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wisteria-blooms · 6 months

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sunburns & dragons (charlie weasley & reader) (4/??)

CHAPTER DIRECTORY

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CHAPTER 4: A week before the highly-anticipated dinner, you discover something terrible. You are a hard, fact-based person; Charlie is your contrarian spur-of-the-moment partner. And he’s not shy to show you. (5.4k words)

CHAPTER 4: BOYS IN THE BLUE

The warm autumn day took a nosedive the moment you headed home. There was a light spray of rain in the gardens, and you had to march over soggy leaves to get to the front door. When you were back inside, it was even colder in the lifeless, expanse corridors and you involuntarily shuddered. It was chilly to the point that you assumed there must be Dementors floating about… oh, right, your brother and father were home.

As you ambled down the hall, you mapped out all the ways to victory. It was a play well-rehearsed and acted.

The Plan Step 1: Start argument with Lucius. Step 2: Press the issue, inciting anger in him. Step 3: Build up the anger by making valid points. Step 4: Watch his composure rupture. This is considered a victory. Just wait for his silent withdrawal because he’ll be too embarrassed to admit he’s lost. Optional Steps Step 3.a. Utilise reverse psychology (e.g. “Uncle Theo is a classic example of money not buying class. I’m so glad we don’t engage in such gauche practices.”) Step 3.b. Create fantastical scenarios to help your father see the light. Step 3.c. Rally Narcissa on your side. Lucius never argues with Narcissa.

As you passed your father’s study, you saw Lucius at his desk writing something on a long roll of parchment. He’d since changed from those ridiculously fancy dress robes to just a plain button-up shirt and let his hair down. The fireplace cackled menacingly beside him, orange flames puffing just like how he’d be within the next five minutes.

You popped your head in. “I hope your business meeting went well,” you started.

“Fortunately, it did, despite the crisis that I averted,” Lucius answered without so much as a glance up at you.

“What crisis?” you asked sweetly.

Lucius narrowed his eyes, still writing. “You know very well what I’m talking about.”

“You should recount the story for mother and Draco tonight,” you offered.

“There’s no need for it.”

“Right,” you affirmed. Again, you didn’t want this dinner to have to happen. This conversation was a means to call it off. “I reckon it was hard to take in. You should take your time and meet Charlie when you’re in a better temperament.”

“That’s not correct,” Lucius stated with a tsk. “I am always in a pleasant temperament.” He finally laid his quill down and looked at you. “And your mother and brother will be delighted to meet your… partner at dinner in a fortnight as planned.”

“So, all your talk about reputation and standards was for naught?” you pressed. The next plan of attack was a subset of step three: reverse psychology. “What happens when our neighbours see a Weasley at the door? Being invited in by a Malfoy? You’ll be the talk of the town.”

Lucius smiled menacingly. “I reckon I’ve been unfair,” he admitted slyly. “I should get to know the Weasley boy. Maybe he won’t be a disgrace like his parents.”

You grimaced internally. You should’ve known that Lucius was not going to make this easy.

“You’ve really had a change of heart, father,” you stated. “It’s not in our usual fashion, but maybe we should start associating with blood traitors more.

“Nonsense”—he waved a hand—“I consider it charity work.”

“That’s complete rubbish, Charlie is not—”

Lucius raised a hand to stop you. “I have never implied that, but if that’s what you think of your boyfriend, then so be it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. If this was how he wanted to play it, then you were going to start writing to all his colleagues and business partners about your relationship and plaster your photos on every billboard. You were going to send an owl to everyone in the Ministry, including the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Hold on, speaking of Shacklebolt…

“Then, you wouldn’t mind if we attended the Ministry Christmas party together this year, won’t you? We could be sat at the table with you and mother, and Draco. I reckon I should let you know now since the Minister’s office needs a guest list by the end of October.”

A moment of silence. Then, both the corner of your and Lucius’s mouth twitched at the same time but in different contexts. You, with happiness and him, with chagrin.

“Well, that’s still some ways off,” he responded. “But I’m sure our Minister would be delighted to have the less fortunate seated so far up.”

“Then spare a seat for Charlie.”

“Of course,” Lucius said. “Consider it done. But let’s have dinner together first, shall we?”

“And remind me, (Y/N),” Lucius continued with a growing grin. “Charlie is the son with the dragons, correct?”

“Why do you care?”

“His father always tries to tell me about his children when I pass him by at the Ministry. Truthfully, I’m barely listening but I have caught onto this particular detail.”

The look in his eyes made you uneasy. Truthfully, you wished you didn’t have to answer him. There were consequences to telling the truth or lying. Looks like nothing had changed since you were younger.

“He is.”

With that, you walked away.

The rest of the afternoon, you resided in the sunroom, watching the rain slam on the overhead glass. A cloud of perturbation hung over your head like the weather. Unsure of how to communicate your failure with Charlie, you chose to sit and ruminate. But after half an hour, you grabbed a quill, a piece of parchment, and a seal and began writing.

Charlie, I couldn’t do it. You’ll have to clear your schedule for next next Saturday. (Y/N) Malfoy

About half an hour later, your owl fluttered back to your window.

(Y/N), Not saying I didn’t tell you so, but… I told you so. I won’t be here all week, but I’m back on Friday from Hogwarts. How about meeting me at the platform at eight p.m.? Charlie P.S. This is Romanian parchment. Go on, try to burn it. Spoiler: it doesn’t.

Curious, you trotted over to the fireplace. You crumbled the parchment and threw it into the flames. You waited for the crinkling sounds, for the edges to crisp and blacken, and the ball to burst in flames, but to your amusement, the paper was as pristine as ever. It lay unaffected in the blue flames.

With a smile, you wrote back:

Charlie, That works for me. Have a good week. (Y/N) Malfoy

You held off communication with Charlie for the rest of the week, opting to fiddle with your quill at your cubicle at the Ministry. When no one was looking, you scribbled down details of what you’d say to your father—lines you’d feed to Charlie to regurgitate until they felt real. For some reason, Fred and George were eager to escort you to the station to meet Charlie on Friday. You chalked it up to them missing their brother. Fred invited you to wait for them after work so you could go together.

When the fated Friday arrived, you rushed out of your office to Weasley Wizard Wheezes. You sat in the homey flat upstairs while waiting for Fred and George to close shop. You spread out on the couch, legs on the armrest, reading the stories you’d weaved at your desk.

You rehearsed in a low voice. “Charlie and I met at Christmas last year when he came back for a week. He invited me for coffee and the rest was history. December 27th, wasn’t it, darling? We had an instant connection and maintained our relationship through letters and chats through floo.”

You scribbled a line in and continued. “I was chuffed when he decided to take an extended vacation this year.”

Then you shut your eyes and pretended Lucius was asking you a question about your future.

“Well, we haven’t decided where we’ll settle, but at the moment, Romania is looking like the better option for both of us.”

“Is it?” Fred interjected. “Really?”

You scrambled up, feet hitting the ground. “You’re done already?”

“Not a particularly busy week,” he said, sitting down next to you and peering over. “Let me have a read to review the accuracy of this love story.”

You pushed him away. “No.”

“It sounds kind of stiff and unrealistic if I’m being honest,” George added. “Is this a dinner or a job interview? And Charlie sounds more romantic than I’d ever know him.”

“I was just rehearsing,” you grumbled in defence. “It’s not meant to sound polished.”

Fred and George walking in on you penning a romance between you and their older brother was going to be something they’d never let you live down. You continued walking on and grabbed your topcoat that was hanging from the rack. You slipped it over your black sweater dress and announced: “Let’s get going.”

All mentions of your script were thankfully forgotten when the three of you landed in the chilly autumn air that engulfed King’s Cross Station. You strode the last hundred metres, quickly falling in sync with the twins. A tale as old as time, Fred situated himself to your left and George to your right.

“I assumed Charlie was only to be at Hogwarts for two or three days a week from the way he was speaking,” you said. “But it seems he left Monday, is that right?”

“He mentioned some ‘contractual matters’ to clear with McGonagall. You know, given that he decided to take the job on such short notice. But McGonagall has been waiting for her favourite student to come back since he graduated, so she was more than fine with it,” George explained before a grin broke out on his face. “It’s interesting you seem to have such complex insights into Charlie’s life.”

“Complex insights?” you repeated. “He told me.”

“When? On your date or when you were having lunch with his mum?”

“Your mum, too, Georgie,” you reminded him.

“Not the way she was making it seem.”

To your left, Fred made a discontented noise. “I wish he hadn’t come back,” he grumbled.

“Why’s that?”

“Because while mum adores Bill, her fixation with Charlie is on another level,” Fred groaned. “And now that McGonagall gets to see him again, it’ll be even worse for his ego. That’s all she ever talked about, huh, Georgie? ‘That was a very strategic play, Fred, but your brother Charlie did it better.’ And then she’d launch into a story of the time Charlie enacted a critical play to win the game.”

“Which game?” George queried, stroking his chin. “I can only remember ten examples.”

“You sound jealous,” you teased, giving Fred a nudge.

“You’re right,” Fred conceded. He shot you a quick wink. “I guess I’m jealous he gets to date you.”

Your sudden laugh vaporised in the cold air. “You flatter me, Fred Weasley. But we’re not dating, remember?”

Fred must’ve noticed the puff of air that left your lips, because he then suggested: “Let’s have a night out before the weather goes to total shit.”

“It is already total shit,” you reminded him as a snappy breeze blew past you. You held a gloved hand to his face. “The nice weather will be gone like your deepest freckles.”

Fred clicked his tongue. “(Y/N) Malfoy, eternally the”—he paused at looked at you—“shivering pessimist.”

He wasn’t wrong. You breathed a sigh of relief when you stepped into the warmth of King Cross’s station. You strode past the last wave of stragglers trying to catch the next train home. You looked around the concourse, ensuring there were no muggle eyes on you, before the three of you smoothly gilded into the wall and onto Platform 9 ¾.

“Nice to be here with nowhere to go, huh?” George asked when you reappeared.

You nodded. It wasn’t early September and there weren’t bustling crowds and extraneous noise—of frantic parents, crying children, and conductors. Now, there were barely five people on the platform: an old man reading a newspaper; a mother and her son; and two wizards in dress robes.

A light wind began to pick up around the platform. You looked down at your watch. It was eight o’clock on the dot. The Hogwarts Express de-accelerated, screeching slightly against the metal tracks, before stopping in front of you. The windows were noticeably emptier and there couldn’t be more than a dozen people on this train. As people deboarded, you peeked around, looking for a mop of ginger curls.

As soon as you saw Charlie at the top step in the first compartment, you nudged George to go over. Charlie hadn’t seen you yet. He was raising a hand to the conductor. “Thanks, Stan.”

Stan tipped his hat. “See you next week, Charlie.”

Then, Charlie stepped off the train carrying a leather briefcase. He was dressed like how you first saw him, in the same slacks and jean jacket. His hair was mussed from the trip, but the dishevelled locks suited him. His blue eyes were cloudy with sleep, as they would be after a long journey.

“Hey Charlie,” George greeted.

Fred patted your shoulder and said: “Got your girlfriend here in one piece.”

Charlie’s face lit up. “Thank you, Fred.”

You shook your head in annoyance at Fred. Truth be told, you didn’t like Fred’s casual use of the word ‘girlfriend.’ Hopefully, after next week, you’d never need to ask for Charlie’s services again.

Fred ushered George back to the wall. “We’ll be heading back now.”

George cocked his head. “Yeah, don’t be too long.”

When the twins had disappeared through the wall, so did their laughs.

You turned to Charlie. “There’s a coffee shop in the station we could sit at,” you offered. “You must be famished after your trip.”

“I’m tired,” Charlie said with a yawn. He stretched his arms behind his head and flawlessly, one of those arms swung over your shoulder, pulling you closer to him. The scent of pine trees and cinder enveloped you immediately. He cocked his head downwards towards yours, eyes lighting in amusement. “Let’s chat at the pub instead.”

“The pub?” you repeated, blinking up at him. Unconsciously, you fell in step with Charlie, striding with his arm locked around you down the platform. “Didn’t you just say you were tired?”

“A beer will wake me up.”

“That is physiologically counterintuitive,” you stated.

“I wasn’t built like a normal person.”

As the firm curve of his bicep grazed your face, you were inclined to agree.

When you stepped outside of the station, the night had grown even darker. Stars peeked out from the blanket of black from up above. Charlie finally unlatched himself from you as you approached a tram stop. To be honest, you were annoyed that your shield of warmth was taken from you and that Charlie had left you to fend against the wind by yourself.

“Where to, Miss Malfoy?” Charlie asked as you sat down on the moving tram.

You leaned back on the plush seat. “Might go to the White Wyvern for a classy night,” you jested.

“Great, I’ve been looking forward to splintering my fingers at the table,” Charlie hummed in agreement. “Or I’ll my hand stuck from the beer residue until Mace, the owner, has to saw it off. Might lose a kidney, who knows, but it’d be worth it.”

“Have you been?” you asked. “It sounds like you have.”

Charlie chuckled. “That I can’t say. You can inquire about anything else though.” He swerved the conversation around. “Where does your dad go on a Friday night?”

“Valour.”

Valour was an upscale bar where Lucius fancied having dinner with his business companions. You’d been just a handful of times, but it wasn’t your cup of tea. There was no one your age there.

Charlie let out a low whistle. “I’d have to sell my kidney for a night there. Let’s settle for something in the middle.”

“Alright then,” you said. “Let’s go to The Brew.”

“I’ve never been there.”

“It opened last summer. You were probably in Romania.”

“Sounds reasonable. Lead the way.”

The Brew was only a block away from where the tram stopped. You guided Charlie up the cobbled road on Warwick Avenue, dangerously close to where you were last week when you were caught by Molly. You knew you’d arrived when you saw the exterior of the building: sleek and trendy with neon cursive lettering shining against the black brick. Inside, the crystal wine glasses perched on top of the bar shimmered in the dim light. The velvet chairs—maroon and pine—contrasted well against the glossy walls.

After the host took your coats, you looked for an open spot.

“Let’s sit at the bar,” Charlie suggested.

“Alright.”

You also appreciated Charlie’s confidence to find footing wherever he was. You thought yourself well-adjusted in that regard; you were good at settling with your family’s uppity friends. But Charlie was on a different level.

He weaved through the crowds gracefully with two hands in his pockets. When he found two unoccupied barstools, he pulled one out for you.

“After you.”

“Thank you.” You smoothed your dress and sat down. You swivelled around to place an order, but the bartender in front of you seemed occupied with something else.

“No way,” she exclaimed, her hands halfway through drying a glass with a towel. “Charlie Weasley?”

“The one and only,” he responded. “And you are…” He squinted his eyes, appraising the tall bartender. She was dressed fully in black which you assumed was the unofficial uniform of the pub. Her curly hair rivalled the colour of her blouse. She had eyes as green as the lime garnishes at her workstation. Her ears were adorned by multiple piercings, and a small collection of tattoos dotted her toned arms. “Mallory.”

Her red lips curled into a smile. “You still remember me?”

“I couldn’t ever forget,” Charlie said. “Though it’s been almost, what, twelve years?”

Mallory nodded.

“Mallory and I were teammates on the Gryffindor Quidditch team,” Charlie explained, facing you. “Mallory, this is (Y/N).”

You quickly extended a hand. “(Y/N) Malfoy. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh—,” Mallory quickly corrected herself and shook your hand. “Mallory Mikaelson.”

You smiled politely and withdrew. What a reputation your last name had around town. If only it was for the better, you thought.

Mallory’s eyes narrowed in concentration as she leaned over the counter to take a closer look at you. “I can’t seem to place you, love,” she said. “I suppose you were in a different house, or a different year?”

You didn’t want to admit you were six years younger than Charlie because of the way it might reflect on him, so you were vague with your answer: “Both.”

She hummed, then redirected the conversation back to Charlie. “Do you remember Marcus, my brother?”

“Of course,” Charlie said. “The best beater I’ve had the pleasure of playing with, besides you. Where is he now?”

“Department of International Transportation at the Ministry,” Mallory said. “We still play Quidditch at weekends at Felder's Field just north of here. We’d love to have our old teammate back for a game.”

“Name the date and time, I’ll be there,” Charlie affirmed.

“Hey Mal,” another bartender called from the back. “Abby called in for her shift at the front. Boss is asking you to cover for her tonight.”

“I’ll be right over,” Mallory said, her tone cool and professional. Then with a warm smile, she capped off her conversation with Charlie. “See you then, Charlie. Send me an owl.”

Charlie waved back. “See you.”

“What can I get for you two?” Mallory’s colleague asked after she’d gone out to the front.

“A pint of stout,” Charlie said.

You were still preoccupied with the conversation that just occurred so the question didn’t even register in your brain. Who was Mallory? What kind of past did she have with Charlie?

“What about you, love?” the bartender pressed.

“(Y/N)?” Charlie leaned in, giving your arm a squeeze. “If you don’t answer, I’ll get you a stout, too.”

You quickly regained consciousness. “An aperol spritz, please. Thank you.”

“Is the idea of a stout really that terrible?” Charlie joked.

“Yes,” you gasped out. “Awful.”

In a matter of minutes, your drinks arrived and you were finally left alone.

“It’s always nice to see a familiar face, isn’t it?” Charlie remarked.

“Absolutely,” you agreed with a nod. You vowed to forego your curiosity; there were more pressing matters. “Speaking of familiar things, how was your first week at Hogwarts?”

“Really great. I’m just settling in and getting accustomed to my classroom and Hagrid’s curriculum.”

“Does he know the meaning of a curriculum? I’ve heard his classes weren’t very…. Well-structured.”

“Not at all,” Charlie affirmed. “It’s whatever he feels like teaching that day. I might have to work with him a little.”

You grinned. “I can imagine.”

Charlie nodded his head. “You’re imagining right.” After a sip of beer, he resumed his thoughts. “But we’re not here to talk about Hagrid. We’re here to talk about next week.”

“Right! So, I prepared something,” you said, reaching into your purse for the rolled parchment. You hooked it with your finger and fished it out. “I was hoping to go over some notes with you—”

“(Y/N),” Charlie interrupted. His hand, leading with his thumb, was making a backward motion. “I need you to start from the beginning. Unlike my brothers, I know zilch about you.”

You set the parchment back in your purse and tucked it away. “Well, what do you know about me?”

“I know that everyone is terrified of your father, your brother is a right tosser, and your mother is gorgeous.”

Without thinking, you slapped Charlie on the arm, causing him to sputter in his drink. “Don’t talk about my mother like that.”

“If you’d let me finish my sentence,” Charlie protested after recovering. “I would’ve said, ‘that’s obviously who you got your looks from.’’”

Now, it was your turn to nearly sputter into your drink.

Charlie wagged a finger. “Careful, don’t spill that on yourself again.”

“I don’t reckon that was remotely my fault. You sat on me.”

Charlie was unfazed by your accusation and grinned instead. “Tell me more about your family.”

Quizzically, you continued, though you were unsure of how keen Charlie was on climbing your family tree. “My mother has two sisters, my aunts Bellatrix and Andromeda. I don’t have much to say there. My father has a brother and a sister. My uncle, Theodore Malfoy, and my aunt, Rosamund Malfoy. Thankfully for all of us, Uncle Theodore lives in France.”

Charlie furrowed his eyebrows. “Why thankfully?”

You paused. You never had anyone show so much concentrated interest in your family. Even Fred and George didn’t care much past the surface, past taunts against Lucius or Draco. You explained to Charlie what happened in France this summer, how he’d made a grand show of displaying his new properties and putting your family down.

“He’s perhaps the most terrible person I’ve met,” you huffed. “He’s worse than my father. You can’t talk about anything good without him doing you one better. And his spawn follows his mannerisms exactly.”

“Who are the spawn?”

“Genevieve. She’s my oldest cousin. She just got married this summer in Nice. She’s the worst. It was a cursed occasion because my mother came home with some nuptial fever. Her brother Claude is similarly terrible but he just talks less and conceals it better.” You gauged Charlie’s facial expression and could tell he was still engrossed. “I have two younger cousins, Charlotte and Clara. They’re pleasant, though I can’t tell the difference between them on a good day. They look very much alike despite being two years apart.”

“That leaves you,” Charlie remarked with a wide grin. “My favourite Malfoy.”

You laughed. “I’m the only Malfoy you know.”

“I’ve heard of your brother,” Charlie said. “From what I’ve gathered, I prefer you.”

“I haven’t scared you off?”

“Not yet.”

His face read ‘try me’ to which you smiled at.

Then, silence fell upon you. It was to be expected, a natural stall in the conversation. You took a prolonged sip of your cocktail to ease the awkwardness. As the bitters melted on your tongue, you searched for other things to talk about, but Charlie beat you to it.

“(Y/N),” Charlie’s deep voice called out to you.

You put your drink down on the table. “Yes?”

“I have a question for you.”

“Alright.”

Charlie shifted his stool over to yours. He was close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from his body. This time, instead of remaining where he was, he latched a hand on your kneecap. Every callus embedded on his fingers were noticeable on the groove of your knee, despite a layer of sheer tights separating his skin and yours. His grip didn’t hurt, but he was firm.

“What are you doing?” you panicked. Your tone came out more accusatory than you’d liked.

“Practising?” Charlie said quizzically. “Will it even be the least bit convincing if my touch repulses you?”

“I’m not repulsed!” you retorted. “It was just unexpected.”

Unexpected, as in you hadn't had a man touch you in months, maybe two years if you wanted the statement to be accurate. And at some point, you had stopped counting because the thought made you all the more miserable.

“That’s why I have a question,” he explained. “How much am I allowed to touch you at this… dinner?”

Your brain short-circuited for a minute. It was very hard to form any thoughts with Charlie’s sharp blue eyes tangled with yours, waiting for an answer like his life depended on it. The lopsided curve of his lip tempted a sacrilegious answer, one that you had too much modesty top provide. And now, things were harder with his large hand engulfing your kneecap. You were a deer in the headlights; he was the coyote catching his prey.

“This is fine.” This would convince your parents. Merlin, even you were convinced.

“Alright.”

You looked down. Your skin burned beneath his touch, and you had to wonder why you felt this way, why you were suddenly so flushed and withdrawn. Surely, if Fred pulled this act, you’d touch—or rather, slap—him back in retaliation.

Charlie’s thumb began to rub circles above your knee as he asked: “What about this?”

You stifled a sound. You were ticklish but you also couldn’t deny that that wasn’t the only sensation you were feeling. You couldn’t pinpoint it but you knew his touch wasn't at all unwanted.

“Don’t you think that’s too much?” you murmured. “All we need is a solid story, and I reckon we should be able to get away with it.”

“Nothing is too much if the goal is to convince your parents you like me, emotionally and physically,” Charlie commented with a laugh. “That’s the equation of love. Got it?”

You nodded slowly. Sure, you understood arithmetic, but this was a devilishly dangerous line he was toeing around.

He scooted even closer to you, his barstool squeaking against the floor, to be able to lift his hand from your knee to find your waist instead. His palm found its way to the dead centre, gravitating towards the most delicate part of you.

“Still okay?” he asked with an upward tilt of his head. You were entranced by how sharp his jaw cut under at this angle.

You nodded slowly, lips parting slightly as a result. He was so close that you could smell the alcohol on his lips. You hoped the dim lighting obfuscated your reddening face.

“Good job,” he praised with a smirk. “You’re doing great, (Y/N).”

Your head spun as if the prosecco in the aperol spritz had concentrated and exploded in your bloodstream all at once. Charlie’s voice started sounding further and further away, even though you were intently watching him inch closer. The room behind him blurred like a camera finding a focus on its subject. Charlie was your subject, his every freckle and crease near his gleaming eyes clear as day.

“Do you do this… often?”

You could barely hear your own voice.

“Sh, I’m the one asking questions. Keep focussed on the conversation we’re having.”

Focus? You wanted to ask Charlie if a dragon had clawed off his frontal lobe, leaving him helpless to his impulses. A prime example: this scene he was making.

“Now,” he continued, squeezing your waist. “What is your limit?”

“My—” you stammered, unable to gauge the meaning of his two-toned words. “My limit? As in alcohol?”

A barking laugh shattered your daze and brought you back to the present. Charlie’s voice was now glassy clear and his tone melodic. “(Y/N), let’s reroute back to the question of how much I can touch you.”

“Erm, this is okay,” you eked out through shallow breaths. Had Charlie shrunk your lungs? Was there such a spell? “I don’t imagine anyone would want to see any more.”

His eyes darkened. Your heart stopped. “What if I kissed you?” he asked.

Well, your heart was certifiably alive again because it had just catapulted against your chest, almost throwing you forward.

‘Now? Or next week?’ You wanted to scream. At this point, it was hard to tell and if he didn’t stop talking, you were really going to die. Might as well have the bartenders dig a hole in the ground right here and bury you with a tombstone carved with the words ‘Cause of Death: Charlie Weasley.’

“Let’s hope the situation’s not dire enough to have to come to that,” you said. On the contrary, your eyes were drinking in those smirky lips like they were the finest and richest wine in the world and wondering if rehearsals should be in order.

“But if it did?”

You pursed your lips which Charlie noticed, his eyes falling downwards, long lashes casting shadows over his face. You had to approach this logically and weigh the benefits and risks. If you had to kiss Charlie for a millisecond, it could mean a lifetime of your parents off your back. And a seriously tumultuous friendship with Fred and George if they found out.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“It would be fine,” you whispered with minimal conviction. “But only as a last resort.”

A rush of blood pounded your head when he was a mere three inches from your face. You gulped when you saw yourself reflected in his eyes. One wrong move and your nose would brush up against his freckled one.

“Of course,” he stated, looking offended. “You’d think I’d just waltz in next weekend and we’d start snogging in the foyer? You must think better of me.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—’

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Charlie teased, scooting back and letting his legs stretch out. Your eyes were glued to his hands and arms that were crossed in front of his chest. A cocky grin graced his chiselled face. “But this is great. I’ve got enough for next week.”

“Shouldn’t we discuss more about what we’re going to do?” you protested. Your voice was desperate and frantic. “We have to make sure we’re on the same page.”

“No, I really do have all that I need.”

“I wrote some things down, some critical points we should hit,” you pleaded, trying to find the parchment in your purse. When you unfurled it, Charlie was quick to snatch it out of your hands. He crushed it between his palms. When he opened his hand up again, the parchment was nothing more than cinder that disintegrated before it could hit the floor.

You were absolutely and undeniably sober after that action. Any thoughts of giving into a kiss dissipated immediately (and you weren’t sure why you were flirting with that idea in the first place). Your blood alcohol level: negative. Your chances of being betrothed to Goyle: positive.

“Charlie!”

“(Y/N)!” he imitated in a loud, whiny drawl that attracted the attention of the man beside him. You flushed; you did not sound like that. “Let’s get another round to soothe those nerves of yours.”

His grin grew wider as he flagged down the bartender. A blonde woman immediately swivelled towards him. He pointed to your drinks. You shut your eyes in defeat, resisting the urge to slam your head on the table.

His laissez-faire attitude was going to be the death of you.

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#charlie weasley x reader #charlie weasley x you #charlie weasley x oc #charlie weasley imagine

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uwmspeccoll · 11 days

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An Apocalyptic Manuscript Monday

This week we present our facsimile of the 14th-century Cloisters Apocalypse, published in 1971 by the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. As described in the introduction to the commentary about the manuscript, “[famine], pestilence, strife, and untimely death inspired apocalyptic fantasies and movements in Europe throughout the Middle Ages” (page 9), and this environmental influence led to the popularity of apocalyptic manuscripts like this French Apocalypse. Made in the 1330s for a Norman aristocratic couple, this manuscript has a few interesting details that set it apart from other Apocalypses, especially in relation to two other manuscripts in London (British Library, Add. Ms. 17333) and Paris (Bibliothèque Nationale, ms. Lat. 14410) that share similar formats, styles, and sequences with the Cloisters manuscript.

The first unique detail is the prefatory cycle of the life of Jesus in the introductory folios (1-2 verso). Since the Apocalypse of St. John the Divine (also known as the book of Revelation) was written by a titular St. John, prefatory cycles in Apocalypses usually consist of his life, rather than Christ’s. The other aspect of this manuscript that makes it distinct amongst its sister manuscripts is the addition of a dedication page on folio 38 verso. This page shows a man and woman kneeling in front of a tonsured saint and the Virgin and Child, respectively, representing the people for whom this manuscript was originally made for.

Interestingly, this manuscript also has multiple pages added to the original manuscript. Pasted on the inside front cover are handwritten provenance notes. The manuscript also did not originally include chapters and verses 16:14 through 20:3, and pages with this text were later added to the manuscript after the dedication page.

The materials used to create this manuscript include tempera, gold, silver, and ink on parchment with a later leather binding. If you are interested in seeing this unique Apocalypse manuscript, you can either use our facsimile, visit Gallery 13 of the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Cloisters where the original is on display, or view their digital presentation of the manuscript.

View other posts on our facsimiles of illuminated manuscripts.

– Sarah S., Special Collections Graduate Intern

#manuscript monday #apocalypse #cloisters apocalypse #the cloisters #met #the metropolitan museum of art #manuscripts #illuminated manuscripts #french manuscripts #book of revelation #Revelation of St. John #facsimiles #manuscript facsimiles #Sarah S.

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visual-sandwich · 11 months

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Giovanna Garzoni (Ascoli Piceno 1600 – Rome 1670), Chinese Vase with Tulips, Anemones and Jonquils, with a Fig and a Fava Bean, circa 1650–1655. Tempera with traces of black pencil on parchment, 50.6 x 36.2 cm

#art #painting #still life #Giovanna Garzoni #floral

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assortedseaglass · 8 months

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Borne & Bound - IV

Aemond Targaryen X OFC

[Masterlist]

Summary: When Prince Aemond insults the commander of the Braedel cavalry, Viserys sends him to their kingdom so that he may learn the art of diplomacy and do battle with the commander herself, the spirited Lady Geowyth.

Content Warnings: Strong Language, Violence, Smut, Canon-typical Sexism, Mentions of Incest¸ Mentions of Sexual Assault

Word Count: 5.4K

For many princes, the route to a castle’s rookery was one barely known. Why would you need to, when correspondence was delivered, or sent, by a footman of no consequence? Prince Aemond, however, knew the pathway well. On any usual day, it would take mere minutes. Simply leave the royal apartments, head across the lower courtyard and ascend the steep, circular steps to the rookery.

A prince with such a reserved temperament in such a large keep needed his hiding places. Where better than amongst the noise of the rookery, where his family never ventured and servants didn’t dare speak to him.

Aemond wasted no time as he stepped from the room, striding from the lady in the library and towards the rookery with her letter clasped between his hand. He turned it idly between his fingers.

“There is no need, Your Grace.”

She had seemed urgent in her need to deliver the missive herself. Immediately, the letter burned in his hands. So too, did Aemond’s desire to understand its contents. He paused, looking down at the green ink, the feminine writing across the parchment, and ran a long finger underneath the folded seal. It would be so easy. To pull the parchment and hear the pop of the wax releasing whatever lay within.

Perhaps the lady was sharing castle secrets with her uncle. Perhaps she was investing her thoughts on the royal family, and that was why she insisted on delivering the letter. Of that, Aemond was certain. Or perhaps, it was the cold nature with which Aemond had startled her. Why would she have any reason to find anyone in the library at that early hour, let alone a prince? She had wanted to hurry from that place as suddenly as she arrived.

In truth, she had startled him too. The din of the party, with its endless conversations and raucous revelry, had left him in agony. It rattled his nerves, the scar splitting his face pulled constantly downwards with his frown. Taking a singular goblet of wine he had retreated to the library. That quiet and comforting place with the few companions that would not disturb him. Books. Amongst the candlelight he lay there through the night, slumped in his usual chair as his head throbbed. A maester, no doubt sent by his mother, appeared sometime before sunrise with milk of the poppy. Aemond sent him away. He had been asleep a mere hour, dreaming of ashes and free air when Lady Geowyth awoke him.

Suddenly, and involuntarily, he laughed.

“What do you have there?”

“Books,”

Was she always this open with her thoughts? Open with everything? She and her brother had been at the Keep just one day and yet she had already retrieved and read books from the library. Had charmed each and every member of his family. Made her way into Helaena’s confidence. There was a natural ease to this woman that vexed Aemond completely. Much like his older brother, she possessed a innate amiability with people. People turned to face her when she entered a room, not to gawk as they so often did with him, but to bask in her brightness. They spoke to her freely and willingly. She laughed without embarrassment and was beloved wherever she went.

Envy dug its claws into his stomach, and Aemond gripped the letter tighter, near tearing the parchment with his nails. His strides more purposeful now, he entered the corridor that clung to the royal quarters. Cavernous and still somewhat empty at this time of day, Aemond made it just to the foot of the stairs when-

“Your Grace,”

Lord Geodred and Ser Herumbrand Fasthelm were a few metres behind him. Aemond stopped to turn slowly on his heel, Geowyth’s letter in the hands he held behind his back. If Geodred had noticed the letter he didn’t say anything, surely assuming it were the prince’s own missive and not his sister’s. Indeed, if he was unnerved by Aemond’s coy greeting, he did not let it show. If Geowyth vexed the prince, her brother eased him.

“Lord Geodred, Ser Herumbrand,” The prince nodded as the other men bowed. “Are all Beridans and Braedels such early risers?”

Geodred’s smile faltered a little in confusion. “Your Grace? I have not yet seen another from our party this morning-”

“I encountered your sister in the library,” Aemond indicated the corridor and the two men walked in step, Herumbrand close behind. “Returning the books she borrowed.”

“Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms and Island to Inland: The Lost Kingdoms of Westeros.” Geodred rattled off.

“The very same,”

“I am disappointed she didn’t bring them directly to me,” Geodred smiled. “Though perhaps it is best she entrusted them back to the care of the Keep. I haven’t forgotten, Your Grace, that you promised me a history lesson when first we met.”

Quite unexpectedly, a feeling came over the young prince that he rarely encountered. A feeling that made him stand a little taller and smile a little broader. Pride, or something akin to it, bloomed in his chest and embarrassment washed over him, for this pride was not borne of power or wealth, but of being wanted. Needed. He stopped, the knight and the lord coming to an abrupt halt behind him.

“With our guests readying their departures, I have a blissfully free day,” Aemond began. “I train with Ser Criston until noon, perhaps after luncheon we could walk the grounds.” It was a statement, rather than a suggestion, and Geodred inclined his head. “As it so interests you, we will begin with the histories of the great houses.”

“It would be an honour, Your Grace,” Geodred clasped his hands behind his back, and the pair of noblemen formed a strange optical illusion. A mirror of sorts, with differing reflections. One tall, lithe and tense. The other bright, broad and jovial. “In truth, I am heartily embarrassed at our little knowledge of the mainland,” Geodred glanced at Ser Herumbrand. “We are a secluded isle and know little of what occurs beyond the brimlad.”

Aemond’s forehead creased almost imperceptibly at the foreign word. Almost.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. The seaway.” Geodred clarified and Aemond nodded for him to continue. “If we are to forge an alliance between Braedel and the Targaryen dynasty, as I believe your father and my uncle wish, it would be remiss of me not to learn.”

“A learned man is a good man in my book, Lord Geodred,”

“Just Geodred, if you please, Your Grace.” He bowed his head. “I would ask what I can give in return, but there is not much I have to offer a prince of the realm-” Aemond huffed a small smile. He was almost inclined to agree.

“Perhaps, Lord Geodred, you could lend me your ear. Should I ever need your confidence.”

Geodred gripped his shoulder with a broad smile. “Of course. You may have it today in fact, for if it does not trouble you, I have heard a great deal from your mother and Ser Harrold about your skill with the sword. Would you permit me to join you in the training yard?”

Aemond’s lips curled. “Of course. I should like to see what it is my father believes Braedel has to offer.”

Damn. Geodred didn’t blanche, but his smile faded, replaced by a disconcerting mixture of amusement and scorn. Aemond looked to his booted feet.

“Well,” Geodred spoke to save him from embarrassment. Did his kindness ever waver? “We are away for a morning ride and have kept you long enough. Besides, our steeds won’t saddle themselves. Good day, Your Grace.”

With a stiff nod of his head, Aemond watched the two figures stride confidently down the corridor and out of sight. He sighed. Something about that damned Beridan family made him act like an ass.

A door to his right opened and a young serving girl entered the hall. Looking up she saw the prince, squeaked, and hurried away. Aemond sighed again. He too would have shrunk in fear had he come across a monster stood unmoving in the middle of the corridor.

Onward he walked, heaviness in his steps now. He turned into the walk that led towards the Grand Maester’s apartments, when someone crashed into his shoulder. His hand clenched around their arm in an instant.

“Watch your steps,” he hissed. The figure trembled. Another maid. She dared to look up at him, and at once his angry eyes widened.

Wisps of hair fell from the bun at the nape of her neck, the straw-coloured strands of it stuck to her cheeks by the tears streaming from her terrified eyes. Beneath his hand, Aemond saw the sleeve of her smock tearing away from the shoulder. He released her. The fear, the way she cowered beneath him, the early hour of the morning. Aemond knew the cause of her distress.

In an attempt at gentleness, he reached out awkwardly to grip her shoulders with both hands. When she shrieked and clapped her hands over her mouth, Aemond dropped his arms to his side with a huff.

“What is your name?”

The girl wiped her nose with her sleeve. “B-b-Barbary, Your Grace.”

Aemond nodded, and with the flick of his hand, dismissed her. She flew from the corridor, sniffling and tripping over her feet. Lady Geowyth was right, she would have been a damn sight quicker in delivering the letter. No-one would disturb her progress. No doubt she would be the one to stop and talk to every cad and crone who passed her by.

The door to the rookery staircase was in sight now, and Aemond hurried forward. From a nearby passage, Larys Strong emerged.

“Your Grace,” he placed a bony hand to his concave chest. Aemond ignored him, listening only to his uneven steps as he passed.

“Aemond!” He straightened at the hushed voice, turning to see his mother leaving from that same passageway. Aemond’s eyes flickered from his mother to Larys’ retreating form. He raised his eyebrows.

“Mother.”

“I’m glad I caught you,” she gathered her skirts as she walked alongside him, her small steps doubling with his long strides. “I want you to attend the Beridans, get to know them. I think it will ease an alli-”

“I am to spend the day with Lord Geodred, mother.”

“Oh,” Alicent stopped abruptly. “Well. Well done.” Aemond ran a finger along the letter still held in his hand. Ever the dutiful son, yet his family were still surprised when he displayed the basics of common interaction. “And what of his sister?”

The letter seemed to grow larger in his palm.

“What of her?”

Alicent stomped her foot a little and her son smiled. “Are you getting to know her?”

Aemond’s smile disappeared. “I thought she had already thrust herself upon Helaena.”

“Jealousy doesn’t suit y-”

“I’m not jealous of Helaena!” Aemond scoffed. His mother watched him appraisingly, the same quirk of her lips that he saw in his own reflection turning her mouth upwards. She nodded as if coming to a sum’s conclusion and the pair began walking side by side. Aemond reached out for the rookery door, and it took Alicent a moment to notice her son’s absence.

The letter clasped behind his back was exposed as he turned into the spiralling staircase and, at once, his mother’s hand was on his.

“A letter?” Her brown eyes were bright with glee, and Aemond could see the inner workings of her mind scrambling to remember the noblewomen unable to attend the King’s council and nameday. “For whom?”

“Do not excite yourself, mother.” If Aemond didn’t stop her fantasising now, he wouldn’t hear the end of it. “I saw Lady Geowyth on my way to breakfast,” the small lie didn’t cost him. “She had a letter for her uncle and did not know the way to the rookery.”

“How gallant of you to offer,” Alicent smiled before a frown pinched her brow. “Writing to her uncle, you say? Should we have a member of the council check its contents? She seems a nice girl but already writing to the King-”

“You really believe her capable of duplicity? When their uncle sent them here for an alliance?” Why was he defending her? Had she not already forced herself into court life with an unnatural ease that bordered on suspicious? “Besides, what could she tell him other than the whereabouts of the stables?”

Alicent laughed softly and cupped his face in her hands. “Be careful, my boy. Don’t let your father hear you speaking ill of our guests.”

Aemond hummed. “Yes, mother.”

“I’ll see you at breakfast,” she made to leave.

“Mother,” Aemond stepped forward. “There is a girl.” Alicent turned to watch him, waiting on his words. She saw a battle being fought behind his eyes as he chose his words, but still she waited. “A servant named Barbary. A maester must be sent for, a septa too perhaps.”

“Aemond-”

“She passed this way not two minutes ago.”

Alicent stared at him, stock still. A force seemed to act upon her, threatening to pull her through the ground. Aemond watched as his mother’s shoulders drooped, her mouth pursed and her skin greyed. Barbary was the latest in a long line of victims. A long line of disappointments.

“I’ll see to it, thank you.” She kissed his cheeks, and with the rustling of skirts, departed.

Aemond climbed the cold stairs. If another person interrupted him, he was certain he’d scream. Indeed, a part of him was already roaring into irritated life. Beyond the walls of the Keep, on a coppiced outcrop of the Kingswood, Vhagar stirred. He could feel the intrinsic pull of her, nestled in the dark valley between his heart and his stomach. Too big for the Dragonpit, she roamed the sea and skies of King’s Landing by day and night, waiting for Aemond.

He knew the reason for her restlessness. Connected by their twin souls, they missed each other. Alicent had forbidden Aemond from riding Vhagar for the duration of his father’s nameday celebrations, and simply put, the great she-beast missed him. He missed her too, knowing that her grumbling was due to his annoyance.

At last Aemond reached the rookery. Corvids of all varieties, in their cloaks of black and blue, turned their marble eyes towards him. Rooks were waiting proudly, their great beaks clapping with anticipation. The jackdaws pew pewed in excitement; they were best used for carrying messages across the city and its surrounding lands. The few owls kept for his grandsire and Larys Strong’s nighttime missives slept with their backs to him, the occasional hoo and ruffle of the feathers the only thing revealing their presence.

Aemond walked to the largest rook, already stood proudly on the rail, rolled up the letter and tied it to the bird’s leg. He looked at the parchment one more time. His mother was right, they should check the correspondence of guests coming in and out of the castle. Especially those so secretive and unknown as those from the Braedel kingdom. Slowly, he lifted the folded edge of the paper with his finger-

A crow cawed, and Aemond dropped his hand. With a stretch of its wings and chatter of its beak, to rook took flight. Due west, towards the ocean road and that island kingdom in the Sunset Sea. Hair billowed by the breeze from Blackwater Bay, Aemond watched the bird disappear from sight, its cargo as much a mystery to him as the woman who wrote it.

From her outcrop across the channel, Vhagar rumbled, deep and agitated. It would not be long until she took flight in search of him. He could imagine it now, his mother, red hair flying, chastising him for scaring their guests.

“Soon,” Aemond whispered with a deep breath of ocean air. The tie between he and Vhagar slackened, and he knew she understood.

“How do you finish the ends so beautifully, Princess?”

On the blue jacquard of a soft chaise lounge, Helaena Targaryen was teaching Geowyth Beridan how to neaten her embroidery. A stream of late morning light dappled the gossamer curtains, and at their feet little Jaehaerys and Jaehaera played.

The princess took the yellow thread in her hand, twisted it around her index finger, hooked the needle through it and pulled. A perfect knot formed, and she popped it through the linen.

“Like that,” Helaena said with a gentle smile.

“I’d always been quite proud of my needlework, Princess. That is, until I met you.” Geowyth watched as Helaena passed the needle back through the fabric, the veins of the butterfly she embroidered carving its wings like tracks on a map.

Helaena sighed. “There isn’t much at all for me to do, these days. Aemond is training every hour the Warrior sends, and Aegon-” Her voice broke. “Well, you know.” Geowyth did not but was inclined to guess how royal princes spent their time. “I am here to mother, and listen to my own mother’s teachings. I’ll be queen someday,” she added when Geowyth looked curious.

Silence reigned for a while. Silence, but for the happy babbling of the children. Geowyth looked down at her stitches. It was a simple pattern, lines of deep grey fading into demerara then sage green. An image of home with its cool waters, soft sand and grassy dunes.

Helaena’s, by comparison, was a work of art. A mustard butterfly. When its golden thread moved in the sunlight, Geowyth felt it could almost take flight from the hoop. Next moment, Helaena was undoing the screws and placing the fabric on Geowyth’s lap.

“I saw one,” she indicated to the butterfly. “The day I met you.” Geowyth ran her hands over the threads and smiled. When she looked back to the princess, she saw her eyes had glazed over. “You are bound.”

“Pardon, Princ-”

“It is borne,” Helaena jabbed a finger onto the butterfly. “Borne and bound.”

Helaena was retreating somewhere that, in time, no-one would be able to reach her. It was this state she occupied when Geowyth first met her, and where she had gone at her father’s feast. Geowyth cast her mind back. What had brought her home? What had Aemond done, during that quiet moment of the feast?

Geowyth slowly reached out a hand, and with gentle pressure, placed it over Helaena’s, running her thumb over her pale skin. Helaena jolted, eyes looking everywhere but Geowyth and her young children, yet she did not take her hand away.

“Borne and bound,” Geowyth said quietly.

Helaena’s eyes shot up and she nodded furiously. “Borne and bound,” she repeated. “I have Dreamfyre too, of course.” With a smile spreading across her angelic face, she was back.

“I have heard much about your dragons, Princess. Though I am sad not to have seen them.”

Helaena clutched Geowyth’s hand tightly. “You shall see her before you leave-”

“We leave the day after next, Princess.”

“-of that I am certain.” Helaena squeezed Geowyth’s hands.

Geowyth watched her a moment. What Ser Harrold said of Helaena’s love for animals, the butterfly in her lap, her desire to be with Dreamfyre. An image of the young queen-to-be was forming firmly in Geowyth’s mind.

“You enjoy being out of doors?”

Helaena bobbed a little in her seat. “I do, the children too.”

“Then I am willing to give up my needlework as a bad job,” Geowyth laughed. “It’s a beautiful day. How about taking the children to the gardens and Godswood?”

The nanny sat playing with the children spoke softly to the little prince and princess. “Would you like that, little ones?” They nodded and tottered towards their mother.

“Would you like that, Helaena?” Geowyth asked. At the sound of her name, Helaena brightened.

“I like it when you call me Helaena,” her quiet voice was full of warmth. Taking Geowyth’s hand, she stood, holding out the other for her children. Little Jaehaerys shuffled to grip her hand, pulling his sister along and together the four of them made for late morning air.

When Helaena bowed her silver-haired head before the weirwood, Geowyth watched from a distance. Her own musings on the spiritual were neither here nor there. In Braedel, religion was an inherited mixture of old, new and entirely forgotten. A clustered few dedicated themselves to the Seven, the Drowned God or the Eohirice. Everyone else centred their morality on lingered superstitions and whispers.

A gentle tug pulled the hair by Geowyth’s shoulder, and she tore her eyes away from Helaena to the small child held against her hip.

“Yes, little princess?”

Jaehaera stared up at her, her violet eyes taking in Geowyth’s amber ones. Her pink little lips parted and Geowyth couldn’t help but run a finger over her soft cheeks. “You’re a bonny one, aren’t you?” When the child continued staring at her, Geowyth tickled her round belly. “Aren’t you?” Jaehaera giggled and buried her face in Geowyth’s hair. At her feet, Jaehaerys turned over leaves and rocks. Taking after his mother, thank the stars.

Helaena’s golden dress skimmed the leaves of the Godswood as she approached, the light of morning illuminating her silver hair. She looked like living autumn, and Geowyth found herself wishing the summer away. The social season would end and Princess Helaena could spend her days in the grounds, seeking solace in the small creatures she found along the way. Perhaps, Geowyth thought, she could visit her.

Little Jaehaera reached out for mother the moment she was within reach, and with her safely in her mother’s care, Geowyth scooped Jaehaerys from the ground, a red leaf clutched in his fat hand. The nursemaid that lingered a few metres away from them relaxed.

With Jaehaera on her hip, Helaena leant towards Geowyth with a conspiratorial glint in her eye. “I have something to show you,” she whispered.

“Pray tell, Princess-”

“Helaena.”

“Pray tell, Helaena. What is the secret?”

Helaena began her progress from the Godswood towards the barbican courtyard and Geowyth followed. “Rather, I have someone to show you.”

Geowyth chuckled. “My mind is running away with me, Helaena. Will it be a noble of Essos? Or maybe a dashing knight you have been hiding from me?” Helaena smiled over her shoulder and continued her path.

Five minutes later the pair were rounding the corner of the public courtyard towards the training grounds and armoury. The clink of sword on sword rang across the stone and Geowyth felt her heart race. What she would give to be riding Mearl over the barrows with the renward, listening to Geodred’s commands amongst the thunder of hooves, the rattling of metal on leather.

Jaehaerys squealed when the training yard came into full view, and he wriggled about in Geowyth’s grip. A crowd of people were gathered in a circle, many of them from Geowyth’s own party. Members of the renward, men and women alike, were cheering and shouting directions at the two people sparring in the circle’s centre.

In a flurry and clash of swords, Geowyth gasped with glee as she saw her brother parry his opponent’s advance. She dashed forward, the Princess not far behind, and in their presence the crowd parted. At once, her heart stopped. Beside her, the same could be said of Helaena.

“Oh,” The princess said quietly. “I hadn’t expected your brother. He’s stolen my surprise from you.”

Using all her might to look away from the two men, Geowyth glanced down at Helaena. “You were going to surprise me with my own brother?”

“No,” Helaena hoisted Jaehaera further up her hip. “I was going to surprise you with mine.” Geowyth’s mouth opened slightly with shock, and it didn’t go amiss by Helaena’s all-knowing eyes. “Knowing that you will inherit commandership of the cavalry, I thought perhaps you might like to see him spar. I did say he always trains at this hour.”

Both women looked at their brothers. It was no wonder a crowd had gathered; both men were experts with the sword. Geodred’s face was ruddy with enthusiasm as he fought the young prince. His strokes were broad, heavy with the full weight of his timber-like frame. As always, he wore a smile, though it faltered occasionally when a daring strike came from the one-eyed prince.

Aemond’s already hard face was set, stern and steely, as he moved around Geodred. If she had to pick, Geowyth would have said Aemond was winning the fight but her brother was turning it in his favour. With every riposte and parry her brother dealt, Geowyth saw the prince’s desire to win increase tenfold. The slashing of his sword quickened, the focus of his eyes sharpened, and Geowyth’s heart rate accelerated. With every movement of his body, Aemond’s hair seemed to electrify around him. Rather than block opponents with his sword, he forced them out of the way with the quick turn of his body. If ever his covered eye was forward, he moved swiftly to right it. Spinning with his sword forward to protect him. Leaping away to dodge attacks rather than parry them. Never in her life had Geowyth seen a fighter so elegant. Elegant, but with such a hunger in their eyes to be on top. To win.

“Lord Geodred,” Ser Harrold had entered the arena, and once more the crowd parted to allow him access. Geowyth and Helaena watched as their brothers stilled, chests heaving and wiping sweat from their brows as Ser Harrold leant to whisper in Geodred’s ear. He nodded and held a hand out to Aemond.

“I dare say I was fighting a losing game, Your Grace.” Geodred said with a smile as he shook the prince’s hand.

“I am not so sure-”

“Do not humour me, I know when I am beaten.” He smiled and made to follow Ser Harrold when he caught sight of his sister. The grin widened and he turned back to the prince. “If you want a real challenge, Your Grace, might I recommend my sister? I may have the strength, but she has the wit. If you’ll excuse me.”

Everyone in the yard turned to look at Geowyth. On his way past with Ser Harrold, Geodred winked. She fought to hold back a smirk, her eyes set firmly on the prince. He too, had left the small circle, and was making his way towards Geowyth and his sister. As she had done with Helaena, little Jaehaera held her arms out to her uncle when he approached, and he took her from Helaena and kissed her cheek. His eyes lingered on Geowyth, assessing why she stared at him so. Helaena looked between them; Aemond and Jaehaera, Geowyth and Jaehaerys. At once, all three spoke.

“Brother-”

“Your letter was safely-”

“You told me you did not dance, Your Grace.”

Aemond stared at her. His chest still rose from the fight with Geodred, and Jaehaera was tangling her hand in his hair but otherwise, the flabbergasted prince remained utterly still. He blinked.

“I’m sorr-”

“You’ll remember last night, Your Grace, you told me you do not dance, owing to your eyes. Eye.” Geowyth corrected herself but didn’t waver from his direct gaze. A flush peppered the prince’s nose and her tummy flipped with pride. The feeling was fleeting however, when she saw that he was not embarrassed, but enraged.

“And you’ll remember, my Lady, that I did no such thing.” Aemond’s voice was measured, calm, but Geowyth sensed danger there. She thrilled at it. “I merely told you of my eye and you made to assume that I dance in circles.”

If this perfect remembrance of the previous night’s festivities had meant to quell Geowyth, it did the opposite. Instead, she threw her head back, her frizzy hair sweeping from her shoulders, and laughed. Jaehaerys, who until this point had watched with bemusement as his uncle and new friend spoke, copied. His crown of golden curls bounced as he too threw back his head and gave a hearty chuckle.

Geowyth giggled at him and calmed her own laughter. “Forgive me. I dearly love to dance and was abashed by your refusal of me. A shame, for now I believe you owe me a dance or fight-”

“I owe you a fight?” Aemond looked down his straight nose at her, and at last a smirk twitched the corners of his mouth.

“-I have never seen someone fight so gracefully,” Geowyth continued as though she hadn’t heard him. At her words, Aemond glanced to the floor, then to his sister. She was beaming at him. “Alas, we are away to Braedel in the morning and it shall have to wait until we next cross paths. For my sake, I hope it is a dance and not the battlefield.”

“It will be a dance, I am certain of it.” Helaena said, watching her brother intently as his eyes roamed Geowyth’s face. High above them, from the open passageway that overlooked the yard, Queen Alicent watched them. Beside her, Lord Geodred waited.

“I am sorry to have interrupted your training, Lord Geodred.” Her eyes did not leave the three young people below her, and they sparkled with anticipation as she waited to tell Geodred her plan.

“Not at all. He is an excellent swordsman and tutor, you must be very proud.”

Alicent turned to him then. “I am, thank you.” She stepped away from the viewing platform and beckoned that he walked with her. “Lord Geodred, I called you away because I have a proposition to make.”

At this, Geodred stepped a little closer to the Queen. “I am all ears, Your Grace.”

“Though I do not speak for my husband I am sure he would agree, we have felt great happiness at your presence in King’s Landing,”

“Thank you,” Geodred’s voice was quiet with genuine gratitude.

“-and it is a great shame that you must leave us so soon.”

“It is, Your Grace. With our uncle so ill and a wedding to prepare, we must away.”

Alicent stopped and took in his handsome face. His kind smile and bright eyes. How refreshing, to look at a man and have nothing but honesty staring back. “Yes, your betrothed is a lucky woman.”

“Thank you,” Geodred said again.

“My qualm, therefore, is that you all must go.” She hurried on before Geodred could question her. “You have been sent here to form an alliance. Protection in exchange for your formidable cavalry. While I dare say the trip has been a success, I believe I have an opportunity for you to strengthen that bond. Your sister.”

Geodred looked to the training yard. Geowyth spoke with Helaena, one of the small royals in her arms. The prince was not far off, watching the two women with interest. The Queen continued.

“I have never seen Helaena so open with a stranger before. Your sister,” she sighed. “She seems to have helped Helaena in no way that we have ever been able. I propose that your sister stay here, only for a little while, and act as Helaena’s lady-in-waiting. That way she might be a friend to Helaena a little longer and learn more of court life before you yourself ascend to lead Braedel.”

“Our uncle,”

“She will be sent home as soon as you insist it.”

Geodred watched Alicent. Her beautiful brown eyes were wide, her brows lifted in anxious waiting. He looked to Geowyth and Helaena, so happy in each other’s company. How could he refuse?

“As you wish it, my Queen.”

Notes: I’m sorry I’m taking so long – the last month has been so hectic and I’m in a bit of a wobbly headspace right now. We’re gonna have some serious Geowyth and Aemond interactions next chapter. Yay!

Eohirice (ay-oe-ear-i-cee) is the old Braedel religion and is based on Aine and Poseidon, and comes from the old English for horse (eoh) and church (cirice).

Renward = cavalry

Should I make a glossary?

Tags: @arcielee @mefools @bladeofdreadfort @glitterandgoldfinds @heimtathurs @ewanmitchellcrumbs @babyblue711 @wingeddeliciouscanonrebel @greenowlfactif @fantasias-creativebubble @httyd-marauders @sirenangelroyal* @theoneeyedprince @fyeahhotdocs @persephoneinyes* @humanpurposes @exitpursuedbyavulcan @elizarbell @el-is-green @booghostii @myfandomprompts @exitpursuedbyavulcan @castellomargot @trashcanrat @boundlessfantasy @aemonds-fire @barbieaemond @ayme301 @bookwyrmsblog

*could not tag

#ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #aemond kinslayer #aemond x oc #aemond x ofc #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfic #hotd #geowyth beridan #helaena targaryen

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whovianofmidgard · 1 month

Text

Day 1 – Maedhros – Coping

For @feanorianweek You can also read it on AO3

Maedhros used to think he didn’t have a traditional Noldorin craft. That his craft was the same as his grandfather Finwë’s, excelling in diplomacy, politics, being a skilled orator and an attentive listener, a natural leader among brothers, cousins and his people. That his talents ended there and no further.

He knew his father was proud that he had found in him a worthy heir in court. Yet Maedhros always knew that Fëanor secretly wished he had skill and passion in creation, in the works of his hands.

So, Maedhros applied himself, and took lessons in any and every craft he could find. He weaved and stitched and embroidered. He carved and apprenticed with carpenters. He did masonry, wove baskets, and painted landscapes and portraits alike. He played with clay and chiselled stone together with his mother. He hammered hot metals and cut precious gems under the tutelage of his father. He hunted in the company of little brothers and cousins, and sang songs and played instruments privately, only sharing with steadfast Maglor or beloved Fingon.

In every craft he tried his hand at he did good, solid work, but never exceptionally, and never passionately.

Now, Maedhros lay bundled in soft furs and linens, steadily healing from wounds, starvation, and exposure to the elements, grateful for dear Fingon’s kind and valiant heart, grateful to be alive. Yet he was left short of one hand, and with no craft to keep the nightmares at bay.

Relearning to merely write with his off hand was a slow and arduous process, what chance did he have for anything more involved than that? He could not hold an embroidery hoop properly in place, and his fingers shook and cramped up from pinching a needle for more than five minutes. He was more a hazard and a liability in the forge, he had too few hands to play any instruments other than a drum or tambourine, and his voice was shot to gravelly rumblings from screaming it raw in pain. He would eventually learn to hunt once more, but never with bow and arrow again, and more out of necessity.

Then one afternoon a bundle of charcoal sticks lay waiting on his office desk with a pile of blank parchment. Maedhros stared and contemplated it for a while, and shoved it aside to ignore in favour of hours of paperwork. Eventually, though, his mind grew weary, and as the Sun dipped low on the sky into twilight, he reached for a fresh unmarked parchment. Maedhros mindlessly sketched shapes and lines, the soft scratch of coal on paper and the repetitive motions of the hand soothing to his mind. By the time a servant came in with the dinner tray, he had scribbled the interior of his office down.

He thanked the servant as she left and regarded the work of his hand. The lines were uneven, and the perspective was off, yet the image was recognisable. With practice it could be improved upon.

Maedhros doodled and sketched every night, his office over and over again, until it looked perfect. Then the view outside his window, the crow on the ledge, a still life of his dinner, and many, many portraits of his staff, warriors, his people.

One day he found his charcoal sticks replaced with a brush and watercolour paints. Then months later it was gouache, then egg tempera, and finally oil paint. The walls of Himring were soon lined with landscapes of fierce mountains and sleepy meadows, of riders on planes and warm torchlit halls full of revelry. In Maedhros’ private rooms he kept only two paintings. One was a tableau of himself with his brothers arranged around him, proudly displayed above the mantelpiece. The other a simple portrait of his dearest cousin, kind smile and gold braids falling to his shoulders, guarding his dreams beside his bed.

When next Maedhros found a lump of clay on his desk and a pottery wheel by the window, he knew he was up for the challenge.

He quickly saw that forming the clay with only his one hand made the process more difficult, the cups and vases under his touch turning wonky and lopsided without the counter pressure. Maedhros thought of being stubborn about it, trying again and again until endless practice yielded results. But it only takes one mistake that almost had the lump of wet clay spin right off of the wheel, and he instinctively reached for it with his right, and his wrist ended up pushing it back onto the wheel.

Maedhros experimented after that. His single hand pinched and manipulated as dishes and mugs spun into form, while he could push and smooth the soft clay with his stump, and easily reaching inside his creations with it to widen the mouth of a vase.

Sitting down to do pottery at the end of a long day calmed his mind and nerves perhaps better than painting. The motion of his leg working the treadle was a steady rhythm he matched his breaths to. The slow yet decisive movements of his hand and stump required just the minimum of focus to empty his head of all worries and nightmares. The coolness of the clay sticking to his fingers and scarred skin grounded him in the present on dark nights when his memory wished to steer him towards pain.

Washing away the residue from his stump at the end of it all almost felt like healing.

#feanorian week #feanorianweek #maedhros #silmarillion #the silmarillion #silm fic #fanfiction #my writing

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 1 year

Text

The arranged marraige

For this reader request ask

Minors DNI | 18+

So basically forced marriage featuring reader plus Daemon plus reader being a brat plus Daemon being a brat tamer plus marital hijinks and adult fun times?

And probably not. I’m sure I missed a few themes in your ask and I apologise, and alas, all the Valyrian translation sites have a lot of words missing so I had to use a lot more English for the dirty talk bits, but I hope you like the story all the same.

Now, on to business. *Cracks knuckles*

Pairing: Daemon x Fem. Reader

Summary: A Martel princess who’s bold and headstrong and outgoing, is made to marry a Targaryen prince who’s bold and headstrong and outgoing. In the end, one will have to submit to the other as all sorts of marital shenanigans ensue.

Themes : Slow burn | Soft | Fluff | Smut (Very spicy at the end)

Word count: 6.8K words

Want to be tagged? Want to know the reader request rules? Read all here

If you like this, please consider giving it a reblog!

...................

It was a sunny day.

All the days had been sunny in Dorne, even when winter was having her way across most of the northern kingdoms. Still, it was gloriously sunny, perhaps a little cold, and within the magnificent walls of Sunspear, high in one of its splendid apartments, a Targaryen prince paced to and fro like an angry wolf.

"You cannot make me do this," Daemon rasped as he took the hundredth turn, while his brother watched on and sighed. "I cannot marry her, and a Targaryen royal being forced to wed is beyond the fucking pale!"

Viserys knew this match would end in disaster, but Otto had persisted, even going behind everyone’s backs to make it happen. "We have no choice, little brother. Dorne has to be brought into the fold, and marriage is the only way to do it. I will not marry again and Rhaenyra is still too young. That leaves you, and you’re the only other royal the Martels will accept for the present!"

"Call it off!" cried Daemon. "Otto tricked us all, so call it off! Surely it can be done!"

Viserys admitted in defeat, "The treaty has already been signed. I’m so sorry."

It was his own need for peace, he knew, that allowed Otto to overrule his decision concerning Daemon’s plans for marriage. "I cannot go back on my word,” he continued, “not without causing offense and inciting an uprising. You know how prickly the Dornish are when it comes to their pride."

Daemon snorted, silently thanking the Gods Viserys finally saw sense and got rid of his Lord Hand, before more damage could be done to the royal family. He was still in a mood to argue, but seeing his brother shamefaced and defeated killed the fire that bubbled in his belly. He looked around the room and at himself. He sighed, accepted the inevitable and went to his brother, crouching in front of Viserys and taking both his hands. "I will go ahead with this blasted ceremony. For your sake," he said. "And only if you turn to me or our cousin Rhaenys for advice instead of just trusting the other lords."

Relieved, Viserys grabbed his brother’s face and kissed him on the forehead. "I will. And you need to come to me, where your bride is concerned."

"The most headstrong creature I had ever met," Daemon put on such a droll imitation of Otto, it made his brother laugh. "And most perfect for the prince." he sputtered and rose. "Does he not realize that with a temperament like that one of us is going to drive the other to murder?"

And that was something Viserys dreaded, but it was all too late now. The ink had already dried on the parchment, and the treaty had been sealed. The wedding had to go ahead. "I am sure the two of you would be fine."

Or we are all fucked if the both of you are not, went the unsaid words.

………………..

Everyone gathered in an antechamber of the palace Sept.

Your sister had been fussing with your hair, and your mother had gone inside to make sure everything was perfect for the ceremony. "What were you thinking, papa," you grumbled to your father. "Agreeing to this marriage?"

Your father patted your shoulder. "I was thinking how splendid it would be to have a Targaryen prince for a son-in-law, and one of the most feared warriors at that."

You rolled your eyes. "We have plenty of feared warriors here, papa."

"But none of them are Targaryen, and none of them have a dragon. And none of them is the future king." The prospect of a dragon-riding grandchild who was also heir to the throne delighted Prince Qorren Martel.

“Why don’t you marry him then?”

“The prince wouldn’t be interested in such an arrangement. And your mother doesn’t like to share.”

Gods, save me. You took a deep, steadying breath as you thought of your future husband. Daemon Targaryen, the rogue knight, Lord Marshal of the Stepstones, heir to the Iron Throne, and Caraxes' rider, was supposed to be your husband. Within the next hour. And you didn't find out about it until a week before your wedding, when your mother stormed into your room, holding your wedding gown. Oh, how you wanted to throttle someone’s neck for this.

Perhaps you could throttle your husband’s neck. While he slept. Your fingers twitched in response to the thought.

There was a sudden hush, and a group of men could be heard talking as they made their way inside. Your mother came rushing back and rejoined you all. "He's here," she exclaimed, looking as if she was about to swoon. "And so handsome. Oh. The poets do not do the prince justice."

"Perhaps you should marry him then," you huffed and smoothed a hand down your gown. Made in the Dornish fashion and richly embroidered, it was bound to scandalize anyone who was not of Dorne. The visiting High Septon in particular. You cheered at the prospect. "I mean, you look like you want to marry him."

Your mother irritably waved a hand at you. "Oh shush. Now come. We must not keep him waiting."

"Yes, because one must never dither when one is being forced to get married," you mutter under your breath.

Your mother squeaked and looked away, and your father chuckled, linking an arm through yours. "It won’t be so bad, sweetheart, I’m sure of it."

You grumbled and grumbled while walking the entire way into the Sept, secretly plotting your new husband’s demise, devising plans for your escape after that. Your eyes darted over to the crowds. Just about anyone who was anyone had made the journey. All the noble house of Dorne had been represented, as well as the other kingdoms. You could even make out some of the other houses by the colours they wore, but none of them stood out like the Valyrians.

The Targaryens and the Velaryons and the Celtigars, the last surviving descendants of the Freehold living this side of the Narrow Sea. All silver haired and purple eyed, and tall. So very tall. Some were pale as milk, and others had skin that gleamed like smooth dragon glass. All uncommonly beautiful, and drawing envious eyes. None were as breathtaking however, as the man who turned to you.

Daemon Targaryen. Prince of Dragonstone and heir to Viserys, king of all of Westeros. You felt a hum at the back of your throat when you saw him standing there, all tall and proud and resplendent in his black armour. With a sound of impatience, you smoothed your skirts again, suddenly praying you didn’t look like a frump.

Why were you so concerned with his approval? You never wanted to marry him in the first place, would never have said yes even if he asked, so why should you care for his opinion? You shook your head, chided yourself. He’s just another prince, you remind yourself. There’s nothing special about him at all.

Daemon on the other hand thought he had woken up in a dream. You looked a vision in the gown you wore, with your hair tumbling around you in soft curls. "Still think this was a bad idea?" Viserys could not help himself when he caught the dreamy look in his little brother’s eyes.

Daemon narrowed his eyes, his lips quirking up in a smile. "Oh shush."

After your father came over and placed your hand in your future husband’s, you were caught by surprise when Daemon lifted it to his lips, lingering over it as if he was tasting your skin. You felt another hum in your throat, and you swallowed when Daemon straightened to his full height. His face softened when he caught you looking. You could have sworn his cheeks turned the subtlest shades of pink.

Viserys on the other hand, turned to hide a smirk. Oh yes, he thought, his brother was well and truly smitten.

………………..

The actual ceremony passed off like a blurry dream.

The Septon said the vows, and you and Daemon repeated them to each other.

Your father took off your cloak, one that bore the Martel colours, and your husband placed a Targaryen cloak over your shoulders, taking care to drape it properly. Black and red, with the three headed Targaryen dragon on the back. The material was softer than anything you had felt in your life. Daemon winked and threw you off guard, making your pulse scramble a little. You pursed your lips, determined not to give him the satisfaction of your giving in to his charms.

And all you felt compelled to do was give in. No, you tell yourself that. You will not give in.

Daemon cackled.

You muttered under your breath and rolled your eyes.

The High Septon looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here.

But at least there was no horrid spectacle at the wedding.

Viserys turned to your parents, all three of them breathing sighs of great relief. Now all that remained was to get through the feast.

And the feast, too, passed off like a blurry vision. There were speeches and wine and a large cake and more wine, but you barely remembered the rest. The food smelled delicious, but you couldn’t bring yourself to taste any of it.

"Will you not eat?" said Daemon, as he pushed a bowl of cheese and cold meats towards you. He had seen you toying with your food, barely touching anything, and had grown worried.

You couldn’t eat. You couldn't eat because you were still upset about the forced wedding. "I’m not hungry, my lord," you said, politely enough. "Besides, I had a big meal before the ceremony."

Daemon wasn’t falling for it. In fact, he could see that you were seething. "Not happy with something?"

"Not happy with everything," You hissed through your teeth.

"The wedding?"

"Of course, the wedding," you say quietly so the others don't hear. "I never agreed to this."

"If it gives you any comfort, I never agreed to it either." Daemon said as he looked at the musicians. They had been tuning their instruments, to prepare for the dancing that was to follow. "But we can make the most of it, if we try."

You snorted. "How, my lord?"

"Daemon," he clarified. "And we can make the most of the fucked up situation we are in by trying to find common ground with each other. Beyond that," he gave you such a look that it left you weak in the knees. "I could be very good to you."

When those purple eyes locked on you with such intensity, your cheeks burned. You swallowed, but your pride and anger refused to let you yield so easily. "I’m not a silly chit who could be charmed with just a wink and a smile. I’m a Martel, for Gods’ sake."

Daemon picked up his wine, his eyes lighting up in wicked humour. There was fire in your belly, and stubbornness, and he wondered if he would be able to subdue it a little. Oh yes, Daemon would have liked that immensely. "And one would not expect anything less from a Martel, thank the Gods," he hid a smirk when he saw the wind being taken right out your sails.

"Oh? Would you have been bored with anything less than a Martell?" You narrowed your eyes and studied him. What exactly was the man up to? "Is that what you’re saying?"

Daemon lifted his goblet, as if to toast. "Precisely."

Those sails collapsed a little more, and you sputtered, unsure of what to say. Daemon cackled and polished off his meal, to fortify himself for the dancing.

You had to admit, Daemon was a most splendid dancer. He moved with languid grace, his feet barely touching the ground. Neither of you said a word, your bodies swaying in time to the music. Daemon had his eyes on you the entire time, his lips twitching whenever you looked up and glared.

Oh, but he made it hard to keep it up. During the course of the afternoon, you found Daemon to be considerate, attentive, and respectful. He made sure you ate, introduced you to the members of the royal family, his brother and niece in particular, and made sure you were comfortable throughout the evening. You found your defenses crumbling a little due to his attention.

Then the feast came to the part you dreaded, a custom the northern kingdoms practiced. The bedding ceremony.

Aegon, a much younger cousin of the king, rose, all bleary-eyed and with a goblet of wine in hand. "It’s time we had the bedding! What say you all?"

Some of the other lords roared in approval. Daemon, meanwhile, looked less than pleased. "There will be no bedding, cousin."

Aegon, deep in his cups by now, didn’t back down. "Come now, cousin," he growled, causing you to flinch and take a step back. "Let us have a look at her."

There was a hiss as steel cut through the air. The rest of the nobles backed away when Dark Sister, Daemon’s Valyrian steel sword, gleamed wickedly in the candle light. "You are not to set a foot near my wife,” Daemon moved to protect you, while an auburn-haired older woman in green rushed over to Aegon.

"My son didn't mean to offend you, my prince," Alicent glanced viciously at her son. She pulled at his arm, to drag him out with her. "He is merely tired from the journey and needs his rest."

There was silence, which was tense and deeply troubling. Everyone was waiting with bated breath to see what Daemon, Aegon's more battle-hardened cousin, would do. Some even held wagers, to see which body part Daemon would slice off first. Some wondered if he’d do to Aegon what he did to Lord Vaymond, by sending his sword clean through Aegon’s head.

"I am not tired, mama!" Aegon growled at his mother, angry that he was going to be denied.

And Viserys would deny him even more. "My cousin is tired indeed. Lady Alicent, would you be so kind as to make sure your son is taken to his chambers? Lord Commander Redwyne?" He turned to the Lord Commander of the King's Guard. "Would you be so kind as to make sure the prince actually goes to his chambers?" Viserys lowered his voice and added, "And stays there?"

Lord Commander Redwyne nodded at once.

Aegon huffed. "I will not be sent to my chambers like a child!"

You straightened your spine and mumbled, "Perhaps the Grand Maester could give the prince something to aid in his rest?”

“Yes,” Viserys quickly agreed. “Like some essence of nightshade, perhaps?"

The Grand Maester picked up his robes and followed when Lord Commander Redwyne took Aegon by the arm and yanked him out of the hall. And unable to help yourself, you end up smiling and saying, "A prince was just sent to bed without his playtime. Will he ever recover?"

Someone giggled, and others joined them. Both Daemon and Viserys exchanged glances. "I like her," Viserys mouthed to his brother.

Daemon agreed with his brother wholeheartedly before turning to you, his eyes filling with mirth. "Come, wife, it is time we did our duty."

Your smile disappeared in an instant, but you linked an arm through Daemon’s all the same, leading him in the direction of the private rooms used by your family.

The room given to you for your wedding night was spacious and airy, with balconies that gave one breathtaking views of the sea. Right now, reds, pinks, and oranges danced across the waves as the sun began to set. Many would consider this a perfect setting to start a marriage.

But there was a problem. One that presented itself when your eyes rested on the sheets. You gulped.

"Is there a problem?" asked Daemon, as he worked on the clasps of his armour.

You quickly shook your head. "Y/n," Daemon said firmly, "What is the problem?"

"I…" you looked at the crisp white linen, then him. For the first time in your life, you were at a loss for words. "I… I…"

Daemon caught on. "Who is he?"

You closed your eyes to avoid his heated glare. "Tristan Blackmont. And it’s was, not is. He suddenly left of Essos two years ago."

"Was?" So there wasn’t anyone else competing for your affections, but he couldn’t miss the hurt in your voice. Clearly, this Tristan must have been the one to throw you to a side and run off. Daemon shrugged and went back to undoing his armour. "That is not a problem then."

"I lay with him," you say, stunned by how calm Daemon was. "That doesn’t bother you?"

"No," Daemon shrugged again, pulling a small dagger from his belt. He walked past you as he stabbed the pad of his thumb, drawing out drops of blood. Daemon ran his thumb over the linen, to where he thought you would be in bed. When there was enough of a stain to satisfy prying eyes, he stopped. "It doesn’t bother me."

What could you possibly say or do that would actually bother this man? “I lay with him. Let him do all sorts of things to me. Wild and wanton things." you say smugly, your eyes going wide when Daemon pulled off his armour, his mail and tunic. You weren’t sure what was more eye-catching about him; the large pink scar or his lean, sculpted body. "What does that tell you?"

Daemon removed his boots, his voice perfectly calm and neutral. You were trying to goad him, to get a rise out of him, and as much as it thrilled him, Daemon wasn’t going to let you have the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of him. "All it tells me is that you had a life before me, and that you liked exploring new things. That is all." He looked at the bed, debated, and then made his way to a large sofa. Daemon stretched himself over the cushions and made himself comfortable. "Good night, wife."

If ever there was a time to stamp your feet, it would be now. "How can you be so calm?" you cried. "My confession would have driven another man insane."

"Not all men think the same," Daemon said simply as he turned onto his stomach and buried his face in the cushions. "Good night, wife."

"Urgh!" You finally did stamp your feet. When no response was forthcoming, you undressed yourself and changed into a comfortable linen shift. You didn’t see him peaking, how the shift clinging to your body hammered at his senses and made his heart race. You slipped into bed, tossing and turning, before finally giving into sleep.

When you woke up the next morning, Daemon had gone to see his brother, to talk about their cousin. He had left a note for you, urging you to eat the meal already laid out on the table.

And he had left a sprig of desert roses, your favourite flower, by the side of your pillow.

………………..

Daemon didn’t touch you, not while in Dorne, and certainly not after moving to the Red Keep. He preferred letting you come to him when you were ready, but he’d watch your schemes to get under his skin with great amusement.

You’d wear the most provocative of Dornish dresses, ones that would make even the most fashion forward of Dornish ladies blush, and all in the hopes of offending his sense of propriety.

Daemon would look you over once, twice, before saying you look pretty and going back to whatever it was he was doing.

You’d swear like a sailor, saying the most colourful and inventive words when he’d talk to you, all in the hopes of getting him to lose his patience by your foul-mouthed language. He’d simply grin and say, Now that’s one I’ve never heard before, before walking off somewhere else and leaving you seething in frustration.

You’d talk back to him, saying no, refusing to carry out simple requests, and Daemon would merely shrug and say, Fine by me, before doing it himself. All you could do was stand there and huff, your arms across your chest.

Now, Daemon was no fool. He knew what you were up to, that you were trying to rouse him, trying to provoke him. But he wasn’t to give in, oh no. Daemon wanted to show you the Valyrians bred tougher nuts to crack. And he wanted to see how long it would take before you cracked.

You found him at the breakfast table one fine morning, reading a letter from his cousin Rhaenys. Laena had gotten engaged, and the letter gave the date for the wedding. Four months from now, enough time to prepare and find a suitable gift, and leave for High Tide. He was so caught up in what he was reading that he failed to hear you come up behind him, a new scheme brewing in your mind.

Daring dresses didn’t work. Swearing didn’t work. Refusing him didn’t work. That left you with only one other option.

“What in the seven hells is going on?” said Daemon, when he found you suddenly straddling his lap.

You threw your arms around his shoulders and smiled all innocently. “Nothing untoward, husband,” you say sweetly. “I’m just trying to entice you a little is all.”

Daemon smiled, but he had already figured out what was going on. He simply sat there and waited to see how far you would go. “Alright,” he said and put the letter to a side. “Well go on. Entice me.”

You had to follow through. Sweet, merciful Maiden, you had to follow through. You coughed, dithered. Daemon cracked an innocent smile and looked on, as if waiting. You were stuck and had no way out, save for one. You closed your eyes and leaned in. Daemon’s arms hooked around your waist as his mouth opened beneath yours.

Something that felt like a deep sigh rolled over your lips when his tongue flicked against yours. You couldn’t think or even breathe. Daemon’s embrace tightened and he held you closer, his teeth grazing over your lower lip, gently tugging at it, leaving it puffed up and bruised. His heart hammered away in his chest but he kept a clear head, as he was certain this was another ploy to get under his skin. When he heard a helpless purr he kissed deeper, his hands trembling as they traced lines over your waist and back.

And you were thoroughly confused. This was just another ploy, another scheme, and yet your entire body simply melted against his, wanting and needing more. You pulled away, shocked and more than a little breathless. “I…” you cleared your throat and rose. “I…”

Daemon sat there, still savouring the sweetness of your lips. “I…” you finally compose yourself. “I need to be elsewhere.”

He merely nodded, his lips quirking when confusion and lust warred in your eyes. “Of course,” He said and smiled. “But if you want more of me, you know where to find me.”

You squeaked and fled the room. Daemon chuckled to himself and picked up his cousin’s letter, his mind reeling a little from your kiss.

Oh yes, he decided. Things got really interesting now.

………………..

The two of you continued as before.

You’d wake up to a sprig of flowers left by your husband, a sweet note from him, and a full breakfast. He’d be away for most of the day, joining you again for supper. Daemon would ask about your day, about what you did. When you got really sick and threw up your food, he tended to you himself, cleaning up after you, making sure you were comfortable, and never complaining.

He introduced you to Caraxes, letting you feed and touch the dragon yourself. He even offered to take you on a flight, but then Caraxes huffed and nearly whacked you on the head with his snout.

You glared at the dragon.

The dragon’s chest rumbled.

You huffed and said, "Oh, he’s definitely your dragon, alright."

Daemon replied with, "Of course he is, why else would he bond with me?"

You had all but given up on your little games, and you found yourself craving more of Daemon’s kisses. You’d catch him giving you this "look" whenever he peered over a book or caught you looking, with the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. It honestly left you flustered and feverish. Daemon would snicker as soon as your cheeks flushed and turned pink. You were starting to crack, and it pleased him greatly. You, on the other hand, found this cat and mouse game, the one you started, unbearable.

Nothing came to a true conclusion until almost a month later. There had been a feast, to celebrate Lady Laena’s engagement. Daemon’s marriage had brought about Dornish proposals for a princess of Valyrian blood, and since Rhaenyra was still far too young for marriage, Laena was next to be considered. Viserys, as the head of the Valyrian Houses, hosted it on his cousin’s behalf, and the Red Keep turned out the red carpet for the Dornish.

That night at the feast, you greeted many of your old friends and relatives, talking and catching up.

"Y/n!" A familiar voice made you whip your head around. "How are you?"

"Tristan!" You rewarded your former flame with a long hug. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in Essos."

Daemon, who had been nearby, heard the familiar name and drifted closer, to listen, taking care to conceal himself around others. At least, he thought he had hidden himself. A streak of mischief took over you when you saw him, and you decided one final round of trying to get a reaction out of him was in order.

"Essos bored me," Tristan sighed, growing glum.

"Essos bored you?" You arched a brow in disbelief. "Really?"

"Yes," he said, with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "Because I was all alone, and you were not with me."

You made your cheeks flush when you felt your back burning. You were sure that Daemon was watching, as your back was burning. "Well, that is your fault, yes, for running off with nary a word?"

Tristan clutched his chest in dramatic fashion, closed his eyes, and let out an exaggerated sigh. "Yes, and I wish to atone for conducting myself in such an abasing manner. Will you do it?" His eyes went wide, like a puppy’s. "Let me atone myself for conducting myself like a lowly worm?" He started to whine like a puppy as well. "Please? Pretty please?"

You snorted and touched his arm in a manner that was familiar to you both. "Perhaps."

"Perhaps what, my wife?"

Tristan’s countenance went pale like milk. He had been told you had been wed to Daemon, and here the man was, standing right next to you. "I was just reacquainting myself with an old friend, my lord."

"Ah." Daemon said simply before turning to you. Your cheeks flushed for real this time, out of embarrassment. His eyes narrowed to thin slats.

You were testing him again, he was sure of it. It still stung, to see you flirt with another man, but Daemon was not going to give in. In fact, he decided, the time had come for him to take full control of this little game. He smiled, painting himself in the image of an unflappable man. "It is nice, is it not, to meet old friends?" Daemon made his excuses. "My brother wants me. If you would both excuse me."

You swallowed as you watched his retreating back. You'd gone too far with your game now.

Daemon kept a cool distance the entire night, barely acknowledging you the entire time. He danced with you, of course, and made polite talk, but beyond that? Nothing.

Not the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that as well.

You barely heard a full sentence from him, save for "good morrow," and, "good night."

You thought he’d take you to bed after Tristan and you flirted, to show who you belonged to, but Daemon would sleep in the adjoining bedroom, as he always did. He made no attempt to touch you and claim his rights as a husband.

And you were actually ashamed of yourself for how you acted. Daemon had been nothing but kind and respectful with you, always treating you with a warm heart and a generous hand, and you had to go flirt with Tristan, even if it was all just a ruse. And in public. While Daemon was there.

And his silence stung, leaving you a mess.

So you decided to be nicer to him.

You would draw warm baths for him and make sure his meals were ready and sent to your rooms on time. You’d lay out his clothes for the day, helping him get dressed. You’d try to kiss him, give him hugs, and he’d respond chastely, but nothing beyond that.

Daemon observed your efforts and your attempts. He liked the changes, but he wasn’t about to give up this little cat and mouse game just yet until he had you eating out of his hands. His wounded pride demanded it.

Everything came to a head one stormy night when you went back to bed. Daemon was already there, reading. "Husband," you said cheerfully as you came toward him.

"Wife," Daemon said without even looking up from his book.

His cool reply stung. "Daemon," you said sweetly. "How was your day?"

Daemon swallowed a grin. "Very good, actually."

Again, another cool reply. "Why are you like this?" You inquire, exhausted and a little hurt.

He refused to look up from his book. "Like what?"

"Like this," you waved both arms in frustration before settlings your hands on your hips. "All cold and indifferent, ignoring me the past few days--"

"And I must ask why you behaved the way you did," Anger whipped like fresh coils when he remembered you flirting with Tristan. Daemon fought to keep his composure. "You were insulting me at every opportunity, flirting with the jerk who abandoned you without so much as a by your leave and broke your heart. "You know," He closed his book and put it aside, his gaze fixed on his hands. "I tried. I was patient, and I hoped, I really hoped, that you’d find something about me that appealed to your heart, but, it’s obvious that you haven’t."

You felt yourself beginning to shake. Your lips began to tremble. All you managed was a quiet, "I’m sorry."

Daemon finally looked up. His eyes gleamed in the candlelight. "Come here."

You complied without question. When you reached him, Daemon took your hand and pulled you onto his lap, making you straddle him. "So tell me, wife, what was one of these wild and wanton things you did with this… Tristan?"

You swallowed, your cheeks burning with a sudden flush of both fear and anticipation. "I’d…" you gulped. "I would take him into me and keep him inside me. Keep him warm."

He arched an elegant brow, his lips tugging into a devilish smirk. Daemon leaned back, his arms resting by your sides. "Go on," he said. "Warm me a little."

Your head whipped around in shock. Daemon merely smirked again, gesturing for you to continue.

It felt like your fingers had all grown into clumsy thumbs, and you struggled to undo the drawstrings of his breeches. Daemon was content to watch, warmth pooling in his belly as you meekly complied with his request. His head rolled back when he felt the warmth of your hands around his cock; a moan parted his lips when you mounted him and took him into your already slick hole.

It was too much. Everything about Daemon was too much. You had to grab onto his arms when you lowered yourself onto him, your tight walls stretching and fluttering around his cock. Daemon forced open an eye and took in what was unfolding in front of him. You were slowly sheathing him, your mewls and whimpers inflamed him, and with one quick thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, groaning when you collapsed against him, your mouth open in silent pants.

He rubbed your back, your arms, making slow work of lifting your nightdress over your head. Daemon said softly, "You tested me to the limit, didn’t you?"

"Mhmm," you breathed as your body struggled to adjust to his size.

"Tried to rouse me."

"Yes."

"Refused even the most simple of my requests?"

You felt like sobbing. "Yes."

"Such a filthy little brat, yes? Testing me the way you did?" Daemon curled a finger under your chin and tilted it up, so you’d be looking him dead in the eye. Seeing you in near defeat thrilled him, made him harder. "And did it feel like this, when Tristan had you?"

Your body would jolt whenever Daemon moved. "No. It didn’t. Tristan was…"

"A boy," Daemon finished for you. "Tonight you��re going to find out what it means to be fucked by a man."

Your heart raced as lust arrowed neatly into your gut. You swallowed, licked your lips. You attempted to move, but Daemon grabbed your hips. "Stop." He pulled you closer when you didn’t listen, whispering harshly, "Vestan keligon, kēlītsos."

That was the first time he had used High Valyrian on you, and each word sounded like music to your ears. "What… what does that mean?"

"I will teach you, in time," said Daemon, his eyes glinting wickedly. "For now, keep still."

You mewled, and the spank that reddened your thigh made a sharp gasp rip through you. "Too hard?" Daemon asked, his hands skimming all over your thighs.

You saw stars, but in truth, you liked what he did. "No," you mumbled as you recovered your breath.

Daemon nodded and kept still, not moving, only leaving chaste kisses all over your shoulders, your neck. It was torture, to feel your insides flutter around him, to feel jolts go up your spine as your body was left unsated and unsatisfied. Your husband, however, savoured every moment, how you trembled beneath him, how your breath came out like shallow whispers, how good it felt inside you.

"You were made for me, and only for me," he whispered against your ear. "You do know this, yes?"

You sighed in agreement, "Yes."

"Sȳz riña," he crooned and ran his tongue against the shell of your ear. When you sighed dreamily and trembled against him, his teeth pulled softly on your flesh. Your moan came out like a soft cry. The tears that pooled at the corners of your eyes made him groan, and you shivered when his lips glided over your eyelids. He continued to place chaste kisses all over your throat, the soft hollow of your neck, reducing you to a whimpering mess as he refused to go further.

And you very much craved for him to do so. "Please," you pleaded, as more moments passed with you being left wanting and needy.

Daemon chuckled against your skin. "Keep begging, kēlītsos. It’s like music to my ears."

Your whine was rewarded with another spank that reddened your thigh. "Please, Daemon," you whimpered.

Daemon pulled back, grinning triumphantly. "Again," he said.

It made you angry and say something you shouldn’t have. "If you do not want to please me," you said quickly, your eyes stinging, your ears deaf to his growl, "Then--"

Daemon’s kiss smothered you. It was hot, angry, and demanding, knocking the breath right out of your lungs. You found yourself being pushed onto your back, and Daemon covered you in a heartbeat.

"Impatient little slut, aren’t you?" He crooned, his deep, sinful voice making goosebumps rise all over your skin.

His spank drew an answer from you. "Yes," you breathed. "Yes, I am."

Your legs hooked around his hips, while your arms went around his waist. "Tried to get me to break?" Daemon hissed as he started with slow, shallow thrusts. "Hmm? Did you think me that weak?"

"I t-tried," you gasped when he spanked your thigh again. "Are you angry?"

Daemon chuckled and heaved over you, hooking an arm around your leg so he could go deeper. "I should be. By rights, I should be. And to see you flirting with that boy?" He let go of your leg, so he could spank your thigh again. "You’re mine, do you hear me? Mine."

Your body was like soft putty in his hands, and your bones felt like they were turning to water. "Yes," you cried out as your body writhed beneath his. "I’m yours."

Daemon growled and flipped you onto your stomach, lifting your hips just high enough. Your moans were muffled by your pillows, your ears were ringing from your husband’s grunts. Daemon let go of your hip to grab onto your hair, gently yanking your head up and making your body arch perfectly. You had to prop yourself on your hands to keep yourself steady. He growled, "You’re never to test me like that again, yes?"

You felt drunk by his thrusts, your body oblivious to all but the way his cock stretched your throbbing walls. Daemon demanded an answer, this time by spanking your ass. "I w-won’t," you mewled, "t-test you a-again."

"Sȳz riña," he crooned and let go of your hair, to get a better grip on your hips. You swallowed as your body tightened and your muscles coiled. You were so close, so very close.

"Do not come," Daemon ordered. "Not until I say you can."

You whined, and a sharp spank reddened your thigh again. "Behave, kēlītsos," Daemon grabbed onto your hair again, not so gently this time. "Or I will deny you completely."

You choked back another mewl, your body bucking into his thrusts. You fought for control of your body as you were drawn into the darkened tunnel of desire, trying hard not to orgasm until Daemon told you could. It was hard, so very hard, as the wave kept threatening to pull you under, but you somehow fought it off all the same.

Seeing you so compliant and obedient aroused Daemon even more. "Such an obedient slut, aren’t you? Willing to deny yourself your release just to please me?"

It felt like your body had let go and surrendered to him completely. "Yes," you mewled when another spank jolted you. "Yes, I am."

Daemon's grip on your hips tightened as he muttered in high Valyrian, words he had no idea he was harboring in his heart. When the room started to spin wildly around him and his body tightened like a coil, he rasped, "Now. Come for me now."

He wished he could have seen the wild display of sensations across your face as your orgasm ripped through you, pulling him in even deeper. Your body shook and your moans came out deep and drugging, as your walls fluttered around his cock, your ears ringing by the rough moans of your husband when he plunged one last time and spilled his seed inside you.

Daemon kept still, his breath coming out in ragged pants. When blurred vision cleared and the room started to come into focus he turned you onto your back, gently lowering you into bed as he pulled out of you. His chest heaved as he collapsed onto his side and buried his face in your hair.

"Sweetheart," he said softly as you opened your eyes to him. "Are you alright? Did I go too far?"

Your sated body thought he hadn't, and you said so.

"Good," Daemon said, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you in closer. "I will ring for a hot bath, and a late supper. Would you like that?"

"That would be very nice," you murmured when his hands ran up your back, to soothe your aching muscles. And it would be wonderful, you thought, to share a warm bath and a hot meal with just him, perhaps perched on his lap while he fed you. "And I do feel a little peckish."

"Then I'll feed you myself," Daemon chuckled before becoming serious. "Sweetheart, about what I said earlier…"

You listened eagerly to what he had to say.

"In here, in these rooms, I want you to submit to me." Daemon brushed back your hair and propped himself on an elbow, to look at you better. "You can tell me if you’re not comfortable with something, or if you think I need to go easy on something, but other than that, you must submit to me. Can you do that?"

"I can," you said nervously. "But what about out there?"

Daemon’s kiss was sweet and light, leaving you hungry for more. "Out there, I want you to be who you are. Stubborn and sharp-tongued. Because I love that about you. I love your fiery spirit."

That made you relieved, and very, very happy. "I can do that."

Daemon kissed you again, this time turning and letting you snuggle under the crook of his arm so you could sleep a little.

............

Translations:

Vestan keligon, kēlītsos: I said stop, kitten.

Sȳz riña: Good girl

#daemon x reader #daemon #daemon targaryen #daemon smut #reader request #reader insert #HOTD #hotd x reader #HOTD smut #fanfiction #writeblr

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heaveninawildflower · 7 months

Text

'Still-life with Pears and a Butterfly' (German, 17th century) by Giovanna Garzoni (1600–1670).

Tempera on parchment.

dorotheum.com

Wikimedia.

#Giovanna Garzoni #botanical illustration #17th century art #still life #butterfly #pears

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centuriespast · 1 year

Photo

AMEDEI, Giuliano Frontispiece 1465-70 Tempera and gold on parchment, 341 x 244 mm Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati, Siena

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scribefindegil · 11 months

Text

The forgery thing was legitimately ongoing for years. Once I made a facsimile of a manuscript page from our Special Collections: parchment, iron gall ink that I made myself, pigment in egg tempera for the initials, the works. When my paleography professor saw it she was so impressed and said that the only reason she knew it wasn't actually from the 12th Century was that it wasn't faded like she'd expect. I told my mom about this and she immediately scolded me for not devoting my life to Manuscript Crimes.

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lionofchaeronea · 1 year

Text

The Transfiguration. Folio (tempera colors and gold leaf on parchment) from a 13th century Byzantine manuscript by an unknown illuminator. Now in the Getty Center, Malibu, CA.

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theogonies · 1 year

Text

All Yours

prompt | yamato x f!reader + snow day

summary | yamato shows you a slice of life outside the walls of the flower capital.

word count | 2k

content warnings | reader is implied to be a geisha in orochi's court, some slightly suggestive conversation but nothing explicit

winter holiday event masterpost

You carry the note close to your chest all morning.

A thin slip of parchment tucked beneath the neckline of your hikizuri: meet me in the gardens this afternoon? I’ll make it worth your time.

It bore no signature, but it’s not hard for you to know who the sender was. Yamato’s hand, so careful and delicate, an endearing contrast to his sometimes-brutish appearance and temperament. He’s written you letters before, during periods when the shogun kept you too busy to slip away; always extensively wordy, his written language so much more refined and florid than when he speaks.

And yet, this little note is so short that it’s almost curt–a small mystery that’s left your heart thrumming with anticipation from the moment you found it, slipped beneath your door in the early hours of morning, to now.

The winter months always leave you hard at work, as the shogun buries himself in the warmth of sake and women. Yamato knows this, and you know that he would be understanding if you didn’t make it to your rendezvous. But as you can feel the paper, pressed warm against your bare skin as if it were Yamato’s own hand, you can hear the shogun’s lecherous laughter down the hall, and you know that whatever risks you may have to take to make it to the garden are worth it.

Thankfully, with the shogun already waist-deep in sake by noon, it isn’t difficult for you to excuse yourself under the pretense of fetching another bottle and slip away.

Your skirts trail through the snow as you pass down the twining paths of the garden, taking a bridge across the frozen creek to your usual meeting place: a bench beside the property’s walls, tucked safely out of view from the rest of the gardens. It’s surrounded by cherry trees, their branches now bare with winter but still enough to provide shelter from the snow.

Yamato is waiting for you there, hands fidgeting with a bundle of fabric on his lap.

“(Y/N)! You came!” he calls out as soon as he sees you.

Used to his unguarded enthusiasm and energy by now, you lift a finger to your lips, reminding him that you’re still supposed to be working, and he nods, flushing a little with embarrassment.

“Put these on,” he says, voice softening a bit as he holds the bundle out to you.

“What is it?” you ask as you inspect the fabric: quilted cotton, printed in a rippling pattern of pale blue and white.

Yamato’s fangs peek out from behind his lips when he smiles at you, his expression one of utter excitement. “You’ll be too cold, dressed like that.”

You hesitate, considering the potential repercussions of disappearing in the middle of the day like this, but Yamato’s enthusiasm is so irresistible, and you know that if worse came to worst, he could pull the strings to keep you safe.

“Don’t look,” you instruct him as you place yourself between him and the wall.

Obediently, Yamato fixes his gaze straight ahead, broad back shielding you from view of the rest of the garden as you unfold the bundle to find a shirt, trousers, and hanten. A less trained eye than yours would only see simple garments, made to withstand the cold and not much else, but you can tell by the weight of the fabric and the fine stitching that Yamato must have spent a fortune on these–possibly even had them made specially for you.

It’s not the cost that surprises you–he is Kaido’s son, after all, he could likely buy you a whole new wardrobe if you asked–as it is the care evident in the fact that he put so much thought into something as simple as keeping you warm.

Once you’ve changed, folded your court clothes, and stashed them safely in an alcove on the wall, you wrap your arms around Yamato’s neck, snuggling up to his warm body.

“Ready?” he asks, nervous energy clearly apparent in his voice.

“Ready,” you nod.

You keep your arms wrapped tightly around him as you feel his weight begin to shift beneath you, shoulders and back expanding as white fur sprouts from his arms and the nape of his neck to tickle your nose. While it’s not the first time you’ve seen his Zoan form, you’re still unsure whether you’re ever going to get used to the feeling of his muscles shifting and contorting until all that you can recognize is his eyes: beyond his innocent demeanor, they're so wise beyond their years, and so headstrong.

He waits for you to securely wrap your legs around his waist before he gathers his weight on his back haunches and leaps, clearing the wall in one easy stride. And then you’re bounding down the path that leads from the palace, through the streets of the Flower Capital, the whole world flying past you with a kind of confidence and ease that you can’t help but envy.

When he finally stops moving, far from the city, you find yourselves in a snowy grove hemmed by cypress trees and dusted in powdered white snow. Across the clearing is a small wood cottage, soft light flickering behind the paper windows.

Yamato waits for you to slip from his back before he returns to his human form, unbothered by the way you stare as he stretches and rolls his shoulders like he’s settling back into his human skin.

“What do you think?” he asks, tipping his head to the side curiously.

“It’s beautiful,” you answer, not bothering to hide the awe in your voice.

It’s like he knew exactly what you needed: picturesque and wild, nothing like the neatly trimmed gardens of the shogun’s palace. And even better, completely closed off from the rest of the world, like it was made just for the two of you.

“Come on,” he says, waving to you over his shoulder as he turns toward the cottage. “I want to show you something.”

You’re not entirely listening, though; he’s already set your mind wandering back to the days before you became a kamuro, when dignity and elegance were the last things on your mind. Memories of your childhood, playing with your friends in forests not unlike this one, and Yamato’s back turned to you as he walks away give you an idea.

Before you’re entirely sure what you’re doing or why, you’ve begun rolling a small ball of snow between your hands, pressing it together until it holds.

And then it’s sailing through the air until it lands in the middle of Yamato’s back with a satisfying smack.

For a moment, he just stops moving and stands completely still, leaving you worried that you’ve somehow offended him even though that seems near-impossible. But then you see him bend over, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

In one movement so fluid that it doesn’t leave you time to react, he swoops low, pivoting on one foot as he gathers a ball of snow in his own hands and slings it in your direction. The snowball bursts against your shoulder in a puff of white.

“Revenge!” Yamato crows, raising his fists to the sky as he grins at you.

“You know what they say about an eye for an eye, right?” you giggle, dodging to the side as you duck down to roll another snowball and toss it at Yamato.

The moment the words leave your mouth, it’s all out war. For once, your smaller frame gives you the advantage; while he may have better aim than you thanks to all his time spent training, his broad frame and towering height mean that Yamato is practically a walking target. Still, he manages to land a couple good hits of his own until you’re both panting, the fronts of your hanten flecked with snow.

“Are you ready to surrender yet?” you say, placing your hands on your hips and smugly puffing out your chest.

“Never!” Yamato proclaims, rolling a fresh snowball between his palms in preparation for the end of your ceasefire.

Knowing Yamato well enough to know that he’d never give up so easily, you’ve got another trick up your sleeve. Before he can react, you’re barreling forward, leaping toward him as soon as you’re close enough to tackle him.

Yamato playfully stumbles back, clasping a hand to his chest as if he’s been stabbed, and collapses back onto a snowbank, your legs straddling his waist.

You lean in close to Yamato’s ear, relishing how easily he flushes as you whisper, “what about now?”

His voice has gone uncharacteristically shy when he concedes, “I’m all yours.”

“And how should I use my spoils of war?” you ask, leaning forward to rest your head on your arms, folded over his chest.

Yamato blinks and glances away as he thinks, cheeks flaring even brighter against the white snow. “However you’d have me.”

Ever since you first met Yamato, you’ve been charmed by how delicately he tries to treat you, even when it’s so clear that he’s naturally much more physical and uninhibited. It was a welcome reprieve from men like the shogun, with their entitlement and possessiveness. But sometimes, you wish that Yamato was more willing to take what he wanted from you.

So you take what you want instead: a kiss.

His lips part so easily for you, as if he’d been waiting for this moment since you first met. Then again, you muse, perhaps he has. The soft groan he releases when you place your hand on his chin, tug of his fingers running through your once-carefully arranged hair as it tumbles around your shoulders, the fervor of his gentle nips at your lower lip; all charged with the hunger of a starving man.

Unfortunately, even with Yamato’s warm body as a barrier between yourself and the snowy earth, it’s too cold for the two of you to stay that way forever. Eventually, you have to pull back, running your hand along Yamato’s jaw as you ask, “you wanted to show me inside?”

He has to take a moment to collect himself, lucidity returning to his eyes, before he nods wordlessly. As he stands, he scoops you up in one arm as if you weigh nothing and carries you through the snow, past the sliding doors of the cottage, to find a small room, cushioned with pillows and blankets and warmed by a fire in the hearth.

“Whose–” you begin to say, but Yamato cuts you off.

“I had it built.” Then, shyly avoiding your gaze, “for you. If you ever need–a break. To get away.”

“It’s–” Your voice cracks, forcing you to take a brief pause before you’re able to finish the thought. “Yamato, this is too much.”

“It’s nothing,” he shakes his head obstinately. “If I must live with my father’s wealth, I may as well use it for the ones I care about.”

And it’s true, Yamato has been generous with his wealth for as long as you’ve known him–not just with you, either, but with all the people of Wano, whenever he’s able. So you pause, biting back further protests, before pressing a gentle kiss against his cheek.

“Thank you. It’s perfect.”

“It’s nothing,” he repeats, cheeks reddening as he carefully sets you on the ground. “You must be cold.”

Eventually, you find yourselves nestled before the fire, dressed in fresh, dry clothes and mugs of tea cupped between your hands.

“Someday I’ll liberate this land from my father,” Yamato promises, absentmindedly curling your unbound hair around one of his fingers. “And then we’ll both be free.”

“What then?” you ask, resting your head in the crook of his neck.

“Tell me what you want, and I’ll take you there,” Yamato answers, the simplicity of his promise and the sincerity of his tone yet another reminder of why you’ve chosen him, why you’d choose him again and again if given the chance.

You think for a little while, watching the steam rise from your teacups.

“I want to see the world outside Wano. Want to travel by your side. That’s enough to make me happy.”

He presses an affectionate kiss to your temple. “Then that’s what we’ll do. I’m all yours.”

#word count on this one got away from me lol but hopefully it's worth it <3 #yams ended up being so fun to write!!#not sure i got his characterization nailed as well as i'd like but i definitely wanna do more for him in the future #one piece #yamato #yamato x y/n #yamato x you #yamato x reader #one piece x reader #one piece fanfiction #one piece fanfic #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #one piece reader insert #op fics #ronan writes

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gwilin-stay-winnin · 25 days

Text

IMPERIAL FUGITIVE DATABASE

Name: Gwilin of Ivarstead Aliases: "Sinslinger", "The Burlesque Bandido", "The Dibellan Devil" Status: Rogue

D.O.B: ??? Place of Birth: Skyrim Race: Bosmer Height: 5' 4" Weight: ??? Build: Average, save for unusually corpulent thighs Scars/marks: NONE Occupation: NONE APPARENT Complexion: Medium Hair Color: Auburn Eye Color: Deep, coquettish caramel Sex: A lot (reportedly) Case Notes: Last seen luring unsuspecting travelers into the woods of The Rift under promise of a night of merriment, only for them to fall victim to another of his infamous 'robbery raves'. Of difficult, brazen temperament. Works closely with both the highly organized and loosely associated criminal elements all across northern Tamriel. Admirers describe him as unequaled in the art of poetry and artifice; a 'pickpocket of the heart'. Widely known as promiscuous, he once secured his escape from the Imperial City Prison through means this scribe has been forbidden from committing to ink and parchment.

Threat Level: HIGH

Priority Level: Minimal civilian casualties. Limited political and fiscal power. LOW Official Instructions: Report on activity and whereabouts from afar. DO NOT ENGAGE

#tes #tesblr #rogue #rentfree #new gwilin just dropped #welcome to the Bandido Gwilin Cinematic Universe you guys :3

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fullfiresiren · 1 year

Text

unconquered // 8

[8; varying degrees of warmth]

[read on ao3]

A week has passed since the incident at dinner.

Princess Helaena visits you often; in your apartments to sew, in the gardens to sketch, or just to pass time walking through the Keep. She brings you gifts she finds endearing, or ones she thinks you would enjoy -- an assortment of colored ribbons for your hair, romance and fantasy novels from the library, even some pastries she asked the cooks to make especially for the two of you to share. Where you have lost closeness with Prince Aemond, you have gained it tenfold with the princess. You grieve the loss of it, and yet, warmth blooms at your new friendship.

She mentioned briefly in first early days after what had transpired at supper, that her bull-headed brothers behaviour was undeniably uncouth, and there were no excuses for it. She had relented, however, that she would be happy to speak with him on your behalf, should you wish it. You did not; stubborn temperament refusing to bow and submit. Prince Aemond was at fault, so Prince Aemond should speak first. As the days progressed however, she spoke of it less and less. Until, one morning in her apartments, as the both of you sat sewing on her blue chaise longue, she felt the need to speak.

“My brother has a terrible habit of being unable to admit his mistakes,” she voices with a sigh, as if it will change your opinion of the situation. “Although I have no doubt that he knows he was wrong.”

You do not look up, gaze transfixed on your work before you, continuing to sew a small blue dragon in flight amongst four others. Your skills have grown since you first began, and although you are far behind Princess Helaena's ability, there is a visible improvement that has you proud.

“Indeed,” you murmur, wishing the topic would lay itself to rest once and for all. Instead, others drag it from the dirt to inspect continuously. “I could more easily forgive his pride had he not wounded mine, princess.”

She looks saddened by your words, but, ultimately does agree. Her obtuse brother will not soon hear the end of this from her, and likely, until the matter is resolved, neither will you.

“The weather today is lovely,” you change the subject quickly, hoping she follows suit. “It would be a shame to waste it indoors.”

“You sound like your lady’s maid,” she giggles, and you scoff good-naturedly.

“She is right, though. Why are we not taking advantage of the grounds? You know how much I adore them, princess.”

“Sewing outside in hot weather is distracting,” she speaks, adding, “and you know you need not call me ‘princess’ any longer.”

Close enough to finally forgo titles, you smile down at your work, friendship truly solidified. “Of course... Helaena...”

She nudges you affectionately with her shoulder -- an action you have come to realise means encouragement and closeness. Unbeknownst to yourself, you are Helaena’s first, and only friend.

Suddenly, she sits more upright, posture a little forced, and turns her head towards you. Her eyes linger on her embroidered beetle, but every so often, they flick upwards to your face.

“Perhaps... we should finish our sewing now, and meet in the gardens in an hour?” she suggests, but it is as if she is reading from a book, or piece of parchment.

You give her a curious look. “Yes, I... that would be nice...” A raise of your eyebrow, and then, “Why in an hour? Why not now?”

Her eyes glint with something you are unable to place when she says, “To give us time to ready ourselves, of course.” It seems like a flimsy excuse, and so she adds, “I also wish to check on my beloved children.”

At the mention of her issues, you readily believe her. You assume they are with the wetnurse, or maids currently. Children are to be loved, cherished. They require constant attention from an ever watchful attendant, and, you suppose, when a mother is without them for a while, a part of her heart aches to be reunited. You nod in understanding, placing your work down near her elusive sewing box.

“Ah, of course,” you smile, standing to leave her be, “Let us meet in an hour, then.”

She sees you out with fondness, and, once you are walking down the hall, calls out to you.

“In an hour, (y/n),” she reminds, waving to you, all formal titles discarded to make way for a blossoming familiarity.

You turn to glance over your shoulder.

“An hour,” you confirm.

You do not return to your apartments; no need to change, nor eat, nor rest. Instead, with nothing else to do, you choose to make your way down the length of the Keep, straight to the gardens. The princess told you to meet in an hour. It matters not that you are early, only late.

Your shoes click with each step you take to descend the stone staircase towards the open grounds, and crunch when you reach the pebbled paths. You set a leisurely pace when you walk, hands clasped behind your back, taking in your soft surroundings.

The garden is as you always remember it to be; vibrant green with delicate specks of color here and there. As if an artist has taken liberties to separate their monochromatic canvas with signs of life in every hue. It is refreshing for the eye; kindred to the soul. The air today carries the thick scent of wet earth, and when you scan the grounds for the reason, you become aware that the workers tending to the nursery seem to be planting a new row of fruit trees. Intrigued, you wander over.

A young man on his knees pats down loose soil around a sturdy sapling. Upon the crunching pebbles that sound out your approach, he glances over his shoulder.

“H-High Lady,” he starts, smiling up at you, dirt smeared across his features. He seems surprised at your appearance, and stops what he was doing, asking shyly, “Is... there something I can help you with?”

“What are you planting?” you ask, taking a step forward to inspect it closer, curiosity growing.

“Blood oranges, my lady,” he replies. “From Dorne. They were imported upon request of the King. I have heard when they are ripe, they release a fragrant scent.” You must look overly interested, and he satiates your need for knowledge, by adding, “We don’t know if they’ll take in the climate here, so we’re being careful with the planting, and taking extra care to grow them.”

“How lovely,” you murmur. “Can these be eaten like regular oranges?”

“Y-yes, my lady. When they grow larger and sprout fruit, you can pick them from the trees,” he explains, adding hastily, “should you wish.”

He seems entranced by you; your features, your way of speaking, your manner, and glances up at you like you are some kind of deity.

All the workers at the Keep have heard tell of you – the mysterious high born who arrived on dragon back, but bears no lineage to the crown. With little to no interaction with you, and your staggering notoriety and favor from the King, the small minds of the castles’ household began to wander far and wide. He has heard the rumors about you. That your beauty, they say, is striking -- almost unearthly. Some of them even go so far as to call you a witch. Some older and more cynical laundresses say you never bleed, not even once. The cooks whisper that you only eat raw meat, and one scullery maid swears to the seven that she saw you worshipping the full moon one night.

But as you stand before him now, he believes only one. Your beauty is not of this earth.

You smile at him. “I wish you luck, then, in your work.”

“T-thank you, my lady,” he nods, and you continue onwards, leaving him to stare after you in a trance.

When they grow fully, you expect orange trees would compliment the grounds very much, and perhaps one day, you can take the joy of sharing one with Helaena under the shade of the Wierwood tree. The thought warms you, but you grow cold when a breeze reminds you that as of this moment, Prince Aemond will not be a part of that future.

The grounds, however, never fail to ease your crowded mind and hush your thoughts. Something about being in amongst nature calms your fire. You wonder if it would be too much of you to ask the King for a room that overlooked the gardens? Perhaps. The view from your room now is undoubtedly splendid; one that stretches across the city and the Narrow Sea. Too low, however, to see the beaches, nor your beloved dragon.

Any room with a view makes you feel less like a prisoner.

Sometimes, when you step out onto the balcony of your apartments to gaze across the ocean, you wonder if you are staring in the direction of your homelands. Separated by distance and time. A thought that is sobering, and leaves you hollow.

From your path, you notice a head of long, soft white, and a light blue gown appear from the edges of the gardens; unmistakably the princess. The hour passed quicker than you thought it would, and you make your way over to her quickly. She moves to stand at the base of the stone steps that gives those coming from the castle entrance to the gardens, looking up as if waiting for someone -- waiting for you, of course. What a surprise, then, when you call out to her from across the grounds.

“Ah, Helaena!” you greet, quickening your pace to reach her. She turns, a little shocked, but holds out her hands for you to grasp. You readily accept them. “I have a wonderful idea! Let us introduce Dreamfyre and Archeon! We could ride them together over the city or the Narrow Sea? Wouldn’t that be excellent?” you gush. “Today's weather is perfect for... a... flight...”

You trail off when you notice Prince Aemond descend the stone steps behind her.

Like a ghostly apparition, or a phantom spectre, dressed in his usual melancholic black, he is graceful when he moves, but abrupt when he stops. He has spotted you, face hiding poorly concealed shock, eye growing wider before it narrows at the back of his sister’s head. You glance at Helaena, and she gives you a meek look.

You have half a mind to turn and stomp all the way back to your apartments, impudent at being tricked. Not willing to risk looking like the defeated party, however, you hold your ground until the Prince himself makes the first move. If he stays, you stay. If he goes, so will you.

You hear him sigh out sharply through his nose, and, after a moment of painful contemplation, continues down the stairs until he is before you both.

“I thought the three of us could use a calming walk in the gardens,” the princess explains, moving to stand between you both, linking arms with her brother, and then with you.

You realise you cannot escape, nor back away, and so, when she sets a pace, you can do nothing but keep up.

The atmosphere is horribly tense and high strung, and judging from the look on Prince Aemond’s face from the brief glances you shoot his way, he would rather be anywhere but here. You take offense, despite feeling the same. You turn away, refusing to look in their direction. A traitorous friend and a silent fiancé.

“My future sister and I were sewing earlier,” she speaks, filling the silence. “Isn't that right?”

Her affectionate word usage does not go unnoticed by you, and she nudges your side when you keep quiet.

You answer indignant. “Yes.”

“I found it most enjoyable,” she continues, guiding you through the grounds, and towards, you notice, the Wierwood tree. You have realized by now, that she has already planned something without your knowledge, and now, all you can do is brace yourself for the results. “Do you remember when I tried to teach you to sew, brother?”

Prince Aemond refuses to answer, allowing his sister to drag him about in the hopes that she’ll let go and he can retreat. But she has him tightly, and will not give up.

“We were young, and you would cry whenever you pricked yourself--”

“Yes,” he grits, willing her to cease talking. “I remember.”

“I so loved to sew,” she continues, “and you detested that I had to learn alone. You used to sit with me for hours, then, no matter how many times you hurt yourself. Do you remember the maester had to make a special salve to help with your cuts from the needle? I believe only you know the correct ointment to ask for--”

“Indeed,” he forces, giving her a particularly hostile look.

Your suspicions, however, are confirmed. The healing ointment was intended for you, and it was a gift from the prince.

Helaena stops abruptly, under the delicate shade of the ancient Wierwood tree, the canopy stretching out far beyond its trunk. She sighs. Her trick was craftily done, and well executed, but now, she fears she has not planned far enough ahead. This is the perfect place for you two to talk; secluded and quiet, but now, she fears, with her here, nothing will be said.

“Ah!” she exclaims softly, and far too pronounced for it to be natural. “My centipede! Oh dear, I believe I left the roof of it’s tank open... this will not do... I must return to my apartments to check, please excuse me!”

You give her a pleading look, silently begging her to not leave you alone, but she slips from your grasp like smoke, smiling excitedly at you from behind her brothers stiff back. And with that, she takes her leave; the only thing that fills the silence, is the soft chorus of songbirds.

You stare adamantly ahead, stomach twisting uncomfortably with nerves and apprehension. The prince does the same.

When a minute passes and nothing transpires, you decide to sit at the base of the tree. Leaving is defeat, but staying is victory, no matter the silence that hangs over both decisions.

Prince Aemond stands for a few moments longer, and you feel his eye on you. You dare not look at him, burning humiliation from supper still raw, and stare out across the secluded area before you. When he finally accepts that you will not meet his gaze, he sits slowly, placing himself further from you than necessary.

A breeze flits about the two of you, rustling the auburn leaves above.

“Did you receive the ointment?” he says aloud suddenly, looking away. You notice he has taken to playing with the strands of grass by his thigh.

You glance down at your hand, no sign of cuts or injury thanks to the salve you had been using. “Yes.”

“Good.”

You hear the branches above you creak softly, a few birds perched overhead take flight, as if they sense the oncoming storm. Prince Aemond is more forceful, you notice, as moments pass by, with the grass by his side, ripping out clumps and throwing it away, lips pursed in annoyance. Chaos is coming, you think.

“If you did not wish to marry me, you should have voiced your opinion sooner,” he says firmly, turning his head only slightly towards you, but keeping his eyes transfixed on where he is massacring the ground. There is something shifting under the waters of his voice that foretells of a lurking danger. He make his signature hum, but it sounds derisive. “Finding out at dinner in front of my family was detestable.”

You are genuinely confused by his words, taken aback by the distain in them. Frowning at him with a bewildered expression, you say, “I don’t understand--”

He meets your gaze hotly, and bites with more force, “I said if you did not wish to have me as a husband, you should have confided these feelings with me in private.”

“I feel no way of the sort,” you retort, scowling at the accusation. “What exactly are you accusing me of--?”

“I saw your reaction to my fathers words, my lady,” he lowers his voice, words laced with venom, “To the date of the wedding being set. You sat in fearful silence, and only relaxed when my sister reassured you that marriage is not that bad. Anyone who is happy to be wed would react in the opposite way--”

“You have great experience, then, in being wed to another?” you ask sharply, the question an obviously rhetorical one. “Of the innermost feelings of women? Of myself?”

He falls silent, but his eye grows wide and wild. Stories forewarn that you should not taunt a great beast, but they fail to recognize you are far more fearsome.

You stand your ground, and hold his gaze.

“Or are you making assumptions, my prince?”

You are sure that only your status and gargantuan dragon are keeping you exempt from the customary manners of court. Should you be anyone else, you believe speaking to a prince in such a way would mean your imminent death. How lucky for you, then, that no amount of power frightens you, when your own easily encompasses it.

He remains silent, and you have more to say.

“You humiliated me in front of your entire family, and your actions have left a searing wound on my--” you wonder whether or not to voice it aloud, but your adrenaline commands you to, “...on my feelings for you. You, too, were silent at the news. Does this mean then, that you loathe the idea of marrying me? Of being my husband?”

You leave the question hanging heavy in the stagnant air, chest heaving.

His face, however, abruptly changes, as if a sudden realization has dawned on him. The strength to look you in the eyes fades quickly, and he turns, scoffing. There are no words that form on his tongue as he stares out over the grassy path in front of him. A long moment passes where you fear he will not say anything at all. And then, ever so quiet, he speaks.

“It does not.”

Your emotions are raw with the confrontation, but a sense of calm washes over you. Like you have faced the raging storm and withstood its wrath.

“I told you I would not be insulted nor hurt if you rejected me,” he says, calmer this time, but you notice his fingers have returned to picking at strands of grass and dirt. He is not fully convinced, nor is his statement true. He was very obviously hurt at your rejection. “So tell me with honesty, my lady.”

You wait for the question but it does not come. A glance towards him, and he is already looking at you with an expectant expression, waiting for you to give him permission.

“Ask me, my prince.”

“I...” he trails off, murmuring, “...do not wish to ask.”

“Find the courage,” you say, unwilling to allow him to flit around his meaning. He should be forthright with this.

He sighs, heavy, and full bodied, like he has been mentally drained by the events. His hands come to rest in his lap, and he looks to the heavens, keeping his eyes there when he finally does ask.

“Do you wish to marry me?”

The question is heavy, but it was what you were expecting. You lean your head against the tree, staring up at the canopy above you. The sun glints through the leaves, and with honesty, you answer.

“I do not wish to marry you out of duty. I wish to marry you for love,” you say. “But never once have I not wanted you to be my husband.”

The silence returns, but this time, it is soft, calm. The maelstrom has passed, and now, the tide only ebbs against the shore.

He tilts his head forward, looking down into his lap; pristine appearance tarnished by his own doing. Pale fingers now smeared with grass debris, under his nails, earth.

“Please forgive me,” he whispers, “for my actions... and for my assumption. I... was wrong.”

My brother has a terrible habit of being unable to admit his mistakes.

You say nothing, heart thundering in your chest at the acknowledgement of his words. Despite what his sister claims, he has owned his wrongdoings -- for you. For the assumed loss of you, he was gripped tightly by anger and shame, wounded deeply by your perceived rejection. From you, only you, he asks forgiveness.

Prince Aemond of house Targeyen is rumoured to be many things. One-Eyed savage, full of bitter resentment and vengeance. Disfigured vortex of fury and wrath. Ladies cannot bear to be around him, men fear to look him in the eye. A dangerous mix of talent and perseverance that warns others not to toil. He readily commands the largest dragon, and yet, sits beside you soft, and quiet.

Her brother cannot admit mistakes. Your fiancé begs absolution.

He looks at you now, face filled with gentle sadness at your silent state.

“Have I ruined everything?” he whispers.

“On the contrary,” you murmur, smiling, “I am perhaps more fond of you now.”

He grows red in the face, looking down, and asks, “Do you forgive me?”

“Yes,” you answer, “I do.”

His eyes flash up at you, and he gives you a tentative smile. You return it readily.

“Speak to me,” you start, and he holds your gaze, “if you feel a bridge developing between us. The worst distance between two people is misunderstanding.”

He nods mutely, holding tightly to the phrase. He once heard his sister say that love is a strange and inexplicable mix of comprehension and misunderstanding. He does not want love to be anything other than warm. Varying degrees of it.

Prince Aemond does not care about a great many things. To be hated? It does not phase him. To be misunderstood? He is indifferent to it.

But to be either, by you, frightens him. Truly.

“I am sorry,” he whispers.

“I am sorry, too,” you murmur back. “I feel terribly for the ground, though. It seems like most of your anger was fixated there.”

He laughs, glancing down to patches of earth ripped up from his own fingers. “I was frustrated,” he hums.

“I know,” you acknowledge, sighing out peacefully and closing your eyes. “I was frustrated too.”

“By me?”

There is a soft insecurity that lingers about him. The more you have gotten to know him, the more you understand his cold and stoic exterior is to make up for that. Only his sister has been allowed to see through it. Now, you have been gifted the same.

“By the situation,” you reassure, peaking an eye open to glance at him. He is already looking at you. You close it again, and relax. “Never by you.”

You do not need to look to know that he is smiling.

[part 9]

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