in your condition. You two had no contact, since you were sent out of the Seven Kingdoms, and there was no family resemblance. He only cared that you were able to sit on the throne next to Aemond. And it was fine by him. Corlys could look out for the Velaryon last name, Aemond would look out for you.

“No, she's… sitting there.”

“Crying her eyes out?” Aemond nearly snorted at the question. It was clear your alleged grandfather didn’t know you.

“Staring blankly at the walls.” The maid answered, and at that, Aemond grew slightly concerned. You must be planning something. Better be on guard.

“It's a good sign. She has calmed down.” And as Corlys reassured the maid, Aemond left the room, walking towards your chambers. He made sure to only leave his sword behind, carrying instead a dagger. Least you got ideas. He didn’t fully trust you yet. Slowly, he opened the door, surprised by the amount of destruction you had caused in such a short amount of time.

“What a tantrum, niece.” Aemond spoke, softly, eyeing the torn curtains you had knotted together and were in the process of throwing down the window. The bed was sheetless, you had clearly used those too for your makeshift rope.

“Back off or I will jump.” You warned, still busy with your rope. Aemond shook his head.

“Now, I would say throwing down the table and chairs was overkill. You have frightened your maid.” He slowly advanced, unbuckling his belt. You glared.

“Don’t you dare!”

Aemond nearly laughed. He was the King and here were you, a tiny slip of a girl, trying to tell him what to do. Your eyes darted nervously towards the window. He knew as well what you were thinking. It was a big fall.

“Helaena jumped out of one of those.” He got even closer, and tugged the makeshift rope out of your hands. You let go of it easily, too distressed to really think. “I’ll not make the same mistake as Aegon.”

He would not. You were not escaping this. It must be fate, what else? Out of all the people, you were the secret keeper. Sister to Lucerys. The last of your line. Aemond was the last of his, too. The two last true Targaryens, out of all.

Aemond liked the symmetry of it all, he had realized. There was something about it being the death of your twin what started the war, and your marriage ending once for all the division in the Kingdoms. Life and death, both by his hands. You would eventually give him a son. He was no dreamer, but he could feel it. And when his son finally took the throne, a perfect mix of Greens and Blacks, all wounds would be healed. That would be Aemond’s legacy. Finally mending things.

It was not all, though. It was a form of penance, too. A way of never letting him forget, through the rot of it all, that it had all been his fault. In his mind’s eye, he could see you growing older, next to him. And for every line that appeared on your face or neck, Aemond would wonder if that’s how Lucerys would have looked.

Aemond moved even closer. You slapped him, uncaring of the consequences. What a fierce little thing you had grown into. Hot headed. Not very queenly. Aemond pursed his lips and shook his head, taking the slap without complaint. You were entitled to your rage, having the moral high ground. Your hands were not stained like his. But he couldn’t stand for you escaping. He needed you.

So when you tried to duck around him, Aemond pounced. It was not that he was very convinced of the dream. He had a distaste for dreamers, even if Helaena had been one. They often spoke in riddles, never saying what they meant. For all you knew, Aegon’s dream could have been a metaphor for some other event and not a great threat. But you were his path to redemption.

So many nights he had spent on his knees, at the beginning of the war. Praying for a sign, or a chance to fix things. To fix what he had broken. Along the way, he had lost faith. Perhaps the Seven didn’t listen to him, for his soul was already tainted. Perhaps, all the death around him was a punishment for all his faults. And then you showed up. His byka tolīmorghon. His little ghost.

What was he supposed to think, besides that you were the answer to his prayers? After all, he had been favored by the Gods, or so everyone said. It was the Seven, who gave him the Iron Throne. It was his godly given right to rule. Surely, your return was a sign.

You didn’t even make it to the door. Aemond grabbed you by the hair, dark strands curling around his fingers as if rings. How fitting.

You were shrieking something, but he was not really paying attention. It was probably a cry for mercy or insults. He was not too worried about it. Aemond was more concerned about restraining you, else you try to hurt yourself. You had little to lose, after all, and were stubborn enough for it. Oh, he could feel the headache starting.

He needed you. And you thought you needed him. It was easier than it looked. You two could collaborate. The Seven knew he required all the help he could get, with ruling a country that was more ashes and corpses than real people. You could not exactly get Targaryen heirs without a Targaryen husband, and apart from the lost babes, there was simply no one else around.

“Why must you vex me so, tolīmorghon?” Aemond marched you toward the vanity, dragging you by the hair. He threw everything that was on top of it away with a dismissive gesture, and slammed your chest down on it, careful not to slam your head in the process. “You always make everything difficult.”

His grip shifted, from your hair to the back of your neck, making sure to keep you down. You whimpered. The slam had clearly scared you. Good, Aemond thought. Perhaps a little fear would make you listen.

With ruthless efficiency, he had tugged your wrists behind your back, kicking your legs open without a second thought. Tying his belt around your wrists had been easier, once you started to cry. It was clear the consequences of your actions were starting to sink in and that you had no much fight left.

“Not so eloquent now, niece?” Aemond couldn’t resist but taunt, pulling you to your feet. The motions were practiced. He tried not to think from where he had acquired that knowledge.

“Fuck you, kinslayer.” You screamed. Aemond laughed. It seemed you had fight left, then. A shame the insult was not very good. The moniker didn’t hold the weight it once had, after the war. Half of the Targaryens had turned into kinslayers by the end of it.

“Oh, if you only knew.” He grabbed a handkerchief from the floor, no doubt one of the ones that had fallen from his purge of the vanity, and held it in front of your face. “Open up.” He demanded.

You glared and turned your head away. Aemond pinched at your nose. You, ridiculous little thing, held your breath until you started to go red. There were tears on your cheeks, and your lips were turning an alarming shade of purple. Aemond idly wondered if it was from the lack of air or how hard you were pressing them together.

“You do realize you either open up or you pass out, and I gag you anyway, right?” He arched an eyebrow.

You opened up, finally, spluttering and coughing. A shame he stuck the cloth inside your mouth just then.

“Now.” Aemond ordered, full of the confidence only ruling could give. “I will speak and you will listen. Do you understand?”

The cloth muffled your scream.

Women. So tiresome. Aemond rolled his eye, waiting until you tired of the dramatics. Your stubbornness was admirable, in truth. Like a carriage wreck, he couldn’t stop looking at how you worked yourself up. You were both screaming and bawling your eyes out at the same time. After a few minutes of ceaseless struggle, you slumped down, sweaty from the exertion.

“You will bathe after this, of course. I can’t have the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms walking around like that.” He finally offered, amused. “I will not hurt you, little fool. This marriage will help unite the Kingdoms again.”

You stared blankly. Aemond nodded, guessing it was a bit unfair to wait for your input.

“You see. There is still division between Blacks and Green. Were you able to produce a child, both claims would rally behind him.”

This time, you seemed slightly more frightening. Probably at the prospect of laying with him, which, fair. He had not had such a good first experience either, and it had taken him quite a long time with Alys to even try again. Aemond guessed it was likely more frightening, as a woman. It didn’t matter whether your body responded or not, it was happening anyway.

“I won’t hurt you.” He repeated, softly, and grabbed at another handkerchief to clean your face. He kneeled in front of you, despite your panicked attempts to pull back, and softly dabbed at your wet cheeks. “I think two years is a prudent time to get you to give yourself up to me. I would give you a lifetime if I could. But we are not getting any younger, and I need an heir.”

You tilted your head to the side, as if questioning. You were rather puppy-like. It reminded him of your twin even more. Aemond gave you a sad smile.

“You were insistent on getting heirs made, if I understood correctly. I think we can manage to raise children that will not slaughter each other.”

A scoff. Aemond wiped the drool from the corners of your mouth next. Quite undignified, really. Oh, if his mother was watching him from above, she would be laughing at his expense. He had had to learn the art of cooperation the hard way, but it had proved fruitful in getting his ends. Much more than all the anger he held in his youth.

“How hard can it be?”

Your glare was his only answer. Aemond knew he was slowly getting through you. Perhaps a little more kindness? Empathy? What a foreign thing. He had not exercised that much, in the last few years. Ruthlessness was what had given him the throne. But he was willing to try, to get what he wanted.

“You have a point there. Well. I will not treat you badly. I will be a kind husband to you. You will rule by my side.”

This time, your look shifted from distrust to disbelief.

“Funny thing, isn’t it? Neither of us were meant to get the throne, yet…” Aemond shook his head, and softened his tone. He knew just the words to make you budge. “I need your help, if we are going to pull this off. You must truly believe in that dream, if you risked coming here.”

A nod. He had you. Aemond tried not to smirk, knowing it could undo all his work at gaining your collaboration.

“Can I trust our agreement, then, and take the gag off?”

You nodded again. He pulled the cloth off, careful not to hurt your mouth.

“If you are good, I will untie you next.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be a pious man?” It was a curious thing, that that was the first sentence you chose to say. Still, Aemond didn’t want to break the fragile trust that was forming between the two of you, and so he decided to indulge you.

“I’m not certain, anymore.” He answered, carefully. It was the truth. He had been so sure, once, that the Seven guided his steps. That the Crone lit up the right path for him to take, that the Father led him to fair decisions. It had all shattered when the Stranger had entered your lives.

Yet here you were. A gift, from the Maiden herself. A Queen, for a King who had nothing. Much like she had done for Hugor of the Hill.

“Isn’t there something on the Seven Pointed Star about this?”

“There is also something about attempting on one’s own life.” Aemond glared at you, pushing your chin up with a finger to take a good look at your eyes. He was deeply displeased by your threat, even if it was an empty one. It had rattled him, the reminder of Helaena. “Any attempts on your life will be dealt with swiftly.”

Aemond couldn’t lose anyone else. He couldn’t see Luke fall to his death again. Even if it meant locking all the windows in the Keep, and taking away all the knives. Or keeping you tied with silk ropes. Whatever that was necessary.

“You said you wouldn't hurt me.”

“Oh, it won't hurt you. Too much.” And it was the truth. He had learned quite a few interesting methods of discipline, while he traveled to different settlements during the war. Aemond was willing to practice them on you, if it meant you stayed by his side.

And though a man might prevail against one who is alone, two will withstand him—a threefold cord is not quickly broken.

(The Mother's book. 12: 22-23)

It was an odd feeling. Getting ready for your wedding in your mother's chambers. Much to the King's displeasure, none of your old gowns fitted you. He had offered to get you new ones, but after seeing that Aemond had kept most of the rooms in the Keep untouched, you had chosen to wear one of your mother's.

It still smelt like her. Entering the room felt like time had stopped. Everything was exactly as it had been, except there was no Rhaenyra sitting on the couch.

You opened the chest of gowns, placing it carefully on the rug. At your back, Ser Willis cleared his throat. With an annoyed noise, you stepped back.

“Do not be angry, my Queen.” The Kingsguard said, as he opened the trunk and efficiently took away all the bottles and pointy objects he could find. “The King does this with your welfare in mind.”

After the incident at your old chambers, you had been moved into Aemond's personal ones. He was never there, after all, being an insomniac and a workaholic. But his had the great advantage of being near the ground floor.

Your behavior had allowed you to graduate from bound wrists and a gag to a constant shadow. Willis Fell had been tasked with your protection from all threats on your life, including yourself.

“I didn't really mean to attempt on my life!” You said, frustrated. “And do not call me Queen, I'm a Princess in my own right.”

“To a claim that no longer exists, your Grace.” The man repeated, cheerfully. “It matters not who you were, but who you are now. If King Aemond says you are to be called Queen, then you are.”

You huffed, angrily, and ignored him, quickly picking two gowns. Aemond had demanded they were in the Blacks' colors and not the Velaryons. It had brought great displeasure to the Lord Hand. Your grandfather had wanted to see you enter the Sept in his colors. He would have to conform with handing you to Aemond.

Corlys Velaryon made you have mixed feelings. On one side, there was the fact that he had changed sides faster than one could change cloaks, after your mother was dead. On the bright side, he was the only ally you had in court. The only person willing to oppose Aemond for your sake.

It was a curious choice, on Aemond's part, to keep him so close. It was a good show of unity and forgiveness, a proof of the noble heart of the King. Or maybe it was because he had control over other, low-level threats to his throne. You had heard Rhaena and Baela had survived the war. They had already confirmed their attendance to the joyous occasion, but you were not allowed to meet them alone. You would have to wait until tonight, when the feast took place, or even tomorrow, at the wedding.

“What do you think, Ser Willis?” You showed the man two gowns, one crimson red and one black. “I do not think black is proper for a wedding, but wearing two crimson gowns seems too much. Perhaps… The black one at the feast?”

"I think this one is a bit…” The knight trailed off, and you looked at it closely. He was right. It was the dress of a matron, too dark-colored for a wedding, too grown up for you. Your mother had worn it the night that your uncle made his toast. Gods, you had all been so young. You remembered how beautiful she had looked in it. “What about the dress your mother wore for her own wedding? It is still there. I saw it.”

You lifted some dresses, searching for a light colored one. A beautiful gown of white and gold, one you had discarded because it didn’t fit the criteria Aemond had set, and its significance was lost on you. You didn’t know that had been your mother’s wedding dress. Rhaenyra at eighteen had been a petite woman. You clutched at it, wondering if it would even fit you. It could probably be adjusted, or copied.

“Thank you, Ser Willis.” It didn’t hurt to be polite with the man. He had been on Aegon’s side, and had been quite outspoken with his disapproval of your mother and Daemon. But he was only doing his job. Aemond was the one who had ordered you not to be left alone at any time. Sometimes, you were grateful for it. It helped ward off your loneliness. Other times, it got suffocating.

“A pleasure, my Queen. The King will not be able to keep his eye off you. A good match, you are.” He offered, smiling at you. You had learned he seemed to thrive on courtly manners.

You gave him a sad smile and passed him the dresses to carry. As you walked, you noticed it was starting to get late.

“May we ask for the maid? Margaret? I wish to change for the feast.” Your guard nodded, and repeated the order to the guard outside Aemond’s chambers.

Margaret was the one that had the duty to guard you when you were doing womanly things. It was a good system, you had to give it to Aemond. He had thought of everything. It gave time for Ser Willis to rest and eat, and it gave you slightly more privacy and a companion.

You despised his thoughtfulness. You didn’t want to like him. He had murdered your twin, after all. But your mother had murdered Aegon, even if in self-defense, and ordered the murder of one of Helaena’s kids. Children. There seemed to be no morals in any of the sides.

After your forced truce, you had seen little of Aemond. He had slowly given back your freedom, in the two weeks he had had you by his side. The planning of a royal wedding in such little time kept you busy. You never wanted Alicent, in your life, but you found yourself longing for her. It was hard, after a life of exile, to remind all the stuffy rules of courtesy in the Seven Kingdoms. Alicent had been great at even, much more than your mother and Daemon.

At first, you had been constantly on edge, as if you were waiting for the executioner’s sword to fall on your neck at any time. But the more the wedding approached, the more you realized Aemond had no devious plan to lull you into a false sense of safety and then kill you. His only devious plan was marrying you and giving you half the responsibilities of running the Red Keep.

Slowly, he had been piling them on you. The better you behaved, the more you were trusted to oversee. It was not the incentive he probably thought it was, but it kept you busy. It was you, who had to supervise the servants and manage the finances, now. You were consulted on what should be served at feasts, asked about settling arguments. Aemond’s wife in anything but name, the acting Lady of the Red Keep. Soon, noble children would be sent here, and it would be your responsibility to mind their education.

It was an adjustment. Making sure there was sufficient in the stores was hard, as it was monitoring where all the money went. It was not like being the wife of any lord because your finances impacted on those of the Kingdom. It had brought you closer to the servants, asking for advice on how to do your duty properly. And it had allowed you to learn quite a few things about Aemond.

One. He was an insomniac. He went to bed late, when you were already asleep, and left after only four hours, five at most. Aemond might be sharing your bed, but you never saw him. He disliked the dark, too. He used more candles on his nightly walks than you did in a week.

Two, he forgot to eat often. Aemond was an overall workaholic, and thought everyone was, too. Frequently, his meetings would drag on and on, and he would skip lunch. It was a comical sight, when he was with the small council. The lords, the Hand included, would flock out of the room as soon as they were dismissed. Then, in a very undignified manner, they would dilapidate the kitchen, messing up your tracking of the stores.

Third, he had taken a liking to poetry. It had greatly perplexed you, when you found that your household now included two poets. You had grown used to minding them too, and tolerating their strange ways.

Margaret entered silently, placing a bucket of water in a corner. You took your hair down and started to brush it, hurriedly. Margaret went to attend to the clothes you would wear to give you privacy to bathe. When all the painstakingly process of getting a Queen ready was done, you exited Aemond’s chambers and ran right into him.

He was already dressed for the feast, wearing a rich black doublet, the Conqueror’s crown on his head. His long silver hair was held back in a half updo, much simpler than what your father used to wear. Still, he looked regal.

“Ah, niece. I see you are ready.” Aemond offered his arm, gently. Careful not to move abruptly, less he spooked you. “Shall we?”

You take his arm, fighting the impulse to flinch in disgust. Your brother’s killer! The thought echoes around your head. But also, the last Targaryen standing. You need to get used to it, you promised your mother you would not allow the Song of Ice and Fire to ruin Westeros. Targaryens have to multiply. If it meant carrying his child, then so be it.

Aemond says nothing. He seems amused by your internal conflict. You will be his Queen, soon enough. His touch has to stop surprising you. It could be much worse. Aemond could have killed you, or kept you locked up. Instead, he has offered something very generous.

The hall looks exactly as when you left. The faces, though, are changed. Despite the houses' colors and sigils being the same, you don't recognize anyone but the Hand. There is also Tyland Lannister, who you know sits on the small council. Or you hope it's him. You were never able to tell the Lannisters apart.

Most of the crowd gasps when you and Aemond enter the hall. The dress was a statement, one that was not seen in quite a few years. Red and black, and previously worn by Rhaenyra, it made clear where you had stood.

“...So he is going through it…?”

“Look at her, the bastard daughter of that whore…”

“Wasn't he engaged to a Baratheon?”

“... Worse than Maegor, the bitch… Taxes through the skies…”

“She is his niece!”

You braved the whispers, clinging to Aemond's arm. Idly, you considered running away. Far from all this nonsense and back to the Free Cities. It was too much, hearing these people call your mother a whore and the second coming of Maegor, when her head was still on a spike, and they sat here, plump and rosy from the good life.

You knew Rhaenyra's reign had not turned out well. And that whatever her and Daemon had been up to, it had driven her mad in the end. She had executed and murdered many, and been a poor ruler, blinded by panic. But she was still your mother. A human being. A Queen. Whose head hung on the city's gates as you were made to marry her replacement.

When you finally made it to the table, Aemond pulled your chair out for you, and pressed his palm against your back. A warning. You didn't know how, but he could tell what you were thinking. He would not tolerate any kind of scene from you, he had stated. Nothing that made him look weak, or you would regret it.

“Good evening.” Aemond said, remaining standing behind your chair. It was an odd position to choose while addressing his subjects, but it was one that showed his power over you. “I thank you all for coming to witness such… Joyous occasion.” He smirked, squeezing your shoulder. You couldn't fight the slight dropping of your fake smile.

“Tomorrow, the division between the Blacks and Greens will finally be over. And it's all thanks to this wonderful woman.” Aemond took your hand and raised it to his lips. He certainly knew how to put on a show for the masses. When you were children, he had been much less charming, although he had had his moments of political savviness. The engagement to the Baratheons, for example. His taste for the dramatic, unfortunately, had always been there. Take that awful speech, for example.

His lips were cold against your skin. You shuddered.

"A toast." He said, looking directly into your eyes. The perfect picture of the dutiful fiancée. You glared, but gave him an even brighter smile. You disliked being made a show. “To my niece. The future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

The crowd cheered. Aemond sat down next to you, prompting the servants to start serving the food. You didn't speak a word. It was the first time you ate together after two weeks of sharing the same chambers.

You poured him wine, noticing your grandfather's expectant eyes on you. The conversation on the table was stilted. The King didn't care much for noise, so the council spoke quietly and formally. None thought to include you.

"Thank you." Aemond said, and placed a few cuts of meat on your plate.”When you finish dinner, I will be expected to socialize. You are welcome, but not forced to do the same.”

“Are Rhaena and Baela here?” You looked at him, eagerly. They were the only people you were excited to see.

“We have agreed it would be best if you saw them tomorrow, after the wedding.” Corlys interjected, smoothly. Aemond grunted. Ah, how cunning of the Hand. To meet your once sisters-in-law to be after you couldn't escape.

“I understand. Well. I think I will enjoy the company of your council, Your Grace.” Your tone was polite, but firm. No room for argument. All these stuffy lords, eager to go spend money in the brothels, were now stuck in your company. It surely wasn't winning Corlys any friends.

You smirked. Aemond finished eating, and with a kiss to your crown that was all for show, departed.

At first, you made conversation with the Grand Maester, about the latest book releases and how the war had nearly killed the industry.

"Not enough people want to read, your Grace. Terrible. I do hope, when we open the Red Keep to children again, you will teach them the importance…"

"I think that's enough." Corlys said, offering you his hand. "I think you owe this old man a dance, granddaughter." And he couldn’t lose the chance to lord his relationship with you all over the rest of the lords. It would be simply too much to ask. He was still the same ambitious man he had been back then, when you didn’t really know he was not your grand sire.

"Of course." You took his hand and allowed him to lead you into a polite dance. Your grandfather was a graceful, still a handsome man. You could see what Princess Rhaenys had seen in him, once.

“I do not begrudge you, Your Grace.” Corlys said, as he twirled you.

“Begrudge me?” You asked, once he had pulled you in once again.

“You and I know your father was not going to sire children in any other way. He loved Jacaerys, Lucerys and you like you were his own.” He whispered, quickly. Your smile froze. Was he really…? “Joffrey more so, since he got to pick his name” Corlys teased and you relaxed. He was offering you his support, and you were not fool enough to refuse him. Despite not knowing his motives.

“I… You shouldn’t.”

“I know. Your future husband would have my head. But know that you are Laenor’s daughter in all the ways that matter." Corlys gave you a polite little bow, as the song ended. His parting words left you more shaken than you wanted to admit. "And that come fifty years down the line, no one will remember what you looked like, or who sired you. They will only remember your maiden name, Velaryon, and your husband’s."

You were alone in the middle of the dance floor, too stunned to even speak. So that was his motivation. The Velaryon name, on the Iron Throne. The accounts later would call you the granddaughter of the Lord Hand, much like Queen Alicent had been the daughter of Otto.

A new song started. The crowd started to dance again, pushing at you. Immediately, Ser Willis started to make his way towards you. His ever vigilant eye never lost anything. Deciding to make his job easier, you walked towards a less crowded corner, so he could reach you. But as you waited, another man approached.

“Lady Velaryon.” The man dropped into a bow, so deep it might as well be kissing the floor. A Stark, by the sigil on his cloak. Quite handsome too. He was around Aemond’s age, but looked much friendlier. You jolted your memory. Jacaerys had mentioned a Stark in his letters. "You look just like your brother."

"Cregan Stark?" You asked. At his nod, you gave him a small curtsy. “Lord Stark, pleased to meet you.”

Ser Willis, still far away, touched the shoulder of another Kingsguard. They both crept closer.

"Are you safe?" Cregan grasped your hands in his, in quite a bold move. To touch the King’s betrothed, it was an offense that could be punishable by death if Aemond so chose. And none of the people gathered in the hall would blame him for it. Daemon had killed men for much less, and so had your mother. Targaryens weren’t rational, when they thought someone to be theirs.

Cregan’s words were spoken in a hushed tone, but not enough for your guards not to hear. You gave them a nervous look.

"Yes." You answered to Cregan, hoping it was convincing enough that he wouldn’t try some foolish plan to liberate you, when in fact, you hardly needed one. Your agreement with Aemond was enough. You truly had nowhere to go, you were tired of running, and you were fulfilling your mission. It was your mother’s will. She had said at any cost. You won’t disappoint. If Cregan Stark wanted to take you away from your only purpose, he would have to drag you away, kicking and screaming.

“You don't have to marry him, my lady. The North would back you, you could have an army.” Your smile froze. Those were dangerous words, no matter how low they were muttered. Treacherous. Was everyone in this feast intent on getting killed?

“I am marrying him because it is my duty.” You squeezed his hands, hoping he would get the message. Ser Willis stepped closer to you, ready to intervene. The other guard went away, surely to look for reinforcements.

“Is it, to marry your family's killer? My lady, there is no need…”

“There is something stronger, binding the King and me.” You interrupted, firm but polite. Why didn’t he get the hint? A pair of arms snaked around your waist. So the guard had not gone looking for reinforcements, but Aemond. You relaxed into his hold, knowing he wouldn’t let Cregan Stark take you away and try to save you from yourself.

Aemond pressed a kiss to the top of your hair, the cold crown he wore bumping against your head. You were not a small woman, but he had to lean down to be able to kiss you. By the look on Lord Stark’s face, it didn’t make him less intimidating in the least.

"Ah, Lord Cregan. How good it is to see you.” His voice was mocking, taunting. “What are you doing with my betrothed?”

“I… Your Grace.” The Stark flustered, helplessly looking at you to save him. You gave him a cold look, knowing that if you intervened, Aemond could take it as a show of favor towards the man. Not only would it doom him more, but it would also get you punished. You didn’t fancy walking into your wedding with bound wrists.

“Surely not convincing her to run away?”

“I…” Your eyes closed, trying not to think of the destiny of this man who tried to help you and now was going to have a bloody ending for his troubles.

“I know many men would want a wife like her.” His grip turned slightly more possessive, hands digging into the bodice of your dress. Insinuating something. Painting a nice picture for Cregan Stark. “You were recently widowed, were you not?” Dismissive. A power play. One of his favorite things.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Beautiful. Learned. Strong.” Aemond hooked his chin over your shoulder, smiling at the other man. As if you were nothing more than a prize to be won. But the nickname was too much. You lean back, and stomped on his foot. Aemond made a gurgling, pained sound. The Stark raised his eyebrows in surprise, but made no comments. He surely was thinking about how he had misread the situation.

Cregan Stark would never understand it. He was a good, honorable man. And you and Aemond were everything but. He was tainted by war, you were tainted for rolling in the mud with him. Both dishonorable, both self-interested. Both lying to yourselves, telling you were doing this for the greater good.

Targaryen blood called to each other like moths to a flame. Slowly, you stumbled into each other's arms, thinking yourselves the last man and woman on earth. You were not. If you were to have a child with any other man, those children would still be Targaryens.More so if Aemond had children with another woman. Perhaps, it would even be more useful, producing more children. Neither of you voiced it.

It was an excuse, the Song of Ice and Fire. But a useful one, for both of you.

"Worry not, wolf. I know a woman like her is enough to lead any man to insanity.” Aemond squeezed your hip, and you knew, the snide little remark was not for Cregan but for you. “I will take your words as they are, nothing more than courtly love and deep admiration for my niece.”

“Cursed is the ground because of you;

through painful toil you will eat food from it

all the days of your life.

It will produce thorns and thistles for you,

and you will eat the plants of the field.”

(The Father's book 5:12-16)

It was a strange sight. In the Velaryon’s cloak, all dark hair and eyes. It was painfully obvious to anyone with eyes, the truth of your heritage. Yet none of those who stood in the Sept dared say a word.

The good thing about being King? The truth was what he said it was. Aemond suddenly understood his father more and more. Viserys had chosen to deny the truth until the bitter end, and there was nothing that could be done about it. As long as the King protected you, bastard or not, you were safe.

Aemond wondered if you realized the amount of trust you were placing in him. Should his Hand decide to deny your heritage, it was only Aemond’s word that shielded you from being put to the sword. Still, if the choice was between you and Corlys Velaryon, Aemond already knew who he would pick.

You had not opposed him. You had not installed a maritime block on the Seven Kingdoms, making the common folk suffer from the lack of food for not declaring for Rhaenyra. You had not switched sides.

As you approached, on the arm of the same man that he was currently plotting to kill on your behalf, Aemond was a little dumbfounded by how beautiful you were. When he had first seen you, all grown up, he had thought you pretty. A sufficient distraction to curb his loneliness. Now he knew, you were not pretty. You were otherworldly.

You didn’t look anything like a true Valyrian. Your beauty was not the same as the one his cousins had. He had been foolish, thinking that your darker features put a damper on your beauty. The sun kissed skin, the enchanting eyes… It only added to your charm. It had taken him two weeks to realize it, and it was a shame. You were more than just a projection of Lucerys he could use to torture himself.

When the time came, Aemond draped his cloak over you, placing you back under the Targaryen’s red and black. He couldn’t help but give you a smug smile. You looked good on his house’s colors. Better. Like you belonged in them. It didn’t matter, that you had come out of the womb with a strong resemblance to Rhaenyra’s sworn shield. You were half Targaryen, and as far Aemond was concerned, that was the half that mattered.

Velaryons. What a joke. Who wanted Velaryons, when they were too ambitious for their own good? When they were unable to bring children into the world safely? No, he decided. You made the perfect Queen because you were not a Velaryon. You had performed every task he had set for you perfectly. Born to rule.

The wedding passed in a blur. It felt as if he barely blinked and suddenly, you were both saying your vows and were being hand fasted together.

“Wife.” You turned towards him, all wide dark eyes. Slightly scared. He leaned down, and whispered in your ear, to warn you. “I’m going to kiss you, then we will retire for the night.”

“But Rhaena and Baela…” You started to protest, but Aemond leaned down and kissed you. It was only a peck, a brush of the lips. It was enough to quiet you. You shyly looked down, the image of a sweet maiden. The lords clapped, politely.

There would be no Rhaena and Baela. He was already thinking of a way to take Corlys out of the equation in case he ever became an obstacle. It would do not good, if you were too attached to the girls, and he had to kill their grandfather.

“You can see them tomorrow, tolīmorghon.” Aemond took your tiny hand in his. You were cold and sweaty in his grasp. Anxious. He nearly smirked. You would grow out of it, he was sure. Aemond was already ruining you, and you didn’t even realize, too worried by the others. He had seen how you didn’t jump to Cregan’s aid.

“But… The guests… The feast…”

“I will keep my promise, if that is what worries you.” Aemond tucked a soft strand of hair behind your ear. Careful, careful, to sound teasing and not like he resented it. “But since I do not get to bed my wife, I want to at least get to spend the night with her.”

“You have been spending the nights with me.” You muttered to him. He almost laughed. Clueless thing that you were, to think your nights were spent with him.

Aemond started leading you away from the guests, and towards his chambers. He was eagerly awaiting to watch you sleep. A thing he missed from before the war was the ability to get a full night of sleep, but Aemond betted watching you do it would be nice. Your face held still childlike innocence, and most probably perpetually would. It was that damn combination, of Harwin’s puppy eyes and being shielded from war. Asleep, you would surely look like an angel.

He liked your purity, compared to other ladies of the realm. You had known of the horrors of war, but you hadn’t actually seen it. Sometimes, he thought he had chosen to keep you because of it. You didn’t know what kind of monster Aemond really was. How much blood stained his hands.

You knew he had killed Lucerys, you knew he had taken Harrenhall. You didn’t know he had executed all the men there, children and elderly included. You knew he had killed Daemon, you didn’t know exactly how many times he had stabbed him, until both Caraxes and Vhagar were both plunging to their deaths. You knew he was a killer. You didn’t know sometimes he didn’t regret it.

“I have spent nights with you?” He asked, amused. Most women would be terrified to share his bed. Not you, apparently, if you had thought Aemond was sleeping by your side already and had made no fuzz.

“Where are you sleeping, then?” You opened the door to his chambers, already used to the creaking hinges. As if those had been your chambers your whole life. “I thought…”

“I have been sleeping on my study.” So you went to bed every night and fell asleep thinking he would later join you? It was cute. Perhaps keeping you would be easier than he thought. Aemond was halfway there already. “It wouldn’t have been proper, otherwise.”

“And you are all about property.” He ignored your taunt, pressing a kiss to your forehead. The satisfaction he felt was too high to be bothered. Not only did he had you already, but you had slowly started to trust him.

You wanted to stay. The state of his rooms showed it. He was a tidy man, and liked to keep his rooms the same way. Still, there was something enchanting about the way you had taken possession of the place during the past two weeks. Your gown, placed over the bed, surely by your maid. A few books on the left side of the bed, that were definitely not his. A tiny pair of slippers just next to the fire.

Aemond nudged you towards the armchair. You sat down without complaint, looking at him with curious dark eyes. He kneeled in front of you and helped take off your shoes, placing the slippers on your feet instead. The skin of your ankles was soft and vulnerable. He gave it a gentle rub before sitting back on his haunches.

“I brought you here because I have something to tell you.” Still on his knees, worshiping another effigy. Aemond liked the parallels of it. So many nights, spent asking for forgiveness at a Sept. More nights, he would spend at your feet, begging for atonement to his own personal goddess.

“Why are you on your knees?” You asked, looking down at him, eyes so sweet and pure, not even the Maiden herself could compare. How many nights, would it take? How much time, until you became a sinner like himself? “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

Aemond cleared his throat. He looked up at you, suddenly feeling fear choking him. Expiation was not an easy thing. The High Septon himself had said, before spluttering some nonsense about how if he wore the Crown, it was by the grace of the Seven and their favor. Not because he had been the last one standing in a pit of gladiators fighting to death. Not because he had been the only one not to drown in the rivers of blood that followed.

The thought of ruining your innocence, turning you like him, was a thought that warmed him and filled him with dread. After it, Aemond would never be alone again. You would be just like him, broken, ruined, dirty. You would never leave his side because you would understand there was no other place for you but by his side. And just as he did, you would love him and hate him in equal amounts.

But you were so pure. Filled with good intentions and loyalty. Sweet. A balm to his wounds. It would be lost when you turned like him. The one good thing he had found for himself, broken beyond repair.

The silence went on and on. Aemond finally broke it, by speaking in a tone so soft, you might not even be able to hear. Confessing.

“I didn’t kill Luke on purpose. It was…”

A twitch of your mouth. The Maiden come to life, growing impatient. Eyes cold, as if they could erase him from existence.

You would not like this truth. It had all been for nothing. The death of your twin, the war… It was never meant to happen. A foolish mistake. If he had truly meant to kill the boy, perhaps this mess would make some sense. Frame it as a war between bitter enemies, and not family, with combatants that were barely out of childhood.

Or children themselves. Like Lucerys and you had been.

“It was an accident. I lost control of Vhagar. I shouldn’t have, and I despise myself for it, every day. I wish I had never…”

Never chased after him. Never set Vhagar on the smaller dragon. Because back then, he had not been a bad man. That morning, Aemond had been happy. Celebrating an engagement that brought honor to his house. He had not rolled out of bed thinking of killing a child. How few hours of innocence he had left.

No one had told Lucerys how few hours of life he had left, either.

A sob. Aemond can’t tell if he voiced all of that, but by your horrified look, he has. It feels like being stabbed in the eye all over again. Worse than Daemon nearly taking his head off.

It takes him a while to recognize the feeling that curls around his stomach, makes him want to throw up, as your gentle hand presses over his head, prompting him to rest it on your lap.

As you said the words he so craved to hear, he finally got it.

“I forgive you.” But could you, really, when you didn't know what you were forgiving him for?

Shame. It’s shame, the feeling in his stomach. He had not felt it in a long time.

Shame, for what he had done to wear this dammed crown. Shame, for killing Luke. Shame, for what he was about to do to you.

The months go by. You start sleeping on the same bed. Rigid. Side by side, as if children. Slowly, your bodies start to curl against each other. Aemond, always awake before you do, wonders if you realize. He moves away before you wake, but your body always seems to search for him when you sleep.

It’s a cold marriage. One of duty, or so the rest of Westeros thinks. Even the Lord Hand is fooled by it. Aemond has heard the maids whisper about it, about the poor, pretty Queen, trapped into marriage to a monster. Wasting her beauty and sweetness on a man who doesn’t see her.

As a team, you work well. Outside your chambers, your relationships and interactions are extremely polite. The Seven Kingdoms have never been more prosperous than under your combined rule. Aemond is pleased with his legacy. Give it a few more years, if he doesn’t ruin anything, and he will go down in history not as a kinslayer but as the bringer of the golden age of Westeros. The arts prosper, the people are educated and well-fed, the crime rate is low.

“What a dreadfully boring marriage.”

“Duty. Only that. I would go mad, if my husband never touched me.”

“Do you think the King is like Ser Laenor?”

Aemond doesn’t mind, if they think his marriage is colder than the North beyond the Wall. He knows the truth.

There are nights, where you wake up desperate, a scream in your throat. Sometimes, you scream at him, you say you hate him. In others, you sob yourself into a meltdown, saying you hate yourself.

It’s always the same, on nights like that. He holds you in his arms, until you stop fighting. Overcome by hysterics, it’s you who searches for his mouth. You kiss him.

Aemond holds you down. You fight, you push and pull, like the waves lapping at the shore. Your nightgown rides up, his pants and shirt come off. He chases your sadness away with steady rolls of the hips, until all that is left is you and him, and not the ghosts of your past.

You break down gloriously, beneath him. Clawing at his back, wanting to make him hurt as you hurt. Sometimes, Aemond needs to hurt, too.

Sometimes it’s him, who wakes up screaming.

You fight. You scream. The guards knock on the door, concerned about what you are doing to each other, thinking one of you finally snapped and attempted murder. Like beasts, you roll around on the floor, clothes ripping, hair being pulled, skin bitten.

You ride him, sometimes. Your delicate hands turn into cuffs, keeping him pinned down. You sob your way through it, until Aemond cannot tell if it’s over stimulation or sadness. It’s sick. You two act like cats in heat. It’s the best sex he had ever had.

No matter who was the instigator, the next morning you slip out of bed, embarrassed by your behavior. Cold. You avoid his eyes, his mere presence makes you flinch. But despite your sudden turn into the most proper woman in the realm, Aemond knows the truth.

You are ruined. Just like him.

Hugor and his wife were both naked, and they felt no shame.

(The Smith's book. 2:14-15)

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond smut

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mattastr0phic · 6 months

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Used to think Myr's scar was a whisker at one point because of how you used to draw it lmao

Yeah I figured I had to make it more visible, especially since in the inbetween-shapes goop form it splits their mouth which is pretty important. People also kept forgetting it sometimes in art (no shade, probably on me with the artstyle making it sorta faint or if I personally forgot it).

#inbox #scp inbox #dr myriad #scp 963 #absolution #scp #scp foundation

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poorshadowspaintedqueens · 8 months

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I saw some stuff about a woman to be known to be well educated in tudor times needed to know the classics. Got me trying to think. What would be the westrosi equivalent of ‘the classics? They don’t have their Ancient Rome and ancient Greeks The Odyssey or iliad. I think it would be safe to assume Latin would be Valyrian. No idea what Renaissance humanism would be in westros

I’ve actually been pondering this for fanfic reasons.

One of the areas of worldbuilding that GRRM hasn’t gone into--and this is no shade on him; he’s got enough going on--is what we’d term ‘high culture’. Literature, art, drama, material culture. We hear about songs, including a subset of them written and performed in High Valyrian, which certainly suggests that people in Westeros preserved and engaged with older cultures. I imagine there’s a heavy Rhoynish influence in Dorne as well, and that the Valyrian influence is much stronger in the Free Cities than in Westeros.

In stories I’ve written, I’ve offhandedly mentioned things like ‘Rhoynish romances’ or ‘Valyrian drama’, on the assumption that these things existed even if they’re not explicitly mentioned in canon. Ancient drama and poetry flourishes across cultures and geographical boundaries. Art has literally existed since humans existed. We don’t get descriptions of paintings or tapestries in the books, but we know they’re around. We know some families have tombs and vaults, which implies the existence of sculpture and decoration. In the case of the Starks, they’ve been making tomb effigies since...idk? Brandon the Builder? We know there are goldsmiths in Lannisport and that Myr is famous for a variety of crafts including glassmaking and lacemaking (similar to Venice) and that Tyrosh is known for dyes. We get tons of descriptions of outfits but very few of dressmakers or craftspeople.

One of the things I have appreciated about the shows (GoT in earlier seasons, HotD generally) is that they had to think about these things that were implicit in the text--what would people wear in certain climates? How would different castles be decorated differently to reflect their regional peculiarities? I loved that one of the ways that Alicent Hightower displayed her power in the later episodes of House of the Dragon was through interior decoration. It required minimal dialogue but it communicated so much.

I don’t suppose this answers your question exactly, but there’s definitely a sense of ‘Valyrian culture’, ‘Rhoynish culture’, ‘Andal culture’, and ‘First men culture’ that would have to manifest in art in some way, even if we don’t get details. How that translates into education is less clear given the stranglehold that the Citadel has on the way young nobles are being educated across Westeros.

#asoiaf #asoiaf culture #asoiaf meta #a song of ice and fire #i don't know how to tag this

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reuxben · 6 months

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Here’s our MTGinktober for “Scratchy,” starring Towashi Songshaper; Mirri; Iron Myr; Gallia of the Endless Dance; Copper Myr; and Omnath, Locus of Rage! Darkness falls across the nonbasic.

Click this post’s Source link for this piece’s Making-Of.

More MTGinktober here.

Daily art updates on Instagram and Twitter.

Reuxben

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lovelyladyabsinthewrites · 8 months

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From the Ashes Pt.12

Pairing(s): Pairing(s): Rhaegar Targaryen x Lannister!Reader, one-sided!Jaime Lannister x Lannister!Reader, Jaime Lannister x Cersei Lannister

Warnings: need to start adding that this is definitely a slow burn fic, changing povs, MC POV

Words: 2694

Summary: Alizah introduces you to another priestess that looks far too much like Thalina.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 3.5 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33 Part 34

Book Two of Dārilaros hen ōrbar se perzys (Heir of Ash and Fire)

You grin and bare the pain as your ankle throbbed. Each step you took hurt more until Weles saw the weakness in your footwork and used it to his advantage. To your credit though, you were still able to move quickly to avoid the slice of his blade as he swung at you with full force. Blocking another attack, your wrist trembled as your blade locked with his. There was nothing on his face that portrayed his thoughts and what he would do next. Weles had an amazing poker face that when he and Jaime played cards it was always a close game. You stared into his dark eyes, watching your own reflection.

“More fire, (y/n).” Weles whispered as he pressed on, making you stagger on your bad ankle.

Pursing your lips you try and do as he recommended. You twirled, sword sliding across his until the two were separate once more. Lunging at him and meeting his blade once again. You knew this dance though and performed the steps to perfection to avoid the sharp tip of his sword. After two weeks of training, you were finally more pliable and agile. Weles was a difficult mentor, but a good one. His goal was for you to succeed and he put that into your training. It was hard and relentless, but you prevailed. The first week had been the worst. Not even Jaime had given you that much of a wallop during training. Your arms and legs had been completely covered with bruises and the blisters on your hands were about ready to burst. Jaime, having caught sight of a rather ugly bruise on your thigh, nearly got into an altercation with Weles about how he was being too rough with you. Roughness was necessary. He wasn’t training a princess. He was training a warrior, a champion. You needed to experience that pain and soreness to truly appreciate the art of battle. How your body and life were so fragile, but your sword, your sword had to be stronger than the rest of you.

You could feel the dirt that rose from the ground mingle with the sweat on your face as it caked onto you. The threatening sting as it rolled too close to your eyes.

Block.

Lunge,

Swipe,

Strike!

Weles kept well on his feet but you saw it. Saw the small stumble as the impact of your sword caught him off guard. Finally an opening.

Ankle trembling and begging you to stop, you ignored it and leapt at him.

When it came to it though. . . you were too scared at the potential of actually hurting Weles. Fear made your hand grow light and your sword fly out of your hand once Weles caught on to your hesitation. You watched your sword strike the ground pathetically.

“What happened?”

“I didn’t want to actually hurt you.” You told him and went to go pick up your sword, limping the entire time.

“You’ll have to hurt me eventually. That’s how you learn. When you face the others, you’ll have to hurt them. Even kill them if the need arises.”

You remembered back in Myr that man that Jaime had killed right in front of you. All that blood. The gurgling that frothed from your attacker’s mouth as he fought to stay alive.

Would you ever be able to do that? Jaime made it seem like it was nothing. Not for the first time, you wondered how many people your brother has killed. Stomach pains arose just thinking of it. Did you have what it took to kill someone? To act so offensively?

“Alright, that’s enough.” Jaime made himself clear as he wiped his face with a cold cloth. He had been quietly training with the other men of the Fiery Hand while you had your one-on-one time with Weles. Noticing how you were favoring your good leg, Jaime clicks his tongue against his teeth. “You’re too hard on her.”

“You’re just too soft with her.” Weles counters and folds his arms against his chest. “She’ll toughen up in time. It’s only been two weeks since her training began. Give it time.”

That did nothing to appease Jaime as he continued to stare down Weles. He dare not say anything though. What use would it do to have the same argument over and over again.

Patting your brother’s sweaty arm, you tell him “It’s fine Jaime. He’s right. By next week I’ll be even better!”

“That’s the attitude to have!” Crowed out Feichin as he made his way to your little trio. His dimpled smile was infectious as he threw an arm around Jaime’s shoulders. “You sure the two of you are siblings? You’ve been acting like a sour puss all day.” Enigmatic and charming, even Jaime rolled his eyes and smiled a bit as he pushed Feichin’s arm off of him.

“Sour puss? You’re just a sore loser, my friend.” Jaime cooly replied. Those who overheard them laughed loudly. Even Sirvart who had been busy training with a former slave known as Yophiel. He was colossal and it was a mystery to you how anyone that size could be subjected to slavery. Whenever you spoke with Yophiel, he was always respectful and gentle. Traits of a man who was raised right by a good mother. No one at the Red Temple asked for background stories. The past didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was here now. Just like how no one asked you of your life back in Westeros. All they knew of you was what Thalina wrote to them in her letters.

Quietly among the laughter, Alizah goes up to you. “My lady, are you ready for your bath now?”

You nod. “Yes. That sounds amazing right now.” After training for hours you were ready to relax and wipe the grime of the day off of you. “Jaime! Are you going to be much longer?”

Your brother nods while still pushing Feichin away. Chest fluttering when you saw how happy he was to be back in his arena of expertise. Jaime was a natural at learning all the new techniques that Weles and the others had been teaching the two of you. “Just a bit longer. I’ll see you at supper though.”

Already Jaime had made friends. Not just Weles and Feichin, but even Yophiel found your brother agreeable as did Iyan, the young, exotic, Tyroshi who had hair the color of Rhaegar’s eyes and a pink beard. Then there was Vidarr who had actually been from Myr before entering the faith of R’hllor. The two of you got along better than he and Jaime due to the fact that you knew more Valyrian than your brother, something that Vidarr appreciated. You had spent much training time with Vidarr and talked much about your travels through Essos. Especially your stay in his home country. He had the same silver hair that your Rhaegar did, causing you much melancholy when you first met him. But Silver hair wasn’t that unusual to have in Essos. Vidarr had told you that the district he lived in in Myr was full of those with pale hair and dark skin. Old Valyrian traits. He must have been the only one around your age in the Fiery Hand, you knew for certain that Weles had to be older than Jaime. Iyan appeared to be in his late thirties from the looks of the lines on his face, the same as Yophiel and Dritan, another former slave.

Watching for a moment as Jaime continues his training with the other men, you smile to yourself then turn and follow Alizah to the baths.

“Does it hurt?” Alizah hesitates to put ointment on your ankle for the swelling. It had grown to the size of an apple.

In a red robe, you perch yourself on the edge of the steaming hot spring as the red priestess tended to your ankle. “A little. Do you think I broke anything?”

She laughs softly and shakes her head. “No, my lady. I do not believe so. You would be in much more pain if something had broken.”

Nails digging into the dirt as Alizah rubbed gentle circles on your ankle, you suppressed your hiss at the sensation. Inanna, who had gathered your dirty clothes together, shoots you a concerned look.

A red priestess by the name of Siofra goes to her. “Come along. Let’s leave (y/n) and Alizah. We must welcome back our sisters who have been out on their missionary travels.” The dark skinned Meereeneese nods and both leave.

“Missionaries?”

Alizah nods. “Yes. Many from our temple go to visit our other branches in Essos Once word of you arriving got out, well, they wanted to come home as soon as possible to meet you. They’re so excited to meet their champion.”

Champion. Right. . . “Alizah, have you ever hurt anyone?”

“Not intentionally.” She replies while setting your ankle back down onto the ground so you could swing it around and enter the bath. “Physically, no. I can’t do much harm if I can’t really see.”

“But you kind of can see. Right?”

“In a way. If you set me in front of a fire, I can see what’s in the flames clear as day. Sometimes that’s enough to get a view of the world around me.”

“That’s cool. You see through fire.” You muse. The water was a god sent on your sore body as you let the bath drag you down.

Turning around so that you could face her, Alizah is still sitting patiently at the edge of the pool. Her dark, star filled eyes staring at the ground. She was so small, even shorter than you. Black hair like satin falls over her shoulders. “I hope you don’t think me too forward, my lady, but I can sense a hesitancy in you.”

Recalling back to your training, you grew anxious once again. You could have hurt Weles so easily. The wrong swing could slice him and make him bleed. You didn’t want that, especially when he had never cut you either. He was always careful, only hitting you with the flat side of his sword when he struck your weak spots. So why did he want you to hurt him? “I need to work on my offensive sword skills. Weles wants me to strike him.”

“Then you should do it.”

“But what if I seriously hurt him?”

“My lady, you must not be worried. Weles is the head of the Fiery Hand for a reason. He wants you to be prepared to maim someone if necessary. And I guarantee you, one day you will need that skill. The Others will not be gentle with you. They won’t hesitate to kill you.”

You sink deeper. “I don’t think I can though.”

A hand on your head makes you look up as Alizah caresses your head. “You have been beaten down all through your life. Of course you think you can’t do it right now. You’re still growing your confidence and your fire. I told you, I can see through fire and I can see the flames that are inside of you. I assure you, they are there.”

“I hope so.”

Alizah stands up. “When you are done with your bath I have someone that I would like you to meet.”

Curious, you finish washing yourself up and put on the clean clothes that Alizah had for you. Together you follow her through the Red Temple. Each passage was still new to you as was the beautiful scenic view that it had overlooking the sea. Old and full of secrets, the red sandstone of the open corridors were even more beautiful when the sun was setting as the orange colors paired well with it’s natural scarlet hue. There was still so much you had yet to explore. For the entire two weeks you had been in Volantis, you had been confined to either the training grounds or your own personal wing where Jaime also had his rooms. Of course you were free to explore the temple, but there were so many passages that you worried about getting lost; even with a good guide like Inanna or Alizah. You hadn’t even explored the city of Volantis, but you heard the prayers of the people on it’s steps. Those that followed R’hllor were aware of your presence and eager to catch a glimpse of you. Inanna had informed you that the Volantenese people were leaving you offerings at the steps of the temple and burning candles for you. It was all overwhelming for you to suddenly be this important person. Many of the offerings were flowers or candles, sometimes treats since word had gotten out that Azor Ahai Reborn had a sweet tooth. You refused the extravagant jewels that the upper class would leave for you. Now that was too much.

You had only been to the red priestess’ dormitory a few times. Simple and humble abodes they possessed, at least that’s what you had seen of Alizah’s room.

The doors were thin and narrow, only allowing one at a time to enter. Alizah feels along the wood of the door and nods before knocking.

It doesn’t take long for the door to open.

You felt like the wind was knocked out of you. The red priestess who was smiling at you looked almost like Thalina with her honey eyes and light brown hair that was pulled to the back and braided. “Alizah!”

“How were your travels, Rhiannon?”

“Wonderful but tiring.” Rhiannon admitted and took a step back. “Please, come in-” It’s only then that she takes note of your presence behind the short stature of Alizah. “Oh.”

Alizah enters Rhiannon’s room and steps aside so that you may enter as well. “May I introduce you to īlva kosh, Azōr Ahaī sigligon. (y/n) Targaryen.”

Her eyes widen and she quickly drops to the floor in a bow. “Ñuha kosh! I am so sorry I didn’t recognize you sooner.”

“Ah! That’s not necessary!” You blush furiously. “Please stand!”

“Ñuha kosh, this is Rhiannon. A fellow red priestess and the younger sister to your Thalina.” She gestures to the young girl who is getting up from the ground. You could see how long her braid really was. Thalina used to have the same length of hair before Viserys cut it off. Cruel little Viserys who at such a young age already had developed a personality that almost mirrored his father's Aerys.

Thalina had never mentioned having a sister, then again she hadn’t mentioned much about her life prior to entering in your service. “I-It’s an honor to meet you!”

Rhiannon grins and shyly plays with the length of her braid. “Oh no. The honor is truly all mine. Thalina told me so much about you. I’m so happy you made it to Volantis safe and sound.”

A lump developed in your throat. If only Thalina could have come along with you. “Rhiannon. . . I’m so sorry about Thalina. . .”

Her lips freeze in her smile and slowly dips down. Demeanor simpering, she drops her braid. “Do not be sorry for her. She embraced the possibility of her death once she foresaw it in the fire.”

That made you feel even worse. “She knew?”

Nodding, Rhiannon sits on her bed. Atop of her bed was a headboard where several knicknacks lay, including a little figure of a dragon. Just like the one Thalina had given you when the two of you first met. “Yes. Before leaving she did a fire reading with Alizah. There both saw her demise. Thalina wasn’t scared though. I feared for her of course. But she just smiled. She’s always been so brave.”

Tears well up in your eyes as you try to control yourself. “Yes. She was brave.”

Rhiannon smiles sadly. “And that’s the way I want to remember her. Do not grieve for her. I know Thalina and she wouldn’t have wanted that. You're here now. She can finally rest.”

There was no way you could have possibly stopped your tears from falling.

------

Taglist:

@boywivlove

@esposadomd

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akaviri-dovah · 1 year

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Do tell me all about your Mary Sue OC *rests chin on hands*

ahhhhh first of all I gotta say I'm so flattered that you followed me >w< I've been a fan of your art and writing for your while but that's another story for another day-

anyways about the character herself... I have A LOT to share, and the post editor doesn't like me so I apologise for taking so long on this, and thank you for your patience. I am going to start by saying that right from the start, before she even had a name, I thought her already dangerously close to being a mary sue due to her original purpose... shipping with one of my favourite canon characters.

this is Rumeranwen Malathelaere (or simply Rume), a 6'8 greatsword wielding high elf templar and my main character for ESO. though I haven't had much time to play the game I know enough to weave a story in my head about her, her love interest, and the forces threatening to tear them apart.

long ramble under the cut about her story, and all things about it I am worrying about making her a mary sue. spoilers abound. I'd like to hear opinions about this, also.

as is in the nature of all Elder Scrolls protagonists, it is in her hands that the fate of the world is placed. and not just once, either! though I plan to have multiple characters in my game and story, she is the one who takes the role of Vestige, completing the main quest as well as her alliance's questline, alongside the major DLC's.

Rume is a wonderful girl, for the most part: passionate, boisterous and energetic, righteous, and fearless (or at least claiming to be - there are some exceptions!). a true enjoyer of all the wonders Tamriel and its various peoples have to offer - see all the places, try all the food, pet all the creatures. but she is far from perfect: naive (especially after soul removal), stubborn, and a bit too impulsive for her own good, often learning things the hard way. not to mention that her engagement with other races puts her at odds with most of her fellow Altmer.

seems like quite a decent personality for the saviour of Tamriel, time and time again. but how did she get swept up into it all? why choose her (especially since she can put up quite the fight against any potential captors) to sacrifice and kick off the Planemeld, condemning her to an eternity of torment in Coldharbour?

simple, because she was the lover of Vanus Galerion. brought together by a certain Daedric Prince's playing matchmaker in an attempt to alleviate the Great Mage's troubled mind, and stayed that way for many years prior to the events of ESO. but sadly, it does not last, because Mannimarco (who in my and many others' interpretation is Vanus ex, who nevertheless wants him back) finds out and threatens them both. and so they separate for the time being, with Vanus going to confront Mannimarco alone and Rume left to wander Tamriel "as if she never knew him like she did" . but the Worm Cult's forces find her anyway, and proceed to capture her and drag her to Manni's lair, where he personally sacrifices her to Molag Bal.

but unlike so many others sacrificed in the same way, she returned to Nirn as if alive again due to her love for life itself being so deep and boundless, acting as an aedric force protecting her. but without a soul, she has no memory of her experiences from her previous mortal life. she does find Vanus again, much to his shock as he was given visions of her death. and especially since this Rume - though looking and sounding exactly the same as the Rume he knew and loved - does not recognise him at all.

things will get better for them, though. Rume will know him again, and realise her love for him even before she regains her soul. and their bond stays ever strong for the years to come - even though she travels far and wide, he is never far from her mind. and once her adventuring ends, and they retreat to a hidden estate to live out the rest of their lives in peace, she will be remembered by the people of all provinces for eras to come by myriad titles, with one of the most notable being "the Warrior Bride of the Great Mage."

if only it were so. for Mannimarco was not done with them yet, and was doubly furious for this perceived enemy of his to have escaped her fate, beat his ass, and stole his lover once again. and so came the fateful battle between Vanus's army of warriors and mages and Mannimarco's forces of death and darkness.

A thousand good and evil perished then, history confirms. Among, alas, Vanus Galerion, he who showed the way, It seemed once that Mannimarco had truly died that day.

from the book Mannimarco, King of Worms. this is canon.

Rumeranwen Malathelaere was among that thousand. sort of, but not quite. for she was a Vestige, and could not be truly killed, unlike her mortal lover who was then taken as an undead thrall by the King of Worms. but knowing this, Mannimarco sent his subordinates to the nearest wayshrine to capture her upon her resurrection, and imprisoned her in a pit at the bottom of a dungeon complex hidden beneath a lonely part of Tamriel untouched by man, mer, or beast, forced to die and come back to life over and over and over again with no way to escape nor anyone to rescue her. all written records of her were destroyed and word-of-mouth stories of her twisted into unrecognisability by the Worm Cult; by the tail end of the Third Era, nobody knew such a person had ever existed.

but rumour has it, that there is still someone who not only knows about her, but is searching for her, even after all this time. for immortals never forget their friends.

TLDR - "chosen one" oc who saves the world on multiple occasions, manages to defy fate due to "the power of love", nice for the most part but goes through awful undeserved things, has important canon character/in universe historical figure as love interest, is treated as a character who really existed in-universe

hope you enjoyed, nonetheless. and special credits go out to @titanwolfackerman for major inspiration and help in creating this story. please do check them out.

#aka's answers #aka's ocs #the elder scrolls #elder scrolls online #eso #altmer #high elf #vestige #oc: rumeranwen #aka's shipping shenanigans #oc x canon ship: galeranwen

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dragonsfromthemoon · 2 years

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Jon Snow’s tax policy

But Tolkien doesn’t ask the question: What was Aragorn’s tax policy? Did he maintain a standing army? What did he do in times of flood and famine? — GRRM. [Source]

In light of George R. R. Martin’s questions, I would like to analyse and discuss how he works out the theme of rulership and tax policy on his own work. For that, I will focus on Jon Snow as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.

Stannis snorted. "You spend your words as if every one were a golden dragon. I wonder, how much gold do you have laid by?" "Gold?" Are those the dragons the red woman means to wake? Dragons made of gold? "Such taxes as we collect are paid in kind, Your Grace. The Watch is rich in turnips but poor in coin." (Jon I, ADWD)

Here we have Jon introducing the tax policy practiced by the Night’s Watch to Stannis Baratheon. It is one that takes inconsideration the resources of the institution: they are rich in turnips, but not in coin.

A quick research on Google explains with a little more detail the tax paid-in-kind.

Given what the the Night’s Watch has available, it makes sense to adopt this kind of tax policy. However, the tax-in-kind is not sustainable in the long term for a few factors: 1. The Night’s Watch is hosting Stannis Baratheon and his men. It comes to a great cost, because these men demand resources (food, proper clothing, weapons).

"Your Grace," said Jon, with chilly courtesy, "I have housed your men and fed them, at dire cost to our winter stores. I have clothed them so they would not freeze."Stannis was not appeased. "Aye, you've shared your salt pork and porridge, and you've thrown us some black rags to keep us warm. Rags the wildlings would have taken off your corpses if I had not come north." Jon ignored that. "I have given you fodder for your horses, and once the stair is done I will lend you builders to restore the Nightfort. I have even agreed to allow you to settle wildlings on the Gift, which was given to the Night's Watch in perpetuity." (Jon I, ADWD)

2. The Night’s Watch has structural issues: buildings that demand repair. This all require gold and manpower to fix.

My command, Jon Snow reflected ruefully, as much a ruin as it is a stronghold. The Lord Commander's Tower was a shell, the Common Hall a pile of blackened timbers, and Hardin's Tower looked as if the next gust of wind would knock it over … though it had looked that way for years. (Jon I, ADWD)

"We have ceded you the Nightfort." "Rats and ruins. It is a niggard's gift that costs the giver nothing. Your own man Yarwyck says it will be half a year before the castle can be made fit for habitation." "The other forts are no better." "I know that. It makes no matter. They are all we have. There are nineteen forts along the Wall, and you have men in only three of them. I mean to have every one of them garrisoned again before the year is out." (Jon I, ADWD)

The men of the Night's Watch were brave enough, but they were far too few for the task that confronted them. (Jon II, ADWD)

Glass, Jon mused, might be of use here. Castle Black needs its own glass gardens, like the ones at Winterfell. We could grow vegetables even in the deep of winter. The best glass came from Myr, but a good clear pane was worth its weight in spice, and green and yellow glass would not work as well. What we need is gold. With enough coin, we could buy 'prentice glassblowers and glaziers in Myr, bring them north, offer them their freedom for teaching their art to some of our recruits. That would be the way to go about it. If we had the gold. Which we do not. (Jon VII, ADWD)

3. Jon has allowed the Free Folk to cross the Wall and has been trying to integrate them. As such, now the Free Folk is also his responsibility. He has to keep them clothed, fed and sheltered. This also demands more coin and resources.

4. As the hard winter approach with the threat of the Others, food has become scarce in the Night’s Watch. One solution to try remedy that is buying more food. Once again, though, that requires coin.

Jon had just been thinking that all the meat in the world surrounded them. You know nothing, Jon Snow. "How so? This seems a deal of food to me." "It was a long summer. The harvests were bountiful, the lords generous. We had enough laid by to see us through three years of winter. Four, with a bit of scrimping. Now, though, if we must go on feeding all these king's men and queen's men and wildlings … Mole's Town alone has a thousand useless mouths, and still they come. Three more turned up yesterday at the gates, a dozen the day before. It cannot go on. Settling them on the Gift, that's well and good, but it is too late to plant crops. We'll be down to turnips and pease porridge before the year is out. After that we'll be drinking the blood of our own horses." (Jon IV, ADWD)

"If we had sufficient coin, we could buy food from the south and bring it in by ship," the Lord Steward said. We could, thought Jon, if we had the gold, and someone willing to sell us food. Both of those were lacking. Our best hope may be the Eyrie. The Vale of Arryn was famously fertile and had gone untouched during the fighting. Jon wondered how Lady Catelyn's sister would feel about feeding Ned Stark's bastard. As a boy, he often felt as if the lady grudged him every bite. (Jon IV, ADWD)

Given the circumstances and the Night’s Watch dire need for coin, what is Jon’s solution? He approaches Tycho Nestoris, from the Iron Bank of Braavos, and strikes a deal with him. A loan, so he can feed his men until spring.

Tycho bowed his head. "We who serve the Iron Bank face death full as often as you who serve the Iron Throne." Is that whom I serve? Jon Snow was no longer certain. "I can provide you with horses, provisions, guides, whatever is required to get you as far as Deepwood Motte. From there you will need to make your own way to Stannis." And you may well find his head upon a spike. "There will be a price." "Price," screamed Mormont's raven. "Price, price." [...] "We need a loan as well. Gold enough to keep us fed till spring. To buy food and hire ships to bring it to us." "Spring?" Tycho sighed. "It is not possible, my lord." [...] It took the better part of an hour before the impossible became possible, and another hour before they could agree on terms. The flagon of mulled wine that Satin delivered helped them settle the more nettlesome points. By the time Jon Snow signed the parchment the Braavosi drew up, both of them were half-drunk and quite unhappy. Jon thought that a good sign. (Jon IX, ADWD)

Jon then reflects that he would rather have a debt than let his men starve in winter.

Tycho Nestoris had left behind a copy of their agreement. Jon read it over thrice. That was simple, he reflected. Simpler than I dared hope. Simpler than it should have been.It gave him an uneasy feeling. Braavosi coin would allow the Night's Watch to buy food from the south when their own stores ran short, food enough to see them through the winter, however long it might prove to be. A long hard winter will leave the Watch so deep in debt that we will never climb out, Jon reminded himself, but when the choice is debt or death, best borrow. (Jon IX, ADWD)

Jon takes hard decisions. Winter approaches, with all it entails. As Lord Commander, he need to be sensible when allocating the resources availble and defining his priorities. He concludes it is better to have a debt than let the Watch go hungry. That’s how GRRM works out the theme of tax policy and rulership in Jon’s narrative.

#a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #jon snow #canonjonsnow

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mahvaladara · 10 months

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[Laughter]

D: Well, the Maid did say you had a guest, but I never imagined you'd find something quite so exquisite.

S: -growls-

P: -flushes red-...

S: Of course it's you.

D: Aren't you going to introduce us, Piggy?

S: No. Peia, forgive me, while I go see to my sister. -whyspers- While she's here, do not play and do not sing.

D: -smiles-

P:... -looks at her intimidated-

D: I'd love to meet the one who makes my brother smile that much. I am Dem'Myr, or Myr if you prefer, Goddess of Beauty and Art.

P: -bows his head respectfully-

D: Is that a harp? Do you play?

P: -nods-...

D: You must play for me. To gain the patronage from the Goddess of Music herself would be a great honor.

P:...

D: Stick around, little stray. I'll be sure to meet you once I am done doing business with my brother.

#ts4 #the sims #sims #the sims 4 #dem'myr #peia #sael'myr #peia by lazysunjade

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brokebackmonastery · 2 months

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self insert intro finally WOOHOO!!

did not have any great art of him. oh well. in any case this is luna-myr eisner (transmasc + any pronouns! you'll usually see me using he/they but anything is alright)! and while he is to a degree a self insert he's also very much like. an OC. because i like to write and that's just how i do self shipping i suppose. anyways further details below :3

(proship/comship DNI)

self insert but also what you would call a bylethsona i suppose. definitely not exactly like canon byleth as you will see. comes paired with custom route i have deemed seafoam star

was sort of half-conscious growing up until sothis awoke. capable of feeling emotion, but cannot truly express them and experiences everything through somewhat of a haze

only people he really had growing up were jeralt (who is his dad ofc) and whatever animals hung out wherever they were staying. was generally not around people his age and even when they were nobody wanted to engage with him because of his "odd" behavior. even adults were put off by him

autistic. who would i be if i did not make my SI autistic

quite merciful for a mercenary. capable of being brutal, but it is reserved for the truly deplorable; for example, often lets thieves trying to steal from well-off folk to keep themselves or their loved ones alive go in secret. does not see these acts of survival as worthy of punishment. wishes he could help them more. however, people are generally not aware of this and are more likely to have heard about the aforementioned brutality.

though they didn't have much choice in taking the monastery job, he was generally okay with it, if not confused. It was their first time in a setting surrounded by so many people his age consistently. understood why seteth did not trust him.

time powers work more in-depth than with canon byleth. can of course use divine pulse, but this also comes with an unusually acute perception of time and the occasional ability to have visions of the past and possible futures. since his body is still technically mortal, these visions often make him feel faint if not entirely pass out. These visions can be shared via touch.

genuinely does not understand what the hell is going on, particularly early game. people seem to think he does or that he's hiding something — he is not. they are just learning to express the confusion they feel.

drawn to claude right away. erm...?

more visibly nabatean than canon byleth after fusing with sothis. pointed ears and reptilian pupils come alongside the green hair. possibly has a few scales here and there on his body as well. claws (and i'm talking CLAWS not just long nails) and fangs. dragon form that he is entirely unaware of until much later. the sort of "transformation" into being more visibly nabatean was like. Painful and lasted roughly a week

teaches all three classes and has a significant connection with them all, but is the homeroom teacher of/is the closest with the golden deer (think like... the teachers rotate who they teach basically. but each have a homeroom they are tied to/spend more time with)

did not even have a chance to choose a side between edelgard and rhea. would not have killed edelgard at rhea's request regardless and approaches her about it before the imperial attack on the monastery to ask if there is any other way. rhea was upset by the idea that he did not side with her unconditionally. they did not want to kill either of them

loves rhea, but does not trust her. Very confused by her actions and only wants the truth from her. Sees her as somewhat of a motherly figure, ironically.

likes drawing, creating jewelry (usually out of bone), sewing, and carving (usually sets of dice). like sitri, loves flowers and will be delighted to see unusual ones. his favorites are any kind of lily. has an affinity for stuffed animals as well

big fan of moths especially luna moths if that was not apparent. goes to see them out in the wild yearly in the short span of time that they are active

also bonus dragon form where he's a weird horsemothlizard as well as a better demonstrarion of the fact that they have straight up Claws. that's all i've got for now. cheers

#self shipping #self ship #self ship community #oc x canon #fe3h oc #self insert #self insert oc #hi. i wish i had a better ref for him but WHATEVER !!!!!! i did not feel like doing a new one so i just modified the old one erm #the portrait is the best thing i have tbh #i will do a better ref eventually i just cannot draw rn. heart #thought it would be beneficial to like... properly introduce him before anything else #because i feel like nothing i say will make sense otherwise

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askkrenko · 2 years

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Krenko’s Guide to Creature Types: Myr

Art by Franz Vohwinkel

What is a Myr (flavorfully)?

Myr means Ant, and while Myr are not related to ants, it’s a fitting term for them. The Myr are an omnipresent type of artifact creature spread throughout Mirrodin/New Phyrexia. Originally created by Memnarch to help maintain the planet, after his death the Myr’s programming was forced to adapt, and many Myr created after were designed with minds capable of learning. Thus, the Myr became their own race.

Myr are rather small, generally about half the size of a person, but a small number of Myr created to guard and protect other Myr are much larger.

Unfortunately, Mirrodin was taken over by the Phyrexians, and now many Myr have been Phyrexianized. It is unknown what amount, if any, of Myr remain free.

What is a Myr (mechanically)?

All Myr are Artifact Creatures, with the vast majority being colorless. This is less a factor of Myr color identity, though, and more that colored artifacts were not common when Myr first appeared. The most recent Myr have had colors, and it’s likely that more will going forward.

Myr are usually small, generally in the 1-2 power and toughness range, with the larger Myr being specific outliers. There are also a number of cards that make 1/1 Myr (or Phyrexian Myr) Artifact Creature tokens. One card makes 2/1 Blue Phyrexian Myr Artifact Creature Tokens, but he’s specifically building his own, so those aren’t standard representations of Myr.

Can I make a Myr deck?

Myr are a decently supported tribe with a reasonable number of representatives, but suffer the problem that all Artifact Creature tribes do: Balance generally requires Artifact Creatures to be weaker than non-Artifact Creatures. Further, while there are specific Myr rewards, they’re generally not any better than the simple “Artifact Creature” rewards.

In 60 card, while you can go adorably infinite with two Myr Galvanizers and other mana-myr, it’s hardly efficient and few of your creatures have power on-par with colored creatures. This efficiency will increase as more colored Myr are printed, but right now they’re just generally weak.

This isn’t to say you can’t make the deck, just that your focus needs to be on cards that care about Artifacts rather than cards that care about Myr. Tempered Steel goes a long way.

That or you just ramp into Myr Battlesphere and smash face. That works, too.

In Commander, you have a similar problem, and while there are a few commanders that work well with what Myr are doing, none of them are overly happy being the Myr commander. Brudiclad, Telcor Engineer is the obvious choice, but he only makes one Myr a turn starting at 6 mana, and his ability really wants you to turn those tokens into something more formidable.

If Myr deck is actually your goal, I’d suggest a Commander who is both White and Blue that rewards playing Artifacts. Breya is an obvious powerhouse here, but you can also combine Silas Renn with Ravos or Rebbec to revive your Myr and/or protect them. There’s a number of other options, but they all come with the same core issue.

Are there enough playable cards and synergies to make a Myr deck in Commander? Absolutely. Are the Myr themselves strong enough that playing a Myr deck will be stronger than playing an Artifact Creatures deck? No.

Is Myr a good creature type?

I love Myr. They’re consistent, clear, and unique to Magic: the Gathering as an IP. They’re cute, they’re cool, they do a lot of useful and interesting things, and I hope they’re okay.

Mechanically, Myr only being Artifact Creatures does have them fight in design space between Myr Matters cards and Artifact Creatures Matter cards, with the latter being an infinitely bigger space, so they need a few better tribal cards if they want to actually exist as a tribe. A Legendary creature that makes Myr tokens faster than Brudiclad does would go a long way. Hopefully we’ll see something akin to it during the next Phyrexian invasion, which looks like it’ll be coming sooner rather than later.

One minor issue of Myr is that their typing is so narrow they’re unlikely to show up on other planes. Kaladesh had Servos which aren’t the same as Myr but sharing a creature type with them would’ve gone a long way. I hope Myr make their way somewhere else in numbers, just so we can have more Myr, but I’m not sure how when they’re so intrinsically tied to Mirrodin.

#Krenko's Guide #Myr #Mirrodin #mtg #magic the gathering

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