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snowprincesa1 · 9 months

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{A fool of a brother}

//Fannon!Teenage!Daemon x Fannon!Teenage!F!Reader//

Daemon travels to the Vale to retrieve a particular lady Arryn. (Read part two here)

Daemon had heard of you, mostly from his elder brother the king Viserys who held a soft spot for you in his heart, being the only sister his wife Aemma had.

Quite honestly speaking Daemon was jealous. Jealous of how his brother would compare him to you at every mischievous stunt he pulled to gain his older brother’s attention. Daemon knew so much of you and your life through the letters you wrote to Aemma, the ones he would secretly steal. He heard of the tales of your beauty and simply shrugged them off, you didn’t have the light blonde or silver valyrian hair that your sister did but inherited your father’s hair that you would braid and throw over your shoulder.

You were a devout follower of the faith the back of your hair veiled with a translucent blue veil that showed the colour of your house. Daemon had accumulated so much information on you that it was driving him mad. He wanted to take caraxes to the vale and demand to see you and he probably would have if his brother didn’t need him by his side.

Daemon didn’t understand why everyone who met you seemed so captivated with you. You weren’t a dragon rider like Rhaenys, You weren’t a warrior like Visenya and you certainly weren’t Aegon.

When Aemma had given birth to a healthy baby girl, she grew frail from the childbirth and it was uncertain as to whether she would live after the intense labour she endured. Blood seeped down in the sheets. Viserys didn’t know what to do, Aemma pleaded to see you one last time every time she was on the brink of unconsciousness, he should have been smarter and summoned you to kings landing at the start of the pregnancy.

Aemma was in and out of unconsciousness her body drenched with cold sweat.

“What is happening brother?” Daemon asked standing at the door of the bedchamber not daring to enter.

Viserys opened up his eyes red from the constant rubbing and worrying.

“Lets go for a walk, keep the handmaidens with the Queen” he said moving out to the corridor waiting for Viserys to join him.

“What is it? Is Aemma not to live through this?” He asked his hand holding Viserys’ shoulder.

“I am not sure of it..the maesters..the maesters seem bloody useless” he sighed “she wants me to get her sister, the lady Arryn from the vale” he sighed rubbing his face once more. “There is no time, Daemon” he said

“Pity” he said. He didn’t plan on telling his brother he would retrieve you for him if that was what he wished Daemon truly loved his brother and would happily ride caraxes to bring over this mysterious lady Arryn he had oddly even dreamt meeting. Perhaps he had wanted to do this for himself instead. He dreamt of you to be a kind, quiet woman an innocent one over whom he could hold an advantage over.

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He placed his dragon riding vest over his body. Approaching the red sleek dragon caraxes patting its snout and pressing his forehead to the dragon’s side calming it.

Caraxes had a shrilling cry that could very much deafen a person. It was a miracle Daemon’s hearing remained as is. He climbed onto caraxes swiftly pulling to the skies above. He would get you to comply with his wishes and get you to kingslanding and win his brother’s approval. How difficult could you be?

The journey took hours but caraxes felt the adrenaline running through Daemon and felt the same letting out shrill cries. Free in the skies away from kingslanding approaching the gloomy climate of the Vale, Daemon could see the Eyrie. You would be there. His curiosity to see you drove him mad. Caraxes circled the stronghold of the Arryn’s as Caraxes let out excited whistles waiting for Daemon to order him to unleash fire on the castle.

Daemon had other plans, fire was the last thing he wanted in this situation. His dragon resting on the bridge destroying a little of it as its weight pressed on the brick.

Elys Arryn the lord of the Vale walked out of the Eyrie wondering what the Targaryens could possibly want now.

“My prince, what brings you here with your mighty dragon?” He asked attempting to smile and seem friendly to the obviously large dragon and the rogue prince before him.

“No true Targaryen would pass on a chance to ride their dragon” he said caraxes standing anticipating his next command.

“I am here on order of the king” he said in a bored manner. Arryn men, he hated them.

“And what does he require ?” Lord Arryn asked impatiently clearly confused by the sudden appearance of a prince.

“That is for me and lady Arryn to discuss. You know, your half sister” he said smirking

“He has demanded for my sister?” The Arryn lord asked. He didn’t trust Daemon especially not with you.

“Yes he has, now bring the lady Arryn out. I wish to see her” Daemon said his fingers brushing the pommel of his sword Dark Sister. He would be ready to cut down any lord if he was denied. If the king was denied.

You walked out in the bridge of the eyrie. Making your way through the crowded lords. Everyone eying you, what business did the king have with you? Or was it the prince Daemon playing one of his pranks and attempting to sway another woman. It was known that Daemon was to be betrothed to a lady in the Vale, was it you? Prince Daemon disliked by the high folk of the vale. The words of your house being ‘as high as honour’. Daemon had no honour, no modesty and was indulgent in all he pleased. The rogue prince of the seven kingdoms known for deflowering young women.

You approached him, you wore a light blue gown the colour of your house. You were a proud Arryn. A year elder to your sister Aemma, you were NOT fond of king Viserys you hadn’t forgotten the anger you felt when the king had chosen your younger sister as his breeding livestock. The young girl having experienced miscarriages that had weakened the live in her. But viserys relented, he wanted a male heir. It should have been you, you were the older sister why was it you who should have been chosen not your little sister. You should have protected her. She was so young— the guilt ate you up from the inside. You were just a year older but yet you would happily sacrifice yourself in her stead. Viserys loved your sisters silver hair and that was the reason as to why she was chosen. You didn’t know whether to think your dark hair a boon or a bane.

A white veil over the back of your dark hair with a headband embroidered with beautiful pearls. The cuffs of your gowns had little designs of golden coloured birds. You were a sight to behold.

Daemon felt his mind go blank the moment he saw you. How could his brother have passed on you? Perhaps his brother regretted his impulsive choice.

“My lady, I have heard tales of your beauty but none of them do you any justice” daemon said truthfully, you stood with your back straight almost contemplating what to say.

“My prince, is it true that the king has requested for my presence?” You asked plainly. What does Viserys want now?

“It’s more of a command my lady” his eyes lingering on your body taking all of you in. “You look absolutely beautiful” he said complimenting you again. Unlike other women you didn’t blush nor grow embarrassed. Your mind filled with rage over the fact that viserys had the nerve to send for you like a dog.

“And why is it he commands for me?” You asked suspiciously

“The king does not require a reason but I shall tell you the truth the queen has given birth” he said waiting for you to ask him more questions

“And the babe is healthy?” You asked “is it a boy?”

“A healthy baby girl” daemon confirmed “they are thinking through names”

“That’s wonderful news” your sister’s pregnancies would not end with a daughter you knew, viserys would still long for a male heir as demanded by the council and his people. But you were happy that a babe survived the trials and was born healthy.

“The queen is weak, the queen wishes to see you in case she does not make it” daemon explained seeing his stubborn you would be if he kept you in the dark.

“And I suppose you’ve come to take me on dragon?” You asked.

“Smart one aren’t you?” He smirked looking at caraxes who screeched loudly. “You have never ridden a dragon have you?” He asked extending his hand for you to take. You looked to your half brother nodding and telling him you would be back sooner or later. As much as Elys would have liked to keep you safe in the eyrie he could not go against the king’s or queen’s orders.

“What a pity a Targaryen never experiencing what it is to be a dragon rider”

“Well you must remember that I am half Arryn because of my father’s blood” you said accepting his gloved hand.

“But yet you share the blood of the old king and the good queen just as I do” he said in a persuading almost seductive tone. His hand holding yours pressing it to caraxes scales so he would get comfortable with your presence. You patted the beast lightly. Daemon tutted holding your hand firmer onto the dragon’s scales. His hand was bigger than yours but still fit it perfectly. Daemon must have felt it as well.

“Can you climb my dragon or do you need assistance?” he asked mischievously as you stood beside him looking at his dragon Caraxes

you looked at the red beast before you. “yes I am quite capable of climbing, thankyou” you retorted. How the hell does one ride a dragon? Caraxes was smaller in size as compared to other dragons but yet you felt as though you were scaling a hill. Like hell you were going to ask Daemon for help. Your feet slipping off Caraxes. Suddenly you felt strong hands on your thighs pushing you up his hand squeezed the fat of your thigh slipping to brush against your ass as he climbed behind you setting you in the front of him. He had a smug smile on his face as he held you infront of him his hand wrapping around your waist. “You are taking quite the liberty in touching me”

“Vile accusations” he smirked his face close to yours to gorge your reaction. You quickly turned your face away at how close he was you could feel his breath on your lips and it was inappropriate, an unwed lady travelling in such close proximity to a man such as Daemon?

“But I would have to hold you like this when we take flight…unless you wish to fall off?” He said smirking his eyes boring into yours. “With your consent of course”

“Just take me to the Queen, my sister” you said cutting him off. You weren’t going to trust Daemon or his intentions. Caraxes lifted of off the bridge of eyrie as he swept the clouds with his wingspan.

Daemon’s mind was filled with ways to annoy you and get your attention “why are you unwed?” He asked pretending to be genuine but he just couldn’t hide the smirk.

“Why are you unwed?” You repeated the question directed to him.

“I’m sure you’ve heard I’m betrothed to the bronze bitch” he scowled thinking of the brown haired woman who donned armour of house Royce.

“Bronze bitch?” You asked you anger aroused so very quickly “you speak so crudely of a beautiful woman?”

“Beauty? A sheep would be more fuckable” he said chuckling at his own comment. Would it be okay to throw him off his own dragon? You thought.

“But sadly you lack a few things the lady Rhea does not” you returned his smirk.

“There is nothing desirable that I lack” he laughed

“Oh— but you do” your smirk growing “you lack character”

“Character is not required for a prince like me” he retorted his smirk faltering just slightly, the prince trying to not take offense to your insult

“Yes but you are a mere second prince, the spare” you said looking straight at the sun behind the misty clouds.

“A second prince of the seven kingdoms and the heir to the crown” heir? You looked to him

“I wasn’t aware you were named heir” you said feigning surprise.

“I wasn’t” daemon frowned “but sooner or later, the Queen cannot give my brother a son. You should treat me with more respect for if I become king..”

“You really think Viserys is going to name you his heir instead?” You laughed at his idiocy “he’s going to keep trying and trying until finally a boy is born from Aemma” your fingers tightening around the reins.

“Aemma has had years to provide viserys an heir if she cannot I suppose he’ll have to find another cunt to sink his cock in” he spoke in anger, you turned your face around looking at him bewildered by his statement. You were going to smack him across the face once you reached kings landing.

“What if I tell Viserys of this?” You said, he would obviously be extremely upset. He would probably banish daemon and hurry the wedding preparations for daemon’s marriage to Rhea. That would mean daemon would be in the Vale.

Daemon grabbed a hold of your face “if you do that I cannot promise you that I will not exact revenge” he said all sense of friendliness lost.

“What could a second son with no prospects do to me? You would do well to marry into the Royce family. Perhaps you should even take her name..” you chuckled. Daemon was seething with anger his hold over you grew tighter almost as though he was trying to hurt you.

“If I wasn’t knighted I would—” he started

“You have no honour you might as well do what you must.” You said. You heard him cuss you out in soft mutters trying to control his anger. The ride back was too long. Daemon no longer wished to talk to you. Amidst the silence he suddenly said

“Lots of words from you, Queen who could have been” he smirked. He didn’t know you had no attraction or desire to the iron throne unlike himself.

“Lots of words from you, Daemon Royce” you retorted quickly. Daemon rested his head on your shoulder as you put your hand on his face to push him off but he relented stubbornly placing his chin deep in the crevice of your shoulder bone. “Call me Daemon Royce and I promise you. I will make you wish you never met me” he said trying to make you believe he that his threats were very real.

“I cannot believe we both are of same age” you grumbled “you are so immature it is no wonder God made you the second born” you said annoying hun even further. He threw some more insults at you which you threw insults back. The entire journey was a pain in the ass, the two of you yelling at each other at the top of your lungs. By the time you both had reached kingslanding you were sure you had lost your voice. Daemon’s voice and turned gruff and quiet as well. You attempted to climb off his dragon carefully to which he pushed you off when you were a few feet from the ground.

“You little sh—” you said getting back on your feet praying that no one saw the embarrassing fall and whelp you let out. Your legs had gone numb from the dragon ride but you wouldn’t spend another minute in the annoying prince’s presence. You truly felt for Rhea Royce. You walked out of the dragon pit ignoring everyone in your annoyance. You came for your sister. No one else. Daemon was quick to follow your lead

“Quite impolite as well not only to a prince like me but others as well” he noted “you didn’t wish any lord or lady on your way. Do you even know where you are heading?” He asked pulling the back of your dress to bring you to him your back hitting his chest with a thump sound.

“What in the seven hells are you doing now?” You asked your eyes squinting with irritation.

“Winning my brother’s favour, I brought you here. You see he gave me no order I did this out of my own goodwill. That makes me a good man” why the hell was he trying to convince you he was a good person?

“So the king gave no order— you abducted me!” You yelled punching him in the arm. Hard.

“And now you attacked a prince! Are we equal now?” He said rubbing the spot with his hand.

You ended up ignoring him or you knew you would end up spitting more insults at him. But well, now your anger for the Targaryens is split amongst the two brothers now. Daemon led you to to the room Aemma lay in. And you rushed in attempting to shut the door on his face. His strength overpowering you throwing open the door.

King Viserys looked up at the two of you from where he knelt next to his wife Aemma who was unconscious. Daemon shuffled his feet almost nervously before saying “I’ve brought her for you” King Viserys looked in disbelief between his brother and you. He got up from his bed giving his younger brother a silent hug which spoke a thousand thankyous. You sat on the bed next to Aemma trying to wake your sister gently “Aemma” you called her eyes flickering open before shutting them due to the brigtness of the room. The contrast between the darkness of her sleep and the sunlight spaying on your face and hair.

“Sister? Am I dreaming, Viserys?” she asked weakly.

Your eyes filled with tears at the sight of her so vulnerable. How much you had missed her. You didn’t know whether to hug her weak self so you placed a soft kiss on her forehead. “I’m here Aem” you said brushing her sweaty clumps of hair with your fingers. Aemma seats herself on the bed to get a better look at you “you look just like father” she smiled “and you an Angel Aem” you smiled weakly trying and failing to hold back your tears. “I did it..I gave birth to a healthy babe. A girl” she said “not what the realm wished for but I am happy nonetheless” she said gently her eyes tearing up at the disappointment Viserys must have felt.

“Fuck the realm” you blurted in the presence on the King, the prince, and the the Queen, your sister “I am proud of you, mother would be proud of you. You did so well” you said pulling her to you as you stroked her silver hair.

“Have you seen the babe?” She asked “No I have not” you responded “You see, I was abducted and brought here by the prince Daemon” you jested trying to lighten your mood. Aemma sent a polite smile to daemon “I hope she didn’t cause you any problems” Aemma laughed asking Daemon. “Oh she did, but that’s a conversation for another time” he smirked. You couldn’t help but chuckle at your sisters remark maybe even Daemon’s.

A handmaiden brought in the baby to Aemma and she gently handed you the tiny babe wrapped in the softest of cloths. Viserys sat beside Aemma kissing the top of her hair. Daemon again stood at the door almost ready to leave. But then he looked at your face in that sunlight. Holding the tiny babe with silver hair in your arms. He saw the way you smiled looking at your sister proudly and then you looked at him and your smile didn’t vanish. It stayed as you held the baby in your arms. “Have you seen her? Have you seen our niece?” You asked Daemon. Your long argument almost instantly forgotten when you had your niece in your arms. This was your family as well, Daemon was your family as well. You didn’t want him to leave for some reason.

Daemon cautiously took a few steps further and then a few more standing a few feet away from the bed looking at the babe. “For heaven’s sake— she won’t bite you. Come closer” you barked. “She won’t, but you look like you would” he said ignoring Viserys’ glare. Aemma couldn’t help but laugh at your bluntness. Daemon scoffed standing right over you and the babe now.

“she looks like you brother” Daemon said and you quickly countered “No, she looks like my sister.”

Before the two of you knew it the both of you were arguing once again once again, and from behind both Aemma and viserys sent each other knowing looks.

Though you weren’t what Daemon had expected you to be he wasn’t disappointed in the least, in his heart he still believed his brother was a fool for passing on you.

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 6 months

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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 13: Condemned From The Start] [Series Finale]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), death, angsttttttt, more children than usual, Wolfman!

Series title is a lyrics from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Sophomore Slump or Comeback of the Year” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 8.1k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoy the finale.🦀💚

In the Eyrie, one of Rhaena Targaryen’s three dragon eggs has hatched at last; the creature is small and pink, and she has named it Morning. When Rhaena’s tears fall onto the scales of her diminutive wings, they glitter like flecks of rose quartz. Deep within the snow-laden labyrinth of the Mountains of the Moon, Nettles is in hiding with Sheepstealer; already the nearby clans are bringing her offerings of meat and treasure, axes and clubs and daggers, hairpins carved from the ribs of enemies and necklaces made of bear teeth. Silverwing is settling into a lair on an island in the Red Lake at the northwestern corner of the Reach. Word of this has travelled back to King’s Landing, and Borros Baratheon implores Aegon II to seize Silverwing for himself; but the king does not want a new dragon. He wants Sunfyre back. That grim truth aside, Aegon is unable to trek across the continent to tame the beast anyway. Some days he cannot even cross a room. At the bottom of the Gods Eye, bodies are dissolving into bones, threads of long white hair breaking loose to flow in the currents like weightless strands of spider webs torn free by cold drafts. And only a few miles from the border of the Crownlands—preparing to cross the icy waters of the Blackwater Rush—the army of Northmen camps under a full moon in a clear, indigo sky heavy with stars like glinting coins.

“There are passageways under King’s Landing,” Clement Celtigar says. He stands by the bonfire with his sword in his hand, his face flame-bright and eager, forever licking up drops of the Kingmaker’s approval, a stray cat lapping milk splashed in an alley. Increasingly, Cregan Stark finds him tiresome. Clement is brash and dramatic, forever swearing vengeance, reveling in his newfound position as the head of his house. The Warden of the North has never had to beg for attention, admiration, acclaim. These things come to him like snow falls to the earth in winter: effortlessly, inevitably. Yet Cregan tries to be patient. Clement is soon to be his brother-in-law, and it is dishonorable to fail to extend courtesy to one’s kin. Furthermore, it seems, Clement has his uses.

“Are there really?”

Clement nods. He wears the banner of his house on a strip of fabric looped around his upper arm: crabs red like blood, a backdrop of white like snow. “That monster’s disciples used them to kidnap my sister from the Red Keep. But she fought hard. When we searched her rooms, all the furniture was upturned and the sheets ripped from her bed.”

“She is brave,” Cregan murmurs in agreement, though he is distracted now. The air tastes like smoke and ice, the wind rubs raw spots into the soldiers’ faces. They are arriving just in time. The depths of winter is no time to wage war. Cregan Stark imagines how you will greet him when he liberates you: a desperate embrace, hands that refuse to let go, whispered gratitude and breathless kisses on his earth-stained knuckles, bones of steel softened by the innate weakness of womanhood. You will love him, of course you will, fervently and entirely. Then when the realm and succession are secured, the Kingmaker will take you North and wed you in the tradition of his people, under the heart tree where the Old Gods can witness it. And then there will be the wedding night. In Cregan’s understanding, women receive little pleasure from the act itself. It is a burden they bear for the men they love, for the children they are divinely tasked with bringing into existence. Cregan Stark intends to alleviate your suffering in this regard as much as possible…yet he has already begun to choose the names of the sons he will make with you. He especially likes the sound of Brandon, sturdy and grounded and thought to mean leader or prince. “This is the last night your sister will ever spend in the clutches of the Usurper.”

“Praise the Seven.” Then Clement adds diplomatically: “And the Old Gods too, of course.”

“It’s the end of the world,” Cregan Stark says, gazing up into the night sky where constellations tell the stories men deem worthy of remembering. “And the start of a brand new one.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“How did you learn to braid hair?” little Jaehaera asks you in her lilting, reedy voice like a bird’s. You are sitting behind her on the floor in Alicent’s bedchamber. Nearby, Autumn is flipping through a child’s book with Rhaenyra’s ever-solemn son, murmuring as she points to colorful illustrations of ravens, dolphins, bears, dragons, crabs. They are learning to read together.

“My sisters taught me,” you tell the princess. Firelight turns her silver hair to gold, her pale skin to flames. Logs crack and pop as they melt to glowing embers. Alicent glances over at you and sighs despairingly. The dowager queen, so thin she might disappear, is hunched in a chair by the fireplace. She has an unshakeable, rattling sort of cough that reminds you of how Sunfyre sounded on Dragonstone when he was near the end. Her long auburn tresses are falling out in handfuls. She will not survive the winter, this is a certainty.

“You have sisters?” Jaehaera says, surprised. “How many?”

You smile faintly as you weave her hair into one thick braid like the kind Aemond once wore when he went to battle. “Three. Piper, Petra, and Penelope.”

“Where are they now?”

“Back on Claw Isle, where I came from. With our mother.” Mourning Father, mourning Everett, writing letters to Clement to keep his spirits high as he and the Warden of the North march towards King’s Landing to slay the Greens’ king and bind me to a different man’s will.

“What’s Claw Isle like?” Jaehaera asks with a child’s clear, boundless curiosity.

“Rocky, misty, grey. But the ocean is beautiful.” You think of Aegon’s eyes, the same as his daughter’s, a murky storm-blue that is deeper than it looks.

“What brought you here?”

You consider this before you answer. You see it, you feel it: cinders like dark snow in the air, Aemond’s iron grip on your forearm. “When your father was burned at the Battle of Rook’s Rest, he needed someone to help heal him. Your uncle Aemond found me.”

“And he asked you to stay with us?”

He would have slit my throat if I said no. “Yes, he asked very politely, as any gentleman would. And of course I agreed. I wanted to make the king strong again. I wanted to take his pain away.”

Jaehaera stares down at her tiny hands, palms crossed with lines that are long and shadowy in the shifting firelight. She does not speak of Aegon. She does not know him, and he frightens her: the burns on his skin, the suffering in his glazed eyes. She has no memories to impress his true character upon her. If she does not make them herself, she will believe whatever she is told. “I miss Aemond. I miss Daeron.”

“I know, sweetheart.” They were formally laid to rest yesterday on two funeral pyres. Daeron’s bloodied, charred, seafoam green cape was burned to ashes on one. All that was left of Aemond—his favorite books, his quills and ink, small leather eyepatches from when he was a boy—were torched on the other. “I miss them too.”

Jaehaera’s braid is finished. You reach into a pocket of your emerald green velvet gown to retrieve what you have brought for her: a thin golden chain necklace with Aegon’s ring as a pendant. He can’t wear it anymore. His fingers are too swollen. “What is this?” Jaehaera says as you place the chain around her neck. She lifts the ring and peers at it, gold wings and jade eyes.

“It’s supposed to resemble Sunfyre,” you explain. “Your father loves you very much, Jaehaera. He wanted you to have this ring and keep it with you always.” Aegon didn’t say that; he rarely mentions Jaehaera at all. Sometimes you think he forgets she exists. But she is a part of him, she is his legacy, and you cannot look at any piece of her without seeing the man you love.

“He gave it to me? Like a gift?”

“Yes. A gift.” A gift, an inheritance, a relic, a reminder.

Jaehaera turns around and looks up at you hopefully, vast wave-blue eyes like winter oceans. “Do you think I’ll have another dragon someday?”

Her own infant beast, Morghul, was killed in the Dragonpit before Rhaenyra fled the city. “Maybe,” you tell her. “There are eggs that could hatch someday. And there are a few unclaimed adults left, Silverwing and the Cannibal. Perhaps you’ll tame one.”

She wrinkles her nose in confusion. “What’s a cannibal?”

Someone who murders, devours, fuels their body to the detriment of their soul. “Someone who eats their own kind. Like a dragon who feeds on other dragons.”

“So just like in the war. Dragons killing dragons.”

“Exactly,” you say, a shiver crawling down your spine. “Now go show your new necklace to Grandmother.”

Jaehaera wobbles to her feet and dashes across the firelit bedchamber to where Alicent is slumped in her chair. “Look, look! It’s Sunfyre!” you hear Jaehaera chirping. Alicent examines the ring—skeletal hands trembling, large dark eyes slick with tears—and dutifully fawns over it, telling the little girl how beautiful she looks, how brave she has been. Then she bundles Jaehaera into her boney arms and holds her like she’ll never let go. Autumn catches your gaze from the other side of the room, and when you leave to return to Aegon she follows.

“What is your plan if the Greens lose the battle?” she says in the hallway under an arc of grey stones. Her tone is urgent, her hazel eyes sharp. Everyone knows the Northmen are within days of King’s Landing. Borros Baratheon—a large, loud, abrasive man, but with a bottomless appetite for combat—and his soldiers will march out of the city tomorrow to meet Cregan Stark’s army on the fields of the Crownlands, sparse and grey with winter. The Lord of Storm’s End has spent hours locked in the council chamber discussing strategy with Larys Strong, Corlys Velaryon, and the misfortunate yet courageous Tyland Lannister, maimed by his months of torture at the hands of the Blacks.

“We won’t.” We can’t.

Autumn slams her palm against the wall behind you; the sick thud of flesh against stone reminds you of the day Helaena died. “Wake up. We might. You’d better have your options figured out.”

And you recall Larys’ words on Dragonstone: I think it’s time for you to consider what your options are if a Green victory no longer appears to be viable. “We’ll run,” you say weakly. “We’ll take Aegon and we’ll escape through the corridors under the Red Keep, just like he did before. Cregan Stark will kill Aegon if he finds him. I can’t let that happen. We’ll have to run.”

“Run where?” Autumn snaps pointedly, pushing you towards a conclusion you refuse to acknowledge.

“I don’t know.”

“Where? Where could we go that is beyond the grasp of your wolf if he seizes the capital?”

“Dorne, Essos. Somewhere, anywhere.”

“The king won’t survive a journey like that.”

You cover your face with your hands, feel the biting cold of snowflakes melting in your hair, see the stains of earth on your thighs as Cregan Stark forces them apart. How can I lie with a man who hailed the deaths of people I loved? How can I spend the rest of my life listening to him being called a hero for killing Aegon? How can I give him children? How could I love a baby that was half-made of him? “We ran before. We’ll have to do it again.”

Autumn scoffs. “You have no idea what it means to be a woman on your own in the world. What will you become without a great house, without protection? A prostitute? A peasant? Will you eat scraps covered with rot or mold? Will you live in a tree? Will you beg some family to take you in? And then when the father who is oh-so-gallant in daylight starts fumbling under your blankets once the candles are blown out, will you let him inside you? Or will you fight him off and risk a blade in your guts, your throat? You have no fucking idea what it’s like out there.”

“I don’t care what happens to me if Aegon’s gone.”

“You would abandon Jaehaera? You would abandon me?” Autumn demands. “You speak for us now. You are the only one who can. Our fates are twisted up with yours.”

That’s true. And I promised Helaena I would look out for her daughter. You can’t imagine a life without Aegon; there was a time when he was only a name—and an infamous one, a terrible one, soulless and monstrous—but now he has broken down the eaves of what you were once resigned to call your life and painted colors in the sky you’d never glimpsed before, never even dreamed of. You ask Autumn with genuine, painful bewilderment: “What is the point of learning that something exists only to have it taken away? Why would that happen? Where is the justice in it, where is the reason?”

Autumn smiles, sad and patient. “Ah, this is an affliction of the highborn. You still believe that there is a design, and that life has some amount of fairness in it. There is no divine judgment being passed, my lady. There is no god weighing the worth of your dragon or your wolf or yourself. Life is random, and it is ungovernable, and it is very often cruel. And that makes it all the more remarkable that you knew the king for the time you did. That you ever met him.”

It wasn’t enough. And I can never go back to who I was before. “I’m sorry. I should not complain to you. Your losses have been terrible.”

“It is no contest,” Autumn replies, weary now. “But I should go back to check on the children. They need me.”

“No. They love you.”

And now she beams, sparkling eyes and copper ringlets. She doesn’t need to say it, you can both feel it in the winter-cold air. She loves them in return. She loves them fiercely. As long as they live, she will have reasons to.

When you reach Aegon’s bedchamber, Grand Maester Orwyle is just leaving. He bows to you and grins, pleased that you have both survived the fall and retaking of King’s Landing. He is haggard from his months in the dungeons when Rhaenyra ruled the capital, but he endured. Who would have guessed at the start of this war that the old man had more years left than Aemond or Daeron or harmless little Maelor? You wait in the hallway for the maester to amble sluggishly by, but then when he is gone, you peer through the slit of the half-open door to see that Lord Larys Strong is speaking to Aegon, who is propped up in bed on a mountain of pillows and wearing only his cotton sleeping trousers. He is thin, frail, ghostly pale with the exception of the scars that are a mosaic of white and scarlet and bruise-like violet. Aegon and Larys have not noticed you. You linger just outside the doorway, watching, listening.

You can take care of Aegon as much as you wish now: feed him, clothe him, clean sweat from his brow, dose him with milk of the poppy, rub rose oil into his scars, stretch his legs, test the heat of his skin for fever. He’s too weak to stop you. He can’t walk, can’t stand, can’t stay awake for more than an hour or two at a time, can’t even pour his own wine or milk of the poppy; the glass bottles are too heavy when full. Yesterday, Aegon had to be carried outside in a litter to see the remnants of his brothers burned on the pyres. And he had exchanged a brief, somber glance with Autumn that you neither anticipated nor understood. He acknowledges her so rarely. And yet her small hazel eyes had been alarmed, knowing.

Larys is saying with a grave expression and his restless hands propped in the handle of his cane: “Lord Borros Baratheon is asking for your assurance that as soon as the war is won, you will take his eldest daughter Cassandra as your wife.”

Aegon stares at him, incredulously, impatiently. Aegon has not called you his wife in the company of others since his homecoming. You do not ask why. You already know. It is not because his intentions have changed; it is because if he is not the victor, your life is in less danger as his captive than as his queen. “Surely even a man as brainless as Borros can surmise that there would not be much benefit for the lady now. I am a worm. Useless, pathetic, deformed, no longer virile.”

“He is willing to take the chance, I gather. And he is placing his eggs in more than one basket. He would like another daughter, Floris, to be married to me.”

“Seven hells,” Aegon mutters. Then he turns determined. “I cannot marry another. I won’t do it. I am claimed already, body and soul.”

“I fear how enthusiastically Borros’ men will fight for you if you do not agree to the match. He is risking his life for your cause. He will expect generous repayment.”

Aegon is quiet for a long time. He stares fixedly at his bedside table: a full cup, a large glass bottle of milk of the poppy. His dagger is still there from when you cut and braided his hair for him this morning; he cannot do it himself anymore. At last Aegon says, almost too low for you to discern from the doorway: “He’s not cruel, is he?”

“Who? Borros Baratheon?”

Aegon glares at Larys. “No.”

After a moment, Larys realizes what his king means. “Cregan Stark isn’t cruel. I’ve heard many whispers from many mouths, but I’ve never heard that.”

“Look at me. Don’t lie to me.”

“He isn’t cruel,” Larys says again. “Perhaps the truth is worse. He is measured, competent, merciful, wise. He is honorable. The Manderlys want to torture everyone and the Boltons itch to sharpen their flaying knives but Stark forbids it. He respects the laws of war. He tries to avoid the slaughter of noncombatants. He forbids his men from burning farms or raping women. He is devoted to the woman you call your wife. He takes no mistresses, visits no brothels. Cregan Stark is not a monster. He’s not soulless. He’s just on the wrong side.”

Aegon nods slowly, then his face breaks into a humorless smirk. “Tell Borros Baratheon that I’ll marry whichever daughter he wants me to when the war is over. I’ll marry all four if that is his preference, and bed them all on the wedding night too, one right after the other. Agree to anything he asks for. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

It doesn’t matter because none of it will ever happen, even if the Baratheon army does win the Iron Throne for the Greens. It doesn’t matter because Aegon does not believe he’ll still be here in a month, or two weeks, or perhaps even days.

But he can’t mean that. He’s not thinking clearly. He’s confused, he’s exhausted, he’s in pain, you tell yourself, before remembering that Aemond said it first.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Larys is subdued, sorrowful. He bows deeply to his king. Then he turns to depart.

“One more thing,” Aegon says, gesturing to something on the side of his bed you can’t see from where you’re standing. “I hate to impose upon you further, but I can’t manage it myself. Can you take that and empty it somewhere? I don’t care where. But you must keep it hidden from my wife. The red-haired girl Autumn knows, and so do the maesters now. They are all sworn to secrecy. Can I trust you to exercise the same circumspection?”

Larys is gaping down at an object that is a mystery to you. He begins to stammer out a reply, stops to collect himself, and starts again. “Yes. Yes you can.”

“Good.”

Larys picks up the object; you are puzzled to discover that it is a chamber pot, white and porcelain. And as he navigates around Aegon’s bed and towards the door where you wait, you see that the vessel is full of blood.

You gasp before you can stop yourself, a razor-sharp inhale of breath that both men hear. They spot you, lurking in the doorway like someone lost, someone far from home. Shock bolts across Aegon’s face, and then frustration, and then defeat, and then profound misery.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to lie to you, I just knew…I knew you’d be upset and I…I didn’t want to hurt you. I’ve never wanted to hurt you.”

“How long?”

“It doesn’t matter, Angel.”

“How long?” you ask again. “Just since this morning?”

“Four or five days now.”

“Four or five…?” Your mind whirls like storm winds. He’s dying. He’s really dying. His kidneys are failing and there’s nothing I can do. I can’t cut him open and stitch him back together. There’s no wound to scrub clean with vinegar and then bandage with honey and linen. There’s no brew that can restore the rhythm of his blood and bones and nerves. He’s just dying. That’s all there is. That’s the beginning and the end of it.

“Please don’t cry,” Aegon says, reading your face. “Don’t do that, please don’t, I’ve hurt you enough already.”

His hands stretch out to close the space between you, and as Larys slips from the room you go to Aegon, climb into bed beside him, collapse into him as his arms catch you and rest your head against his bare, scarred chest, his feverish skin mottled with the history of wounds you helped close all those months ago. “I’m sorry,” you sob. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let you go after Baela and Moondancer on Dragonstone. I should have stopped you. I should have dragged you inside the castle to wait until Aemond and Vhagar could help you. I shouldn’t have let Aemond go to Harrenhal. I shouldn’t have let Daeron fly south. I shouldn’t have let Autumn go back to King’s Landing, and I shouldn’t have let Everett stay there. I shouldn’t have let Helaena leap from the window. I should have stopped Maelor from being sent to the Reach. I should have stopped Rhaenys and the Red Queen from taking flight to burn you in your armor at Rook’s Rest. I should have stopped this! I should have done something! The only good thing I’ve ever had to offer the world was healing but I can’t save anyone, I can’t stop their suffering, I can’t do anything!”

“None of it was within your control, and none of it was your responsibility. I am the king. The fate of my kingdom and my followers rests with me. I wear their spilled blood, not you. I am so full of red I’m overflowing with it.” And he chuckles, sardonic, exhausted. He’s already battling unconsciousness again; you can hear his heartbeat slackening, the slow laborious expanding and contracting of his lungs.

“Aegon,” you say softly, as if afraid to speak it into existence. “What happens if the Baratheons don’t win tomorrow?”

“They will. They have to. There’s nothing I can do for you if they lose.” Then he winces and groans. It’s his back again, his failing kidneys, overrun with so much ruin—burns and breaks and pressure and heartache—that their cadence faltered and then ceased. You grab his cup of milk of the poppy and tilt it against his lips; and how many times have you done this since you met him, burned nearly to death and half-mad at Rook’s Rest? A hundred? Aegon drinks it down, his arms still tight around your waist. They do not loosen until he’s out like a snuffed candle.

You refill the cup on his bedside table with milk of the poppy in case he needs more when he wakes, pick up the dagger you use to cut his disheveled hair, take it to the dresser. And in the cascade of silver moonlight flooding in through the windows, you practice laying the gleaming blade against your wrists, pressing it to the throbbing arteries of your throat, angling the sharpened point of it between a gap in your ribs and towards your racing heart.

Autumn. Jaehaera. Aemond’s child that Alys carries. I still have promises to keep. I still have tasks that cannot be left unfinished.

Helaena’s words surface like a drowned man dredged from the waves: You must whisper into the right ears.

You set the dagger down on top of the dresser and roam to the castle library where Aemond once spent so many hours. You collect a stack of anatomy books and carry them back to Aegon’s bedchamber. There, before the roaring fireplace, you devour them for any scrap of hope, any last resort. You turn pages until one illustration stops you. It is an unclothed man, his major veins etched in blue and his arteries in red, his nerves a faded yellow, his bones white and unshattered, his body a roadmap of the bricks and mortar used by the architects of nature. You have seen this image before. It is the same page Aegon teased you for studying when you were travelling by carriage back to the capital from Rook’s Rest.

You rip out the page, crumple it violently, pitch it into the fire and watch it burn.

~~~~~~~~~~

At dawn, Lord Borros Baratheon leads his men out of the city. You hear them through the glass panes of the windows, closed against the winter chill and flecked with frost: boots marching, hooves of warhorses clomping against cobblestones. They carry with them swords and spears and bows and morning stars like the one Criston Cole was famed for using. Meanwhile, throughout the city, civilians are arming themselves with anything they can find to ward off an invasion of Northmen, creatures they believe to be bestial and mindless. Men carry kitchen knives and clubs fashioned out of bits of furniture or driftwood. Women hide their young children in cupboards and under creaking wooden floors.

“I should be going with them,” Aegon says. He’s just taken another dose of milk of the poppy and is struggling to keep his eyes open. His long, slow blinks close his vacant eyes for ever-increasing intervals. You’ve changed his clothes and cleaned the sweat from his skin as best you can, but he’s burning from the inside out.

“You’re not able to fight, Aegon. Nobody faults you for that. Everyone knows you were wounded in battle.”

“They must think I’m a coward.”

“No, you inspire them. They love you. I love you.”

Aegon doesn’t say it back. He never says it back. He only offers you the same drowsy, mournful phrase of High Valyrian he always does, not knowing that Aemond told you what it means: To your misfortune.

Autumn is with the children in Alicent’s rooms. The castle is tense and as quiet as a crypt—Alicent weeps soundlessly, Larys paces the halls with Corlys and Tyland Lannister, everyone peeks out of windows constantly to see if bannermen of the victor have appeared on the horizon—but she keeps them distracted with stories and games. You cycle between Alicent’s bedchamber and Aegon’s. He is in and out of consciousness; sometimes you perch beside him on the bed, sometimes you lie curled up against him counting the beats of his heart, sometimes you help Autumn read to Jaehaera and Aegon the Younger. It is just after noon when the city bells begin to toll and screams rise from the streets outside the Red Keep. You and Autumn hurry to a window. In the distance, beyond the city gates, there is a swarming mass of infantry, cavalry, archers. Their banners, when you strain your eyes to decipher them, are not the brazen, vivid yellow of House Baratheon. They are night black and an icy, steely grey. They are the colors of House Stark.

“No,” Autumn says, denial in a protracted, helpless exhale. Alicent shrieks, frightening the children. You grab Autumn’s hand and lead her out into the hallway to warn the others if they don’t know already.

Lord Corlys Velaryon comes bounding up a staircase. “There are soldiers down in the secret passageways!” he booms. “Northmen! Armed! I’ve helped our guards bar the doors, but that won’t hold them back forever.”

Autumn looks to you. “Get the children ready to travel,” you tell her. “Find Larys and inform him.”

“Yes, my lady,” she says, and is gone. You sprint in the opposite direction towards Aegon’s bedchamber. You blow the door open like a strong wind, and Aegon startles awake. You rip through his dresser for things he will need: warm clothes, boots, his dagger, bottles of milk of the poppy.

“Get up, Aegon. We have to go. We’ll run, we’ll flee, there are Northmen in the tunnels but we’ll find another way out, we have to try, we have to, if they catch you they’ll—”

“Come sit with me,” he says from the bed, calmly, like you have all the time in the world. He is reaching out for you with one hand.

“What? No, we have to hurry—”

“Angel,” Aegon says. “I need you to come sit with me now.”

Why isn’t he afraid? Why isn’t he frantic? You cross the room with slow, numb footsteps. When you reach the bed, Aegon takes both of your hands in his own. And suddenly you know exactly what he is going to say. You remember what he told his brother in High Valyrian the last time Aemond left Dragonstone. Your voice is trembling and hoarse. Your throat burns like embers. “Aemond was supposed to be here to help us win. But he’s gone. Daeron, Criston, Helaena, Otto, Everett, Jaehaerys, Maelor, Autumn’s baby, so many people are gone.”

Aegon whispers, smiling softly as tears spill down his cheeks, one scarred and the other pure: “I’m not going to get better this time.”

“No,” you moan. “No, Aegon, no. You can’t say that, you can’t tell me that—”

“I’m not going to get better.” Now his palms cradle your face, forcing you to listen. “I’m not. And it’s okay. I’m not angry, I’m not scared. You’ve done everything you could and you’ve bought me more time and I’m so grateful. But I don’t want it to hurt anymore. I’ve been in pain for so long. I’ve been in pain my whole goddamn life.” He kisses you, like tasting something rare and fleeting. His thumbprint skates along the curve of your jaw, memorizing the angles of your bones, the rhythm of your pulse. “Please, Angel. I don’t want to try to run and die on the side of the road somewhere. I don’t want to die with Cregan Stark’s blade at my throat.”

You shake your head, unable to believe, unable to understand.

Aegon glances to the empty cup on his bedside table, to the large glass bottle of milk of the poppy. Then his eyes return to you. “You know how to do it.”

No. Never. But beneath those cold, dark, stormy waters: It would be painless. “I can’t,” you say, overwhelmed with horror.

“Listen, listen to me—”

“No—”

“Angel.”

“I can’t do that to you. Not to you. I can’t, I can’t.”

“When I’m gone, go to Cregan Stark,” Aegon says. “He is an honorable man, he will ensure your survival. He is the only person who can now. He wants to put his mark on the world. He wants to play Kingmaker. Let him. He can decree that my daughter will marry Rhaenyra’s son and ascend to the Iron Throne. He can end the war. Cregan will keep you safe. Tell him that I kidnapped you, that I forced myself on you. Tell him that I wanted an heir with Valyrian blood. Tell him that I was a drunk, a degenerate. Tell him whatever he wants to hear.”

“You would become a monster?”

“To protect you? I would become anything.”

He’s holding you, he’s pulling you into him until you can feel the fever bleeding from his flesh into yours, until you can number the knots of his spine and the ladder-rungs of his ribcage, counting them with your fingers through the sweat-drenched fabric of his cotton shirt. You draw back to look at him, to really look at him, sunken bloodshot eyes and rasping breaths, scar tissue of the body and the soul. You remember the day you met him, how he’d begged to die and been refused, how you brought him back. You postponed a debt, but you never paid it. It’s not possible to ever pay enough. You stack up gold coins in a vault until they touch the ceiling and still the Stranger comes knocking, jangling his purse sewn with scorched skin and chanting: more, more, more.

Aegon glances to the cup again. “How much?” he asks you, hushed like a prayer.

You don’t answer. Instead, you stand and go to the dresser. You open a small wooden door beneath the mirror. Your reflection is a woman you don’t know, someone who walks through fog and memory, someone made of ghosts. You take four clean cups from the cabinet and set them on Aegon’s bedside table. As he watches—eyes glassy with agony, lungs rattling—you fill them all with smooth, pearlescent, lethal liquid, as well as the empty cup that was already there. “Five,” you say, and it sounds nothing like you. “I think three at once would be enough. Five to make sure.”

He sobs with relief, and only now do you realize how badly he needed this. “Thank you. Oh gods, thank you.”

Your own words come back like an echo: I preserve life, I don’t take it. But that was a different lifetime, a different you. Aegon’s fingers are lacing through yours. He is drawing you back onto the bed, he is brushing your hair back from your face, he is kissing the path of tears down your cheeks so he doesn’t waste a drop of you. He’ll never get another taste, another chance; not in this life, not on this earth.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the end with you,” he says. “I really tried.”

“I know, Aegon.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough.”

“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”

He looks down at his left hand, then remembers where his ring has gone. He chuckles, darkly, bitterly, dismayed by all the failings he is built of. “I don’t even have anything to give you.” Then he remembers. “My dagger. Can you get my dagger?”

You are petrified. “Why?”

He grins, dull teeth beneath dazed eyes. “I’m not going to hack off a finger or my exemplary cock or something. I promise. Just get it.”

You fetch the dagger and bring it to the bed, and only then do you realize what he means for you to have. He points to it, then threads it through his pale, swollen fingers: his thin lock of hair that you’ve been weaving for him since the day you met. He wants you to take his braid.

“You’ll have to cut it yourself,” he says. “I don’t think I can.”

You hook the blade beneath the top of his braid, and with a few cautious slices of the dagger it is free. You tuck the braid into a pocket of your gown, thick black velvet to guard against the winter cold. Then you lay the dagger on the bedside table and pick up one of the cups filled to the brim with milk of the poppy. Your tears are scalding and torrential; it is almost impossible to see through them. You smooth back Aegon’s white-blond hair as you pour the blissful, deadly brew through his lips and down his throat, hating yourself, knowing it is the kindest thing you can do for him.

Suddenly, when the cup is half-drained, Aegon pushes it away. “You don’t have to be here. You don’t have to watch,” he says. “I can do the rest. Go, now. Right now. If the Boltons or some other house finds you before Cregan does, they might not recognize you. They might not care. You’re only safe with Cregan Stark. He has to find you first.” Aegon takes the cup with one shaking hand and presses a palm to your shoulder with the other. You haven’t moved. You can’t move. “Go. Leave me. Now. Please go. I love you, but you have to go now.”

“I can’t,” you choke out.

“You have to.”

“I’ve never wanted anyone but you.”

“Angel,” he says tenderly, smiling. “I’ll see you again. Just not too soon.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and you kiss him, traces of milk of the poppy on his lips that deaden the thunderstruck horror faintly, powerlessly, like small clouds drifting over the sun.

“If there’s anything interesting on the other side, I’ll find a way to let you know.”

The dreams, you think. “Okay,” you say again, barely audible.

“Now go. Right now. Go.”

You wipe tears from your face with your sleeve as you turn away from him. You can’t look back; if you do, you’ll never be able to walk out of this room. You take the dagger from the bedside table. Your bare feet pad across the cold floor. As you step through the doorway, on the periphery of your vision you can see Aegon swallowing down each cupful of poison as quickly as he can. It won’t take long to stop his heart. Minutes, perhaps. Seconds. You walk into the hallway. Autumn has just arrived with Jaehaera’s tiny hand clasped in her own. A few paces behind her, Alicent and Larys stand with Rhaenyra’s son. Two orphans without choices, two pawns in a much grander game.

Autumn is panicked. “Where should we go? What should we do?” Then she takes another look at your face. Her eyes go wide with terror. “What? What happened?”

“Follow me.” Your voice is low, flat, dark like deep water. Your eyes flick briefly to Lord Larys Strong. “Keep the boy here. He’s not safe with the smallfolk yet. But the Northmen won’t harm him.”

Larys knows. It’s over. He is devastated; and yet you think a part of him might be relieved as well. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“I’m not the queen anymore. I never really was.” You give him Aegon’s dagger. “I don’t think you’ll need this, Lord Larys, but now you have it in the event of any danger. Or in case I can’t convince Cregan Stark to spare you and you decide you’ve had enough of this world. You should get a say in how your life ends. You’ve earned it.”

Then you break away from them and glide through the Red Keep, Autumn and Jaehaera trotting swiftly behind you to keep up. You pass the rookery where Aemond wrote his letters. You sweep through the gardens where Helaena loved to collect her insects. You gaze down to the beach where Daeron landed on Tessarion under a dazzling sun before winter came like a plague to King’s Landing. From inside the castle, you can hear Alicent wailing as she discovers her last child’s lifeless body. What was all of this for? Why did this have to happen? Why didn’t anybody stop it?

Out on the streets of the city, the smallfolk have flocked with their makeshift weapons to defend their homes from the Northmen. But their eyes are darting everywhere and their faces are uncertain as they clutch their clubs made out of the legs of chairs and their rusty kitchen knives. They haven’t decided if it’s futile. They don’t want to be butchered for nothing.

“That’s Autumn!” they shout and sigh, especially the women. “The mother of the king’s bastard son, the one murdered by the half-year queen!” They reach out to skim their hands over Autumn’s gown, her long coppery hair, as if she is a saint or a spirit who can impart good luck upon them, who can change their fates. They fall to their knees to bow to Jaehaera, their king’s only living child, and she blinks at them with benign confusion.

But the smallfolk have a different reception for you. You hear their venomous chattering: “Is that the Celtigar woman?” “Her family put this city through hell.” “They served Rhaenyra.” “She’s a traitor, she’s a thief.” A few of them venture close enough to tug at your gown, to strike at you. A woman’s knuckles rap against your cheekbone, raising a bruise there like lavender in a dusk sky. You think dully: I wonder if they’ll gouge out my eyes with those knives like they did to Everett.

“Get back!” Autumn hisses, shoving the smallfolk away. And when she speaks, they listen. “She is going to the Wolf of Winterfell. She is my protector. She is your protector now too. She is the best chance you have left.” And the crowds open up and the three of you pass through King’s Landing unimpeded, though cloaked in thousands of fascinated gazes.

The King’s Gate has been abandoned; the guards must have feared the Boltons’ flaying knives or Lord Stark’s dark justice. Autumn instructs several hulking men of the smallfolk to open the gate if they wish to be spared from the wolf’s wrath. They are reluctant at first, but do as she asks. When the massive doors creak open, the people of the capital huddle behind the wall and peer out skittishly as you, Autumn, and Jaehaera advance to meet the Northmen, who are bloodied from battle and now within a hundred yards of the city. Above, the sky is thick and iron-grey and frigid. Snowflakes—the first of this winter to touch King’s Landing—begin to fall and land in your hair, and you are reminded of how embers rained from the smoldering pine trees at Rook’s Rest.

“Can you catch one on your tongue?” Autumn asks Jaehaera, and the little girl giggles as they both try.

The Warden of the North rides an immense, shaggy warhorse at the head of what remains of his army. He recognizes you immediately, dismounts, approaches with determined, unbreakable strides. Clement is close behind him.

“You’re alive!” your brother shouts joyously. “And apparently not pregnant with a Targaryen bastard! Praise the gods!”

Cregan Stark does not act as if he’s heard this. The Warden of the North is not as you remember him; he is larger, heavier and broader from the muscles won in battle, coarsened by weather and war. His hair is long and dark and pulled back from his face. He wears a sword at his belt that is taller than you are when it’s unsheathed. He is entombed in leather and furs. He does not hesitate before he lays his hands you. You are betrothed to him, you are his property, would a man ask before he grabs his horses or his dogs?

The Warden of the North does not seize your forearm roughly like Aemond once did. Instead, his massive palms and fingers clasp your face as he marvels at you. You can feel the stains of dirt and ashes he leaves there. You want to scream when he touches you, but you can’t. You want to burn with rage and heartache until you crumble like ruins. Your life is already over. Your life has just begun.

“You have suffered greatly,” Cregan Stark says, a marriage of shock and reverence.

“You have no idea.” Perpetual Resurrection, you think. It doesn’t mean you come back better. It just means you’re still here.

“You are safe now,” Cregan swears. “The Usurper will never harm you again.” And it ends the same way it began: with a man mistaking your allegiance and beckoning you into a destiny that he wholeheartedly believes is greater than any you could have envisioned for yourself.

“He’s dead.”

This stuns Cregan. “When? How?”

“Today. Of old wounds sustained in battle.”

He looks at Jaehaera, noticing her for the first time. “Is that his daughter?”

“Yes,” you say. “She must always be treated with kindness. She must be protected.”

“You have an affinity for her,” Cregan notes, intrigued.

You hear Aegon’s voice, so clearly it cuts like a blade: Tell him whatever he wants to hear. “We have been through great trials together. We survived the same monster.”

The Warden of the North nods. This is a story he craves to be told. “Very well. If it is your wish that she not be discreetly disposed of as a Silent Sister, I will betroth her to Rhaenyra’s surviving son. They will unite the noble houses of Westeros and end this war.”

“The worst of the Greens are dead already. Those who remain should be shown mercy. Alicent is old and ill and broken from loss. She poses no threat. She should be permitted to remain in the company of her granddaughter. Corlys was loyal to Rhaenyra until she falsely imprisoned him for treason, and he belongs on Driftmark with Rhaena. Larys Strong, Tyland Lannister, and Grand Maester Orwyle, if no pardon can be arranged for them, should go to the Wall instead of the scaffold. And Autumn, my companion there with Jaehaera…she was a true friend to me. I owe her my life several times over. She must be permitted to stay with Jaehaera and Aegon the Younger as a caretaker, and reside in comfort in the Red Keep for the remainder of her days.”

“Who do you think you are, sister?!” Clement exclaims. “You’re speaking to the Kingmaker, not some handmaiden! You do not command him!”

“I am not commanding,” you counter levelly. “I am pleading for mercy on behalf of imperfect souls who showed me kindness during my captivity. If granted, I will consider these my wedding gifts.”

“She is remarkable, is she not?” Cregan Stark says, grinning to Clement and several other men who have ventured closer. They wear the sigils of Northern houses: Bolton, Cerwyn, Manderly, Hornwood, Dustin. They chuckle in agreement, stroking their wild beards with huge filthy hands. “Dauntless but merciful. Clever but obedient.” And then the Warden of the North claims your lips with his, chaste but overpowering, the first of a thousand kisses you never desired, a thousand acts of affection for a woman who isn’t really you, feigned resignation and bitten-back rage, eternal war with the interminable knowledge that there is something more, more, more…you just aren’t permitted to have it. It was taken from you, it was ripped from your hands like stolen treasure.

All your life you will have to murmur in wounded agreement when people recount the terrible sins of the Usurper. All your life you will have to praise Cregan Stark for killing millions to rescue you. And the days will pass, weeks, months, years, summers and winters, the births of your children and their own marriages; and when Cregan’s boy Rickon, born of his first wife, produces only daughters, your son Brandon and his descendants will become the heirs to Winterfell. In the desolate North—so far from the ocean, so far from everything Aegon ever knew—your greatest solace will be letters from Autumn as she learns to read and write, books that your husband orders for you from the Citadel, setting bones and treating burns, a tiny lock of braided silver hair that you keep in a hidden drawer of your jewelry box, dreams that you never want to wake up from.

But one day, decades after you leave King’s Landing, you will receive a raven from Queen Jaehaera Targaryen, and she will ask you: You knew the Greens in your youth, Wardeness Stark. You knew Aemond, Daeron, Helaena, Alicent, Otto, Maelor, Aegon the Usurper. What can you tell me of them? What was my father like? Who was he really?

And you’ll pick up your quill and begin writing.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader

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flowerandblood · 10 months

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The Impossible Choice (38)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Baratheon! • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, angst, smut, domination ]

[description: Aemond comes to Storm’s End to choose his future consort. However, Lord Borros Baratheon presents him with only four of his five daughters. Being attached to his youngest child, he does not want to marry her. The prince, however, thwarts his and her plans with his decision. This is slow burn, with a lot of dark angst and sexual tension. (Anon Request)]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

______

He could not fall asleep that night, but for the first time in his life not because of the nightmares, the war or his family. This time the reason was different, making him open his eye again as soon as he fell asleep, pressing his face against his wife's cheek, her naked back pressed against his chest, her legs entwined with his in disarray, her quiet, calm breathing the only sound in the tent.

I love you.

She said it aloud then and many more times afterwards as they made love, gently, slowly, tenderly. She knew he wanted to listen to those words endlessly − eventually he didn't even have to ask her to repeat them anymore − she mewled them in his ear as he rooted into her with slow, smooth thrusts of his hips, her hand stroking his hair.

He came inside her, panting with relief, feeling as if he were lighter, his chest filled with pure peace − he took his mind off what was happening around them and prayed to the gods that the night would last longer than usual, that the sun wouldn't rise, that he wouldn't have to tear himself away from her naked body.

He knew that with the next day − their world would collapse and everything around them would go up in flames.

Several times he fought with himself to whisper to her while she slept that he reciprocated her feelings, but he couldn't.

He was afraid that he would then cast some kind of curse on them, that until he said it aloud the gods did not know what he really felt and wouldn't take her away from him, thinking that she was not precious to him.

That he would succeed in deceiving them and destiny if he was destined to lose her.

He knew what it would mean to him.

The black, boundless abyss he had stood over before he flew to Storm's End and saw her.

He was dead and she was filled with life, quivering with uncertainty, feelings and emotions that he had drunk like nectar from her moist lips when he had stolen her first kiss so violently.

After that, he felt as if he had emerged from a watery depth and drew in deeply, the air painfully tearing at his lungs anew with life.

He was alive because she was alive.

He was living fire and she was like a rain that made sure that he didn't burn down along with everything around him, bringing him endless relief.

Fire and water.

He kissed her bare shoulder tenderly at that thought, his fingers massaging her lower abdomen where he held his hand, not letting go for a moment, in his mind protecting her and their child in this way.

Everything he wanted was in his arms.

Despite his prayers, morning came, and just after dawn a servant stepped into their tent, bowing shyly, not daring to look at their naked bodies − his wife covered herself quickly with the furs lying around them, ashamed of her scars. He stood up with a murmur of displeasure, putting on his breeches quickly, asking what was the matter.

"We have received a message from the Eyrie, Your Grace." Said the young boy and approached him without lifting his eyes, holding out his hand in front of him with a small note rolled up. He took it at once and unrolled the letter, reading it with rapidly beating heart.

According to the will of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne will remain Jacaerys Velaryon as her first-born son and successor.

War then, he thought, tightening his lips, shredding the letter into tiny pieces.

His wife looked at him uncertainly, furrowing her brow, covering her breasts and thighs with thick furs, breathing anxiously.

"Bring my armour." He said lowly, the servant nodded quickly and left their tent, leaving them alone.

"What does the message say?" She asked quietly. He pressed his lips together.

"There is no turning back now." He said coolly, glancing at her out the corner of his eye. She was sitting in front of him, her lips parted in worry, her eyes warm and shining.

He thought he wanted to do this with her.

He'd thought about it all night.

He planned it all in his head.

"Meet me at sunset on the hill by Vhagar's lair. Don't take anyone with you. Do you know where it is?" He asked, dressing quickly, his wife blinking, surprised.

"Yes… something has happened? What are you going to do?" She mumbled, clearly horrified by how it sounded, perhaps even thinking he was going to run away with her on Vhagar to Essos.

"We'll get married." He said matter-of-factly, tying his shirt. His wife swallowed loudly, not understanding completely what he meant, so she remained silent for a moment, looking at him with wide eyes.

"I… forgive me, I don't understand. We are married." She said quietly, as if she feared she had missed something.

"Not in the face of my gods." He said quietly, casting her a careful, proud look. "Not in the tradition of Old Valryia."

He saw her blush all over and tighten her lips, trying to suppress the smile that pressed itself onto her face. She lowered her gaze, playing with the material of the fur with her fingers.

"Oh."

"Mmm." He just hummed, deciding he didn't need to say anything more.

He wanted, before the fighting began in earnest, to marry her in a way worthy of his great-grandparents, a wedding of blood and fire, of pain and pleasure.

One they were not forced into, one they decided for themselves.

His manifestation of infinite love towards her, his fidelity and devotion.

Once he was in full armour he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, her maid was just braiding her hair. His wife was looking at her hands, a dreamy expression on her face, her cheeks red, her lips curved in a gentle, almost invisible smile.

He felt a squeeze in his throat that all this was happening now, when she was closer to him than anyone had ever been. He left the tent without even saying goodbye to her, feeling that he wouldn't be able to get any words out.

He wanted to head for the tent where they met for council, but decided he would do something else, and made his way to the tent where Borros Baratheon was staying. The man threw him a surprised look when he stepped inside, Royce paused his words in mid-sentence, rising from his chair. They were both wearing armour.

"What is it?" Borros asked coolly, sitting down behind his large wooden table, on which were strewn maps and pawns, showing the proportions of the two opposing armies.

He figured he'd pretended that he hadn't heard him skip the courtesy phrase.

"I would like to speak to you alone, Lord Baratheon." He said coldly, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Royce, who snorted loudly.

"How dare you…"

"That's enough." Said Lord Borros, spreading himself out comfortably in the big wooden chair, sighing impatiently. "Leave us alone."

Royce pressed his lips together, looking away, and after a moment got up reluctantly, going outside. They were left alone.

"I don't have much time. Tell me what you're coming with." He said indifferently, looking him straight in the eye − his earlier fury had passed, his army did not look at all like they were gathering to return.

As long as his daughter stayed with him, he could not return with a calm heart to Storm's End.

He pressed his lips together at the thought of what he wanted to say.

He'd had all night to think about it, and he felt he had to do it if he was to be sure of his fidelity.

"My mother treats my wife as her daughter, however, you do not treat me as your son." He said indifferently, looking away, embarrassed by his own words. Lord Baratheon chuckled loudly, shaking his head.

"And you do not treat me as a father should be treated. You have neither respect nor patience altogether. My daughter and son, unlike you, know when to speak and when to be silent. You are a spoilt pup, nothing more." He said in a low, throaty, frustrated voice, slamming his fist on his armrest.

Aemond looked at him with his jaw clenched, furious. He felt humiliated, but he also recognised with pain that his father had never spoken to him in this way.

He didn't give him advice.

He did not lead him.

He was not his role model.

Criston tried to do so, but who was he to have the audacity to replace his father?

Lord Baratheon, however, was his wife's father, and though he could neither read nor write, he held his army in an iron grip, his soldiers respected him and listened intently to his words, his experience and sense of war strategy impressed even Criston, who did not have the gall to defy his orders.

He, although well-read in matters of war, had only a theoretical understanding of it.

He was the only one he could trust in this respect and whether he wanted it or not, he needed his support.

He grinned at his last words, but his smile did not reach his eye. He hummed and looked somewhere to the side, thoughtful.

"That is what we are alike in, my Lord." He said mischievously, and Borros pressed his lips together, wrinkling his brow, breathing anxiously.

He wanted to say something, but he would not let him.

"I will not leave my brother. My wife will not leave me. You will not leave her. Support me with your experience."

Silence fell around them. Lord Baratheon sighed heavily, massaging his temple, his face pale and tired, his wrinkles even more visible than usual.

"How can you let her stay here knowing what threatens her?" He asked defiantly, lowering his hand, not looking at him but somewhere to the side. He snorted.

"You know better than I do, my Lord, that she can be persuasive when she wants to be." He said lowly, glancing up at him to check his reaction. Her father measured his face with a wary look, apparently wondering whether he should believe him or not.

Go on, he thought.

Ask me.

"Why did you take her away from me?" He asked after a moment of regret and pain, and he struggled to hide the smirk of satisfaction that coursed across his face. "My youngest child. The most innocent, inexperienced, not knowing life −"

"− that's why." He said menacingly, glancing at him, a twinkle in his eye from which Lord Baratheon moved uneasily in his seat.

"You wanted to give me trained maidens, speaking from memory what they had been taught, what would be considered to please me. Do you know that one of your daughters came to me at night to suck my cock? Knowing my wife, I'm sure she's already told you about it." He said, his lips stretched at last in a mocking grin − he saw Borros press his lips together, reddened with shame, looking away.

He had him.

He had him in his grasp.

"I could have let her do it, because why not? I've heard of your many bastard children scattered throughout the kingdom, so you must have let the ladies take care of you this way more than once as well. My brother would say it's a manly thing, lust." He said, walking slowly around the tent, speaking lightly, his hands clasped behind his back. He could see her father shrinking into himself with every word he said, without even looking at him.

"Does my wife realise that she has many more siblings? I heard you left one behind in Harrenhal. Perhaps I should seek him out?"

He watched with a heart burning with joy as her father shook his head, as if the very thought of his beloved child finding out his unpleasant secrets put him off. Borros clenched his hand into a fist, tightening his lips, his nostrils moving restlessly in rage, his face red with shame.

"That's enough." He hissed, and Aemond hummed under his breath, looking contentedly to the side, sighing heavily.

"My wife seems to have inherited respect for herself and her body from her mother, for I have never experienced greater fulfilment with any other woman." He said calmly, as if he were telling some ordinary story, her father's eyelids closed at his words.

"For her sake I will never disrespect you in public again. For her sake I won't say anything about how you like to fuck on the side instead of taking a second legitimate wife, spawning bastards all over the kingdom on every hunt you visit. I won't tell her that you are in some ways like my brother, whom you both abhor so much." He said with emphasis on the last sentence, looking at him menacingly.

It was a warning and he knew it.

Borros swallowed heavily and let the air out loudly, his breath ragged. He ran his hand over his forehead, droplets of sweat from stress on his face − they both turned towards the entrance when a servant stepped inside and announced that the war meeting had begun and everyone was waiting for them. He threw him a smirk over his shoulder and left first.

During the council, he revealed to the lords that there would be no peaceful resolution of the situation because his sister would not relinquish the crown and pay tribute to his brother. He ordered the servants to send a letter to his brother on the matter to prepare for total war.

"How is the Greyjoy case?" He asked, glancing at Criston, who grunted loudly.

"Your grandfather proposed a marriage between your brother Prince Dareon and Lord Greyjoy's granddaughter. Lord Greyjoy accepted the offer." He said, and he pressed his lips together, nodding with satisfaction.

Perfect, he thought.

They'll blockade them at sea, he and Vhagar, and after his brother arrives, Dareon too will patrol the skies. Jason Lannister grunted, glancing at the map, stepping from foot to foot.

"The usurper has more dragons than we do. What if they just burn us alive?" He asked, several people nodded at him with uncertainty. He tightened his lips.

"Only the dragons of Daemon, Rhaenys and Rhaenyra are big enough to pose any threat. Rhaenyra won't poke her nose out of the Vale, because if she dies, all will be lost. The most dangerous rider is Daemon, Rhaenys also flies perfectly. I don't think Daemon or Rhaenyra would choose to put their children and their baby dragons at risk of death." He said, placing some pawns on the map in front of him.

"However, my Lords, I am the rider of the greatest dragon in the world. If they come within range of Vhagar's maw, they will die. The Harrenhal incident is a lesson to us, our army must stick together, so that I can protect us from above and not let anyone get close." He said lowly, glancing around him. The men nodded their heads, speaking to each other.

He thought with a beating heart that he had convinced them and himself.

It wasn't impossible.

They had to be careful and use their slight advantage, but it could work.

Lord Borros grunted, moving a few pawns back.

"If there will be a battle, you must set out in front of the army, watching over it from above. A situation may arise in which several dragons attack Vhagar, and several smaller dragons move on our army, scattering it. What then?" He asked, looking at him expectantly, on his face still rage and embarrassment after their conversation. He hummed at his words.

"That will be the task of my brother, Dareon. As a last resort, to protect our army, my sister, Helaena, can also help us." He said, placing an additional pawns with a dragon's head on the map.

He did not want to involve her in the war, but if the situation forces them to do so there will be no way out.

"According to my will, the armies from the south and the Hightower army are heading towards us. In terms of the number of armies, the fighting will be even, but it is the Baratheon army that is the most experienced in battle, and this is our strength." He said, throwing his wife's father an impatient look, and Borros only nodded. Royce looked uncertainly at his father, then at him, sensing that something had happened between them, but said nothing.

He walked out of the tent after his armor was pulled off, feeling hopeful for the first time in month.

His chest was filled with pleasant warmth for another reason as well.

He asked one of the dragon guardians to bring the robes that he had ordered to prepare for them earlier. They were not the same ones that his ancestors wore, but they were similar enough. He told him what he wanted to do, and the man nodded with understanding.

The two of them moved through the woods toward the hill near where Vhagar rested. He saw from afar a small hooded figure walking at a safe distance from her − his dragoness had her head raised high, looking at her, but did not move an inch.

She sensed that she had carried child in her womb, he thought fondly.

His wife turned over her shoulder hearing their footsteps and threw off her hood from her head. She was wearing a beautiful, ornate gown, red and brown, the colors of his and her lineage.

The corner of his mouth lifted up at the thought that she would have to pull it all off.

"We need to change." He said to her softly, the orange warm rays of the setting sun framing her face. She blinked, looking at him questioningly.

He held out his hand to the man in whose company he had come, and he handed him the ceremonial robes, cream-colored and dyed partly red. The man turned away, giving them a theoretical sense of intimacy.

"Here? What is this?" She asked at the same time frightened and curious − he felt heat run through his body at the thought of what they were about to do.

"These are our wedding robes." He hummed low, and she looked at him with wide-open eyes. She took one of the soft materials from him gently, looking at him with her lips tightened, her cheeks red with excitement and joy.

"You have to help me." She whispered, glancing at him, and he murmured low and nodded.

Untying the sleeves of her gown and her bodice proved more difficult than they had both anticipated, so they struggled with it for a while. It didn't spoil their mood, however; they glanced at each other once in a while, looks of contentment filling their eyes.

When she was finally left in just her chemise, he helped her put on the robe, placing it on her body with solemnity, tying it around her waist with a wide, gold girdle. He glanced at her with satisfaction and murmured under his breath, seeing how noble his wife looked in an attire similar to what his ancestors once wore.

"Let your hair down." He said calmly, and she threw him a surprised look.

She pressed her lips together, apparently having worked long on her exquisite hairstyle of braids tied up in a bun, however it did not match the headdress he had brought for her. He helped her slide the pins out of her hair, leaving them on the grass, lowering strand by strand onto her shoulders.

Once her hair had fallen down her back, framing her face wonderfully, he untied a triangular crown made of delicate material, decorated on the sides with tiny beads one the thin strings, all trimmed with gold threads. His wife looked at the object as if enchanted, her lips parted in mute admiration.

"It's beautiful." She whispered.

"Mmm." He hummed, lifting the crown up, gently placing it over her head. He moved back to look at her in all her glory and felt a tightening in his throat at the sight of her.

She looked as if they had stepped back in time, the simplicity and nobility of her robes made her look like a goddess, as if the Maiden herself had descended from the heavens to marry the god of the underworld, death, mystery, the Stranger.

He felt lust at that thought, at the sight of her innocent, soft face, red with emotion, at the sight of her warm eyes filled to the brim with affection for him, at the sight of her dark hair around which bright beads shimmered.

His beloved, whom he was about to marry.

She extended her hand to him. He passed her his robes and began to slowly undress − this time it was she who helped him, putting the long robe over his shoulders. He looked at her focused, thoughtful face, and saw her glance at him once in a while, embarrassed.

As if they were not yet married.

As if he hadn't fucked her for several months.

She tied an ornate girdle around his waist, tying it in front, looking up at him at last, her lips slightly parted, her gaze hot, from which he felt his manhood pulsate hard under his robe. He touched his fingers to her face, unable to stop himself as her hand reached for the black ribbon in his hair, loosening the strands tied back.

He pulled his eye patch off his head and took her face in his hands. She swallowed loudly, looking at him expectantly.

"Do you know what this ceremony involves?" He asked lowly, and she shook her head, scared and excited at the same time, placing her hand on his, pressing her cheek against his soft skin.

He thought he felt like ripping the robes off her and just fucking her, but he tried to focus and chase those thoughts away.

"Do you trust me?" He asked quietly. She pressed her lips together and nodded.

He hummed with satisfaction and leaned over her, placing a tender kiss on her forehead. He pressed his nose to her cheek and began to speak quietly, as if he had just revealed some secret or mystery to her.

"The man who came with me will lead the entire ceremony. He has dagger made of dragon glass with him. We will cut each other's lips with them, and then the insides of our hands. The blood will flow from them into a goblet, from which we will both drink afterwards." He said, stroking her cheek reassuringly with his thumb, seeing how terrified she was by what he said.

"− do not fret −" He whispered and kissed her greedily, slipping his tongue between her puffy, moist lips, drawing her close to him, letting her feel how much he wanted her, how much he needed her.

He pulled away from her, his hand still holding her cheek, her gaze dreamy and hot, full of affection from which he was filled with desire.

"Will you do it for me?" He whispered, and she nodded.

They walked slowly toward the man who was already waiting for them, the cup in his hand − he took out dagger made of dragon glass, which he handed to her. His wife took the object from him with a trembling hand, looking at him uncertainly, beautiful, pulsing with life.

His.

His lips formed soundlessly into the words do not fret again. He saw her swallow silently as the man spoke in a low voice the sentences in the language of his ancestors, the language of Old Valyria.

He felt the pride and solemnity of this moment fill him, the fact that this time they were deciding their own destiny.

His wife, his goddess, his Maiden approached him slowly, uncertainly, grasping his cheek in her hand, terrified that she felt she was about to do him harm, to hurt him. He, however, wanted nothing more than to feel the blade on his skin, to have their blood mingle, to be forever marked by her.

To be hers.

He grasped her petite hand in his, lifting it up, parting his lips with her fingers and nodded, encouraging her to do what she was about to do. He closed his eye when he felt the blade cut into his fleshy skin, going down his lower lip, felt a burning pain and sticky blood spilling over his palate.

He opened his eye, his wife was looking at him mesmerized − her breathing was uneven, her lips parted, her eyes misty, full of lust and desire.

He thought that he would fuck her all night, that he would devour her and finally become one with her.

He took the blade from her, and she drew in the air quietly, frightened. He hushed her quietly, stroking her plump, rosy cheek with his hand, drawing her closer to him. He looked at her with a pounding heart as his thumb slid inside her mouth and tilted her lower lip, soft and lusciously wet.

She trembled all over as he ran the blade gently over her fleshy skin, creating a red line from which a drop of blood dripped a moment later.

"− my brave girl −" He whispered, grabbing her neck, pressing his forehead to hers, looking at her with awe and reverence, feeling that they were taking part in something sacred, solemn, dark and beautiful at the same time. He put the blade back between her fingers and extended the inside of his hand to her.

This time she didn't hesitate that long and with a simple, sure, gentle cut she slashed his skin. The man in front of them placed a cup under their arms as he took the blade from her, grasping her hand in his, cutting it as gently as he could. He heard her quiet hiss of discomfort.

"− shhh − just a little more −" He whispered tenderly, then grasped her cut hand in his and intertwined them together, their mingled blood flowing into the cup beneath them.

They both looked at the scene as if mesmerized, for some reason both breathing loudly − when the blood stopped flowing, the man lifted the goblet up, handing it to his wife first.

She reached for it with her healthy hand, and he saw that she held it with difficulty, her fingers trembling all over. She looked at him uncertainly, and then took a deep sip from the cup, swallowing it with effort.

She handed it to him, and he drank its contents without hesitation − their blood had a tart, metallic aftertaste from which he shuddered all over.

Their blood mingled together.

They marked each other for eternity.

The Maiden and The Stranger.

Fire and Water.

They were one.

______

Taglist 1

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383 notes · View notes

ichorai · 1 year

Text

BROKEN MACHINE ; the series.

a series based on the album broken machine by nothing but thieves for our 6k milestone! fandoms included ; marvel, house of the dragon, the walking dead, the boys, game of thrones, and succession.

main masterlist. wasteland baby! series. dear science series. about me.

TRACKLIST.

ONE. i was just a kid ; (marc spector) 6.6k ↳ khonshu wanted you dead. marc just wanted you.

TWO. amsterdam ; (jacaerys velaryon) 4.7k ↳ prince jacaerys velaryon traveled to the eyrie to secure aid for his mother's cause. he didn't at all expect to fall in love an arryn while he was there.

THREE. sorry ; (daryl dixon) 7.9k ↳ you were on your knees, and daryl was too. he wouldn’t look at you—he couldn’t—terrified that negan would bring that bat down on your head if he noticed.

FOUR. broken machine ; (miles morales) 5.1k ↳ stuck in a time loop, miles had to witness the one thing that he dreaded the most in life over and over again: your death.

FIVE. live like animals ; (kimiko miyashiro) 1.0k ↳ you try and frenchie try to show kimiko how to have fun on a day off.

SIX. soda ; (aemond targaryen) 40.3k ↳ he flinched away when your fingers brushed against his eyepatch. despite this, you reached out once more to pull it off, your touch ever so gentle—and this time, he let you. you whispered that he was beautiful as your lips grazed against the marred skin of his cheek. aemond didn’t believe you, but he let you say it nonetheless.

SEVEN. i’m not made by design ; (jaime lannister) 47.8k ↳ wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.

EIGHT. particles ; (peter parker) 2.8k ↳ tony gives peter the dreaded 'dad' talk.

NINE. get better ; (hobie brown) 5.5k ↳ electric guitars and strawberries, leather jackets and quilted skirts, city spiders and cottage spiders. the two of you were perfect for each other.

TEN. hell, yeah ; (roman roy) 91.5k+ ↳ pain was an old friend for the both of you.

ELEVEN. afterlife ; (yelena belova) 1.9k ↳ her sister was dead. she’d lost everyone she’d ever known. and she didn’t know you—at least not as well as she’d like to know her sister’s spouse, but yelena wanted to try. that was the least she could do.

TWELVE. reset me ; (wade wilson) 1.3k ↳ charles sends you to recruit deadpool into the x-men. expectedly, the bastard tries to weasel away from you—and when that doesn’t work, he resorts to his most lethal method: flirtation. that, and taping a kick me sign on your back.

THIRTEEN. number 13 ; (rhaenyra targaryen) 5.4k ↳ in another life, she could’ve been with you, she was sure. a life of bliss and a life not ruled by the laws of men.

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clytemnaestraes · 10 months

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Catelyn, Arya, and Alyssa Arryn: unshed tears + weeping statues symbolism

The half-mythic, half-ancestral figure of Alyssa Arryn furthers themes connecting Catelyn and her daughters (Arya in particular) and grief.

Alyssa Arryn had seen her husband, her brothers, and all her children slain, and yet in life she had never shed a tear. So in death, the gods had decreed that she would know no rest until her weeping watered the black earth of the Vale, where the men she had loved were buried. Alyssa had been dead six thousand years now, and still no drop of the torrent had ever reached the valley floor far below. Catelyn wondered how large a waterfall her own tears would make when she died.

Catelyn VII, AGOT

Alyssa was cursed by the gods because she did not grieve/weep for her family. Catelyn wants the war to be over so that she can weep for her family and grieve her losses.

I want to write an end to this. I want to go home, my lords, and weep for my husband."

Catelyn XI, AGOT

She woke aching and alone and weary; weary of riding, weary of hurting, weary of duty. I want to weep, she thought. I want to be comforted. I'm so tired of being strong. I want to be foolish and frightened for once. Just for a small while, that's all... a day... an hour...

Catelyn II, ACOK

However, she can't, because she's emotionally exhausted and burdened by her duties, and because she thinks she has to be strong for the sake of Robb.

Does he see Bran and Rickon as well? She might have wept, but there were no tears left in her.

Catelyn III, ASOS

Six Brave men had died to bring her this far, and yet she could not even find it in her to weep for them.

Catelyn VI, AGOT

The parallel between Catelyn and Alyssa is furthered when Bronn breaks the statue of Alyssa during the duel and subsequently uses it to pin his opponent to the ground and kill him, thus shattering Catelyn’s hopes of justice.

The Eyrie's plump septon escorted him to the statue in the center of the garden, a weeping woman carved in veined white marble, no doubt meant to be Alyssa.

Catelyn VII, AGOT

Jon Arryn's beautifully engraved silver sword glanced off the marble of the weeping woman and snapped clean a third of the way up the blade. Bronn put his shoulder into the states back. The weathered likeness of Alyssa Arryn tottered and fell with a great crash, and Ser vardis Egen went down beneath her.

Catelyn VII, AGOT

Catelyn dies in ASOS and is resurrected as a vengeful, inhuman fire wight, Lady Stoneheart. Lady Stoneheart demands vengeance, but that's not the true route to rest for Catelyn’s soul. In order for it to rest in peace, Catelyn needs to grieve her dead family members properly. She needs to let her tears fall. Mother Merciless needs Mercy. It has been theorised that her path will intersect with Arya's for this reason.

Art by Nejna on devianart

There are several passages in the books connecting Arya in Braavos to weeping statues of stone, unshed tears, and Catelyn/Lady Stoneheart.

Arya and Cat/Catelyn/Lady Stoneheart:

Cats never weep, she told herself, no more than wolves do.

Cat of the Canals, AFFC

Braavos was a good city for cats, and they roamed everywhere, especially at night. In the fog all cats are grey, Mercy thought.

Mercy, TWOW

Arya thinks cats are grey, and cats do not weep, paralleling the symbolism surrounding Lady Stoneheart.

Grey was the color of the silent sisters, the handmaidens of the Stranger. Brienne felt a shiver climb her spine. Stoneheart.

Brienne VIII, AFFC

Arya and unshed tears:

Some nights she might have cried herself to sleep if she had still been Arry or Weasel or Cat, or even Arya of House Stark… but no one had no tears.

The Blind Girl, ADWD

Arya and Weeping statues:

I am carved of stone, she reminded herself. I am a statue.

The Ugly Little Girl, ADWD

The nearest was a marble woman twelve feet tall. Real tears were trickling from her eyes, to fill the bowl she cradled in her arms. The Weeping Woman was the favorite of old women, Arya saw.

Arya I, AFFC

The statue outside the shrine of the Weeping Lady of Lys was crying silver tears as the ugly girl walked by.

The Ugly Little Girl, ADWD

It can be fairly reasoned that Arya and Lady Stoneheart's paths will intersect at some point. She is the Mercy to her Mother Merciless.

#arya stark #catelyn stark #asoiaf #alyssa arryn #lady stoneheart #cat of the canals #catelynisms #aryaisms #asoiaf character parallels #alyssa's tears

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horizon-verizon · 2 months

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Thoughts on Daenerys publicly executing the former slave and how she went about it in S05x02?

In a word? Not great. Boo.

The show rewrite & repurposing of Mossader &seems like it was meant to rewrite progression of the "error" Daenerys makes with her dragons by essentially adding another one that I'm sure they didn't think was an serious error. A way for them to try to make Dany seem a worse leader & thinker than she really is. I don't like how the show basically tried to make her look tyrannical by making her violently suppress the actions of someone who was both devoted to her and really had already been shut down before when he was saying the right thing. Which was to just get rid of this harpy-hire dude at the very least and at most what she said abt sending a message.

I also hated how it made Mossader look irrational & nearly "savage" through a display of fanatics--in how he almost dreamily said he did it "for her", posing Daenyers' goddess-like stature as easily shiftable to threatening. Foreshadowing that horrible erroneous ending of her becoming a Hitler figure. Like the scene was saying to us she inspires generationally brutalized and dehumanized brown people to the point of irrational "frenzy" and she cannot even be nuanced or sympathetic as she had been before in her ruling for Mossader. This pathetic-ized person who had at one point called her Mhysa and believed in her.

But the narrative the show pushes is not even fair itself to this man (hypocritically) & is just using him to denigrate Dany; becasue why are we making the only male brown former slave besides Grey Worm do such a thing AND be as I said "fanatical" towards the white Dany??! This man, who was put on their council as the voice and reason of those freed Meereenese...appears to us as totally unreasonable bc we know and he "should" have known that there were consequences for disrupting the Westerosi-style of "fair trial" and "honor"...The trial would be a false one, bc this guy will not be let off or go free. His crimes are obvious. Even if we did posit him going free, he'd likely just go back to being a hire for the harpy!

Plus we saw how actual ineffectual and emotion-based/false honor-based actual Westerosi trials can be through both of the trials against Tyrion: at the Eyries; esp the one at the Red Keep after Joffrey dies. So much for fairness of the superior Westerosi style of justice! (another hypocrisy of the writing itself)

So the show has Dany simultaneously "fails" Mossader, and utterly. As if the bonds she has with the slaves and her mission really don't mean anything to her.

After all, does she not marry Hizdahr, reopen the fighting pits (later) to stop the killings of the freedmen...Then she kills the freedman who was supposed to rep them all??

And the points Hizdahr & Barristan Selmy tried to make against killing the dude besides the trial..."poor and young"; "Why should he want to bring back slavery? What did it do for him?"; " I don't know it, and I'm the head of a great family."...why are we even indulging in these stupid protests?!!! We know his presence is so the other nobles feel they have say and influence over Dany, but there was no rebuttal (or at least a sign from her dismissing Hizdahr, whether he sees it or not) from show!Dany against his absurd "logic" about "going easy" on this guy. Huh?!

Subsequently, she loses a lot of faith from the freedmen who beg for not only Mossader's life but for her to not bend to the masters' clear attempt to confuse the priority. Which is their total freedom at those masters' expense. Which is exactly what D&D wanted bc they hate her, refuse to understand her, and lost interest in this series.

It was just a huge mess!

CONTEXT for comparison

Mossador died differently in the original book series ("A Dance with Dragons -- Daenerys II"):

In the show, he gets executed because show!Daenerys wanted to re-establish a peace of between the freedmen and the former (not so former) slavers and elites of Meereen. Some, if not all, of these elites formed the group "Sons of the Harpy", and in the show one of these are captured. Show!Mossader didn't believe that any of the Masters would just lie down and allow Daenerys' end to legal slavery in Meereen stick. And that they'd eventually somehow either get this prisoner out OR this Master would be somehow saved in the process of a the trial that was planned for him:

MOSSADOR: Sons of the Harpy, they want to put a collar back on my neck. On all of our necks. Please, Your Grace, you must kill him. DAENERYS: It would send a message. BARRISTAN: I think you should exercise restraint, Your Grace. DAENERYS: Why? BARRISTAN: For one thing, he may have valuable information. DAARIO: The Son of the Harpy has no more valuable information. BARRISTAN: How do you know that? DAARIO: Because I questioned him. HIZDAHR: And the information you did get, he is young and poor. MOSSADOR: He is born free. HIZDAHR: Why should he want to bring back slavery? What did it do for him? DAENERYS: Perhaps the only thing that gave him pride was knowing that there was someone lower than he was. MOSSADOR: They pay him. Great families afraid to do a thing. They pay poor man to do it for them. HIZDAHR: And how do you know this? MOSSADOR: Everyone knows this. HIZDAHR: I don't know it, and I'm the head of a great family. BARRISTAN: We do not know what this man did or didn't do. (to Daenerys) Give him a trial, at least. A fair trial. Show all of the citizens of Meereen that you are better than those who would depose. Teach them a better way. MOSSADOR: I do not know the place from where Old Ser comes. Things maybe are different there, I hope. But here, in Meereen, before Daenerys Stormborn, they own us. So we learn much about them or we do not live long. They teach me what they are. Mercy, fair trial: these mean nothing to them. All they understand is blood!

So he preemptively and vengefully kills the prisoner, and as you see here, he expresses no regrets about disobeying Daenerys and doing it:

DAENERYS: Why? MOSSADOR (Valyrian): For you, Mhysa. You wanted the Harpy dead, but your hands were tied. I set you free, as you did all of us. DAENERYS: He was our prisoner, awaiting trial. You had no right. MOSSADOR: He would rather rip your city apart than see slaves lifted from the dirt. DAENERYS: There are no more slaves. There are no more Masters. MOSSADOR: Then who lives in the Pyramids? Who wears gold masks and murders your children? When Grey Worm came to us, I was the first to take up the knife for you. I remember the look on my father's face as I struck down his Master, who had traded his infant son for a dog. My father died in the fighting. If we allow the Sons of the Harpy to return us to chains, he never lived. DAENERYS: The Harpy's life was not yours to take. Once, the Masters were the law-- MOSSADOR: And now you are the law! DAENERYS: The law is the law. Take him.

Mossador died differently in the original book series ("A Dance with Dragons -- Daenerys II"):

He's one of the many freedmen murdered by the Sons. And it's not until the 4th episode that her 2nd husband will appear, and he matters bc this is about how she gets on Drogon and re-orient her goals.

b) Attempt at a Summary (How Dany Actually gets to Marry Hizdahr, his role, and Riding Drogon out of the Pit.)

Bk!Dany does have an arc where she at first tries to acclimate or compromise with the former slave masters for the sake of peace in Meereen but comes to realize that her efforts is simply not going to work. She reopens the fighting pits where former slave gladiators would fight after Hizdahr zo Loraq petitions her several times and brings some famous gladiators to beg her to reopen them. She, like in the show, marries Hizdahr and makes him her royal consort when he meets her condition of bringing some 90 days of peace (the high priestess, the Green Grace Galazza Galare suggested a marriage to him). Absolutely no murders or attacks against freedmen nor those few nobles who actually are obeying Dany. In this observation and despite what another noble, Skahaz mo Kandaq, warned about Hizdahr being the the Harpy, leader of the Sons of the Harpy. He was one fo the nobles who decided to abandon the slavery society and "ways" other nobles want to keep going. Again, she wanted that peace and dismissed his warning, and Hizdahr starts to show his true colors in his dismissing Skahaz from his position as the leader of the new Meerenese "city watch", or police, and appointing one of his own cousins. He says that this is to get more of the nobles on her side. (He's not the Harpy, but he's definitely closely tied to them.)

They reopen the fighting pits to celebrate the wedding; Hizdahr insists the fighters volunteered. Hizdahr offers Dany locust treats, it turns out they are poisoned later on when we see Strong Belwas get very sick from them and it's only due to his large and heavyset body that he survives. Dany sees that he's very into the violence, in a way that gets mixed with a sexual excitement at it. During another fight, Drogon appears, Hizdahr calls for people to kill Drogon, and Daenerys jumps into the pit to calm and try to bring Drogon to heel, she's flies off, Drogon basically leading her. Dany, half starved & dehydrated, dreams of her brother and hallucinates Jorah Mormount (those close to her who've betrayed her) but it's also her reflecting on her persistent guilt for the girl Drogon killed that motivated her into the mistake of locking up her dragons. Narrowly escaping a Dothraki scout, she and Drogo fly to another place, eating horse, and that's where the scout's khal, Jhaqo, and his warriors find her. Resumably to try to rape & kill her or to to take her back to Vaes Dothrak to the dosh khaleen and become one of them forever.

In all the time Dany was gone, Hizdahr has been trying to use his marriage to Daenerys to rule Meereen in her absence and a plot (he likely enabled even by just taking instructions) to retake the city gets foiled under Barristan Selmy, Missandei, and Grey Worm's leadership. There are prisoners they take & essentially they are now running the city in Dany's name, waiting for her return. Hizdahr is one of those prisoners. But in the show, Hizdahr died at the pits when a Harpy stabs him.

#asoiaf asks to me #Hizdahr zo Loraq #Hizdahr's characterization #Mossador #got s5e2 #Galazza Galare #Skahaz mo Kandaq #game of thrones 2015 #got #game of thrones

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kvalenagle · 4 months

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Map time! Here's the map of Belamuria, the setting of the Gryphon Insurrection series, starting with Eyrie. This map was made by Jeff Brown, who promised a map if the series hit five books. The original idea was for the map to be divided into sixths with one in each book. Hence the Redwood Valley in the southeast is perhaps larger than it would be on a to-scale map (I like to think this is Kia or Cherine's map, perhaps one they both contribute to, so their home is larger). Then again, perhaps it's an Ashen Weald map, with how the kjarr and bog are featured. The tagline for the series was "interesting gryphons in interesting locations," and Belamuria offers that. Though the series begins in a redwood weald (a weald is an untamed, overgrown forest), it heads out to underwater settings, the frozen aneda taiga, valleys of poisonous monitor lizards, high peaks, abandoned kjarrs (forests becoming wetlands), infected bogs, plague cities collapsed through limestone erosion, inland seas of luminescent, toxic jellies and basilosauruses, jungles who only spend half the year above water, underground cave systems of all sorts, desert red rock canyons or plateaus of toxic pools ruled by flamingos, coasts with toxic algae blooms killing all mammalian life, not to mention the Abyssal Naze, where water and land vanish into darkness.

Making the map while writing book 4 of a series where I'm currently working on book nine presented some challenges. I think the mountains are generally a bit bulkier, wider, and fill in more space than I originally estimated. (Jeff is working off my sketches here, so those errors are mine. He did such an amazing job, down to the reeve's pet lurking in the Crackling Sea.) Books necessitate a rectangular map, but I'd imagine things stretched out more. The Winter Jungle would extend down and far past the edge. Speaking of past the edge, Goldrin Goldpaw's pawprints cover Ashfoot Isle, directly south of Sandpiper's Dune, and The Wrecks are due south from there. The Pitohui Eyrie might be a bit farther off the coast, too. And the kjarr and bog would be a little skinnier, though I like having things spread out to refer to when writing books like The Crackling Sea.

It's strange to think that after nine books, we've visited most of Belamuria. GryphIns, despite the tagline, isn't meant as a travelogue. It has a strong series plot arc. War and disease don't often stay contained, spreading like a wildfire across an entire continent. Yet the same might be said of kindness. Okay, back to writing Saberbeak for me. I just needed to bring up the map, and I couldn't remember if I'd shared it on Tumblr yet. Fun trivia fact: but because of how many different printers make the editions of GryphIns in different countries, it's very difficult to get a proper two page spread. Reevesbane often has it, but with other books, the printing wasn't reliable enough due to how the binding works. That's also why Reevesbane has the two page spread of a certain villain... because their body is elongated, it doesn't necessarily matter how it's bound, since they're meant to look a little off. In most editions, if you could unbind it, you'd see that the left page has all of the Crackling Sea and the right page also has all of it. Since the middle of the page is lost in binding, it tends to give the illusion of going across both pages together. (Though, depending on your country or even what store you order from, it can look better or worse.) Back to smilodon gryphon writing, though. Pridelord's copy edits had a slight delay but are back on track, for those asking. Once they're in, I'll go back to Pridelord so it'll release as soon as publishing allows. -Vale

#Belamuria #fantasy maps #maps #GryphIns #Gryphon Insurrection #Jeff Brown #gryphon #fantasy #creature fantasy #eyrie #secret basilosaurus #hidden serpentine whale #too sleepy to typo check

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allthelittlecreepycrawlies · 1 year

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Nie-Centric Ideas, Part Two

The only variant of bonfire fallout I haven't covered is what if Nie Huaisang just... left?

Permanently?

After all, the servants and disciples went along with the order to burn his possessions, so clearly (to him), he's not just worn out his brother's care for him, but everyone else's too.

So in the middle of the night, he releases all his birds except for the ones that just absolutely refuse to leave him, takes some dried food from the kitchens and a set of servants' robes from the stores (since the only clothes of his remaining are the ones he was wearing) and just walks out one of the hidden entrances with no one the wiser.

He leaves the jianghu entirely.

He winds up as a scribe for an archivist somewhere near one of the two imperial cities. It's not a great job, but it keeps him and his few remaining birds fed with a place to stay.

While delivering some documents for his boss, he notices some falcon hunters who seem to be having trouble figuring out what's wrong with one of their birds.

He spots the problem instantly and tells them so, and they laugh at him, so he sighs and goes on his way, but then one of the hunters shows up at his job three days later and it turns out his advice stopped an infection from spreading to the entire eyrie.

Which is very good news for the hunters, because it turns out the birds all belong to the emperor.

And now they want him to come work for them helping care for the emperor's prized falcons.

It's not really an offer he can refuse, even though he really doesn't want to be anywhere closer to politics. He'd been pushing it just being where he already was!

But again, saying no is out of the question. so he ends up in a room in the far corners of the palace and spends his days between the emperor's birds and his own.

He still misses home sometimes.

But, whatever, it's not like anyone misses him, so he puts it out of his mind as much as possible and keeps his head down... especially on the rare occasion that his boss is hosting visiting cultivators.

There's some kind of fancy banquet being hosted, and his presence is demanded in order to show off the prize birds.

He has a bad feeling about this.

And that feeling only intensifies when he answers the summons and finds himself staring at some very familiar faces.

(Meanwhile back home, Mingjue is struggling to pretend that he doesn't miss and isn't worried about his little brother, but everyone can see he's starting to crack.)

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(based on a previous idea)

Huaisang willingly trades all his memories to some magical something-or-other in order to bring his da-ge back to life hale and whole.

Maybe it was before he knew the truth, or because he didn't have time to leave a message, but Nie Mingjue doesn't know that he was murdered, and thus only has his original suspicions and annoyance.

Nie Mingjue looking at his little brother, who is now a complete blank slate.

He'll have to re-learn even the most basic things like talking or bathing or feeding himself.

He could learn anything, and indeed the possibility of taking the opportunity to make him a proper heir has been brought up by other members of the sect.

He could press upon his brother the importance of training.

Make him more studious.

(Make him avoid people Nie Mingjue didn't like him associating with.)

But... the whole thing sits sour in his stomach.

Huaisang, for all his annoying faults, had loved him enough to rip out everything that made him Huaisang in order to give back his life and health.

How would it be fair to repay that by turning him into someone wholly unrecognizable?

He decides that the best thing to do would be to take a wait and see approach.

Perhaps as Huaisang is relearning the basics of how to function, he will show some sign of which direction should be taken, or if the correct answer is in fact somewhere in the middle.

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Huaisang getting stuck in a reverse universe where everyone is the opposite of what he knows (awkwardly funny to see Jin Guangshan as a loving monogamous family man, not nearly as funny to see his brother as a megalomaniacal schemer).

It's also not funny at all to find that in this universe, neither he nor Meng Yao were ever even born at all. Meng Yao for obvious reasons, and him because his mother was discarded by the much crueler reverse-Papa Nie when she started taking ill during her pregnancy.

This place sucks and he's terrified of this strange cold Da-ge who looks at him like a game piece, and all he wants is to go home, but he has no idea how.

(Since everyone's personalities are reversed, that also means a lot more flirtatious yandere assholes among the heirs. They find out Nie Huaisang exists and want to eat this cute little birdie alive.)

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There's a sneaky unspoken arrangement that whenever a conference is supposed to take place in Yunmeng, it's always in the dead-hottest part of the summer so that everyone gets to enjoy the eye candy of the Nie sect walking around in almost-skivvies to deal with the heat they aren't used to.

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Huaisang should start making friends with bats too. More clever little spies, and Mingjue might end up being more fond of these because of the creepy aesthetic. (Imagine Mingjue opening his arms and bats go flying out of his sleeves. Scares the shit out of some annoying people.)

#mdzs #nie huaisang #nie mingjue #nie brothers #ideas #long post

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feamyngthesuperb · 2 months

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I'm not usually one for doing these, but this idea from @marauderswolf22 is pretty cool and I want in on talking about the shit I like.

3 (or another number, but three is always good) songs that bring back fond memories or feelings, or that just make your day better (I will also be including my favorite lyric(s) from each):

1. Inkpot Gods by The Amazing Devil — My favorite song by them, and they have really good songs. The whole thing sounds defiant and bittersweet and hopeful. These aren't tears, just rain that wasn't brave enough to fall. That's not the dark, it's the gods upturning their inkpots because even they are afraid of what your existence means to them.

If I don't make it back from where I've gone

Just know I loved you all along.

2. Stars from Les Misérables — This is the song that explains the antagonist, Javert's, motivation and worldview more than any other (and he has just revealed that he was born in a jail. From the gutter, just like our protagonist Jean Valjean.). He addresses the stars, always standing in their rightful places in the sky and never faltering from their course and aim. He is on the side of justice and the law. Valjean is not. The morality is clear. And he will not stop until he has done what he must.

You know your place in the sky

You hold your course and your aim

And each, in your season,

Returns and returns

And is always the same.

And if you fall as Lucifer fell

You fall in flames!

3. I Wanna Be In The Cavalry / I Wanna Be In The Cavalry: Reprise

Two songs. The first reflects the hopeful, optimistic, excited nature of a young cavalry soldier as he sings of the striking image he'll leave, his shining saber, carbine, and Remington, and how he wants to have a good horse like his forefathers. The song ends with him acknowledging that he won't make it back.

The reprise is from a soldier far wiser and far more scarred. He sings of their initial faith in their orders despite being outgunned and not standing a chance. He sings of the horses that have died under him, of the excitement and celebration as he and his comrades left their hometown, only to have that hope fade as their uniforms wore through, frostbite set in, and disease spread. And of the hopes all lying dead and broken after what they had done and gone through.

With morale in doubt and our pride run out no honour did I see

All I seen were a thousand dreams piled dead in front of me.

4. The Summer of '46 by Robin Laing

The Battle of Culloden, on April 16th 1746, marked the end of the highland culture. As retaliation they faced a genocide of their culture, with tartan and kilts banned on pain of prison and transportation to a British colony for years. It was only in 1782, 26 years later, that this ended. Still, what had once been was dead.

The Summer of '46 tells the story of what happened following that battle on Drumossie Moor through the eyes of a man on the run with Bonnie Prince Charlie, the leader of the Jacobite Rising that had threatened the British, as they find themselves on the run in the Highlands.

Some men are most attracted to the cause that can't be won

Life has many flickering ghosts to make us hide and run.

5. Those You've Known from Spring Awakening

A beautiful song about staying alive and remembering the loved ones who have gone, sharing their stories.

Those you've known

And lost still walk behind you

All alone

They linger till they find you

Without them

The world grows dark around you

And nothing is the same

Until you know that they have found you.

If they're up to it, I'd love to see what others have for this. Don't feel obligated, though! @magiclynx @eyrie-of-synapses @emotional-support-werewolf

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lya-dustin · 9 months

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All is bliss

Chapter 53

Cw: grooming, murder, child abuse, fertility issues, magic, description of injuries, body horror, ableism

Gif by @daenerys-tarrgaryen

Taglist: @mercedesdecorazon @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @alexandria-millie @ewanmitchellcrumbs @darylandbethfanforever9

Rhaena ---despite Jeyne putting her foot down saying it was too dangerous--- was packed along with her stepbrother and their dragons and escorted to her father by the army Jeyne promised father and her half-sister, Nettles.

Why, she isn’t sure, but Nettles thinks it’s to show off their dragons and make the Greens shit themselves.

“I do not like him.” Her eight and ten year old half-sister made her displeasure known after Ser Corwyn, a man of eight and twenty, helps her onto her horse.

“But I do, Nettie.” The girl said playing with the red ribbon he gave her back in the Eyrie. He was handsome, and great at jousting, and if Nettles was into boys, she’d find it very attractive when he takes off his tunic when he spars.

Rhaena had scarcely turned five and ten ---two weeks ago--- when the lords and knights in Lady Jeyne’s court begin to fight for her attention. She supposed it was her turn since everyone’s getting betrothed.

Baela is betrothed to the heir of House Rowan who Lady Jeyne claims is part of a conspiracy to kill Aegon and make Aemma queen. Aegon was led to believe by his councilors he had truly become loyal to him, and the Usurper believed them.

Joanna Westerling has sent a raven to father offering herself or his choice of her four daughters in exchange for ridding her of the Red Kraken. Father had ---according to Nettles--- chosen the widow as her bravery had him rooting for her despite her allegiance.

Rhaena has plenty of offers, but the choice is up to father, unfortunately.

Kermit Tully offers himself as a groom for Rhaena, as does three- and ten-year-old Bloody Benjicot Blackwood, Jason Lannister, Lord Manderley’s heir, Lord Tarly and Ser Corwyn Corbray.

Rhaena would gladly choose Ser Corwyn if it were up to her. It wasn’t fair mama married papa out of love, she tells her sister when she says he is too old for her.

“Your mother was two and twenty, and he killed the Sealord’s annoying son for her. If Ser Corwyn cares for you an ounce of what Daemon cared for his two late wives, he will wait until you are of age and know your own mind, little sister.” Nettles points out and changed the topic. “Do you think Vhagar knows Morning is hers?”

“Yes, when Aemond was Aemma’s hostage Vhagar would let her curl up beside her, she even let us get on her saddle. Unless you try to command your parent’s dragon, they don’t harm you. When Baela trained Moondancer for fighting, Vhagar refused to hurt her. Caraxes has no such problem, but that is because Caraxes is a jerk.” Rhaena explained wondering why she’d ask that.

Morning was as large as a colt now; the freedom of the mountain helped her grow as if she were a wild dragon like Nettles’ Sheepstealer. She was not a fighter, she needed training for it, but if she were to be around and hurt, Vhagar would have no other choice than to rescue her hatchling.

“Why does father want me there?”

“Baela’s escaping Kingslanding as we speak, Daemon wants Vhagar out of the fight and the only way to do it is if her hatchlings lead her away from the battle.”

Prince Aenys suckles at Alys’ teat as if she hadn’t bound his life to hers. The babe would live as long as she did while he was still at her breast.

It served as insurance, and the only way the babe lives. Had he been handed off to an ordinary woman, the babe would have been blue by morning.

Alys had done this before. With Ida’s first boy, Simon’s eldest grandson and the housekeeper’s bastard girl. They all lived long and healthy lives, save for little Simon who she felt Daemon bring down Dark Sister on him.

Every dying child she nurses becomes tied to her.

She cannot give life, but she may nurture it. A small consolation for when your gods take away your chance to be an ordinary woman with an ordinary man and give birth to perfectly ordinary children.

Her husband had been killed by the same demon he sired on her; Larys’ horrible mama had been killed by the demon Alys gave birth to when she gave King Viserys her maidenhead.

She had prayed for a chance to get away from her stepmother who believed her to be the reason Larys was born the way he was.

The gods answered, just not the way she had hoped.

Her mother, a witch from Oldtown, had been proud, her father toyed with the valyrian steel link in his old chain as she tearfully explained her situation when three- and ten-year-old Harwin found her cradling Willam’s body in her bloody bed.

After that Alys honed her skills while father and Harwin helped erase any evidence of her …experiments out of love for her.

Her sisters remained blissfully unaware of it all, Larys loathed her for she knew his true nature, but Harwin adored her as all little brothers adore their big sisters.

As thanks for keeping her secrets, Alys kept the curse of Harren the Black at bay. The curse that plagued Harwin since Lady Beatrice Rowan gave birth to him on an unlucky day.

He had nightmares of fires, of being locked in his rooms and Larys laughing as he beats the door bloody until he burns alive.

Alys used all her arts to keep her brother alive, as long as she never left the castle it would not claim sweet Harwin who was so much more than just the Breakbones.

Then one night, Larys drugged her with sweetsleep and locked her in a cottage in the woods just outside the grounds to kill their father and brother.

Same brother Larys envied for being everything he wasn’t.

He wants her dead, now that he has lost everything for betting on the wrong horse. He killed his kin for a cursed castle, so she let it all fall on his frail shoulders.

Once he is dead, Ida’s sons with Lord Whent will inherit the title and lands that come with Harrenhal. Osbert Whent, a boy of four who would need a regent. Someone Ida knows would die and kill for him.

And that someone is his beloved auntie, Alys.

“The babe dies if I die.” She tells him as she continues to care for the baby prince.

“The babe is a bastard, he has as much value as you do, sweet sister.” Her brother said with a smile. “The little queen will have others. She doesn’t even love the babe, perhaps she may thank me for ridding her of it.”

“You do not know the rage of a mother, Larys. Even if she claims not to love her son, her blood will not let her rest until he is avenged.” The witch chided him for thinking all mothers were as cruel as his.

Lara Strong had made it loud and clear that she’d been disappointed in her son. She wanted a son better than Harwin who had always seemed uncannily perfect.

Larys, while loved by his father and siblings, loathed them for believing in the venom his mother raised him on. Hated them so much he became a kinslayer thinking he could fill that void in him with wealth and a title.

Nothing more terrible in this world than to live without ever knowing love.

“So you say, sweet sister, so you say.”

“The Silent Sisters’ said it was beyond their ability to embalm her, the most they could was wrap her as tightly as they could.” He murmured squeezing his eye shut as if trying to will the memory of it away.

Usually, he is the one holding her, and tonight Aemma returns the favor. She braids his hair, helps him remove his false eye and when he asks her to comfort him in the way he had assumed, she turns him down as she has not fully recovered from the birth.

“I’m sorry you had to see it.” Aemma whispered tucking him under her chin as he is fond of doing with her.

Alicent’s death had been so gruesome she was wrapped in linen drenched in fragrant oils like a Valyrian instead of having her body embalmed as it was typical for Andal funerals. The spikes had torn through too much, even now some pieces of her clothes were stuck under the worst ones she fell on.

Whether she took her own life or was murdered was an entirely different beast. The only one in the room was Alys who swore on the Seven-pointed star she was burping Aenys on the other side of the nursery when it happened.

Not that they believed her, but they can’t change Aenys’ wetnurse without risking the babe becoming ill or worse, dying.

Even if grandfather’s and Aemond’s theory that she used her dark arts to kill her mother were true, they would have to postpone any trial and execution after Aenys has been weaned.

That would mean Daemon must wait another year to avenge her mother as he vowed that day she died.

“What are you thinking?” he asks turning so he could rest his head on her breast. If you saw him like this, you wouldn’t believe he was the same haughty prick you see in public.

“The same woman who killed your mother and mine is the same who nurses our son. We’ll have to wait until he is weaned to kill her.” She answered and he quietly chuckled.

“Aren’t you afraid she’ll kill him?”

A good question. One her grandfather and Baela and Jena and even Aegon had asked her since Alicent’s murder.

“No, self-preservation trumps all, she knows the moment anyone gets a whiff ---real or imagined--- of her mistreating the Prince of Dragonstone she is dragon food. Why do you think all your brother’s supporters are flocking to me now that the end is nigh, dear husband?”

Most courtiers had turned Green to keep themselves alive and with all their wealth, now they switch their cloaks for black to do the same. While Aemma will spare them, she will still punish them for their treachery.

They didn’t learn anything from when Jaehaerys spared their forefathers, this time Aemma intends to make the lesson stick.

They must learn the world cannot have a second Otto Hightower.

#aemma velaryon #aemond targaryen x velaryon!oc #all is bliss (in the court of aemma the great)#all is bliss(in the court of aemma the great) fic #aemond targaryen x ofc #aemond x aemma #rhaena of pentos #nettles #alys rivers #ewan mitchell

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impossible-rat-babies · 11 months

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eyrie brings a certain level of “I have two canons” that I don’t really appreciate

#they can’t pick so they get two seperate canons that are dependent on Zenos being alive or not #if he ain’t then there is grief and loss in that weird way #of Zenos knowing parts of them they no one else did. and letting those parts of them die along with him #or there’s the Zenos alive canon thing where eyrie tells him to Fuck Off that they are Tired #if he is to be given a second chance at life then he is to do something with it and if he finds something in this wonderful world #that will kill the both of them and leave them both satisfied then he will bring it and they will happily die #it’s not a literal request. it’s just Different #that one is really nebulous in where it’s going #and it relies on eyrie being the only WoL and not part of #*part of another universe or sharing their duties #i ping ping back and forth #might be heading into a not Zenos era rn though #it’s just that he isn’t alive—he’s still Haunting the narrative if you will #I dunno! :wahhh:#the thing is the not Zenos era stuff is eyrie and G’raha stuff but eyrie is all sksjdjdjd about it #keysmash deserves its own post #endwalker spoilers #for my friend who isn’t this far

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just-eyris-things · 7 months

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How death and it's reversal affects my characters

So for now, I have resurrection count up to two: there is Eyris and there is Trahearne.

Tonight I'd like to talk about Eyris, because I am having thoughts about my girlie. Eyris, baby, I'm so sorry.

Eyris needs a while for it all to sink in. When she learns she's dead in the Domain of the Lost and after she regains her memories, she worries about Aurene and her closest friends, but she accepts that there is no way back and she has to just move on into the afterlife.

Then she is sucked out of there and suddenly she is back, alive and in pain because while her body is capable of functioning, it's still in the growth stage. It is due to the place of her resurrection not having enough nutrients (i mean it's a ROCK) for her to just come out in a perfect condition.

After reuniting with Dragon's Watch and Airell, Eyris does everything to focus on Aurene and task at hand. She does not want to confront the fact that she was dead and she is now alive. Because the more she thinks about it, the more fucked up it is.

She was not supposed to be brought back. She knows it was an accident. And I think that's what hurts her a bit? That she "wasn't important enough to be brought back and yet it happened anyway so now people are awkward around her because they were finally free of her". Or at least that's what she tries really hard to push back into the deepest part of her mind.

(Eyris thats not true these people care about you they are awkward because 1) they didnt expect you to be back, 2) Airell committed a taboo by bringing you back and 3) you literally tried to stab rytlock 28 times)

So when all the life-threatening distractions are gone, when all of her close friends leave or are missing, she feels stranded and forced to face the truth. She is not supposed to be alive. She should have stayed dead. Nobody wanted her alive and yet she was there, alive and supposedly well. She was an unwanted accident, she was a problem.

Yes. She spiralled.

So when she suddenly gets this call from "Caithe"... she gets hopeful for the first time in months. Someone needs her. Perhaps her existence isn't an inconvenience after all. You can imagine the pain when it all turns out to be a lie.

Eyris still hasn't really come to terms with her new life. She is avoiding it. Sometimes she even risks her life as if she is baiting Death to take her again. Sadly, her new demon "friend" is very persistent at keeping her alive. And somehow it makes Eyris curious. She wants to know what makes that demon tick. She wants to test her, push her to the limits.

Eyris and Peitha are playing a very dangerous game of metaphorical chess. And Death is watching.

#eyris

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moonflower91 · 2 years

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do you think saerah would ever intentionally make aemond jealous to rile him up or would it purely be accidental since i know she said she wouldn’t be with another man and didn’t like aemond being with someone else. either way since aemond is to wed the baratheon girl how would he react if one of the sons of house tyrell (without their permission) comes to ask for saerah’s hand in marriage thinking this would be the best time to since the upcoming war requires alliances

I feel that Saerah would kinda do it intentionally but not necessarily to rile up Aemond but to throw courtiers off. Like she has never made it a secret that she desired Aemond so I think to navigate court life, she would definitely flirt a little bit to keep people guessing what her intentions are, a sort of armour. But she never outright would betray Aemond’s trust. Aemond, while he knows it’s a strategic maneuver, honestly fucking seethes when another man’s eyes lingers on her body for too long.

However, Aemond’s betrothal to the Baratheon girl completely wrecked Saerah, for want of a better term.

Logically, she knows Aemond doesn’t want it either. Knows it’s for their survival in the upcoming war, but feelings don’t follow logic. She feels betrayed. Hurt. Like a scorned woman. She wants to claw the other woman’s eyes out but also feed Aemond to Vexxa.

But she also wants to run away—not with Aemond, because she’s still too hurt (he didn’t even tell her he was offering himself up for marriage) but away from Aemond. Back to Highgarden, across the sea to Pentos. Just away.

But she can’t. She’s stuck in Kings Landing, forced to tolerate her Aemond’s intended as her father sent her from Storms End to ensure the marriage was honoured once the war was done.

And as Aemond predicted, the Tyrell’s arrived at Kings Landing, bringing thousands of men and thousands more provisions with them. There was no outward demand for repayment, but everyone knew: The Tyrells came to make a marriage.

“I am not a milking cow to be sold at your pleasure!” Saerah howled in the Small Council chamber.

“You are not a woman free of duty and obligation, either, Princess.” Lord Lannister replied from his seat.

“It is a fine match.” The Lord Hand, her grandfather, said. “You can do far worse, girl. You’ll be lady of the Reach, wife of one of the richest lords in the land.”

“Very pretty things for a very pretty price of me in his bed. Would any of you like to offer yourself up instead?” She bit out, glancing around the table at the men, avoiding casting her mother a look out of respect. “I mean if the rewards are so sweet, do not any of you wish to take my place.”

“Saerah.” Her mother admonished.

The princess sighed, casting her eyes downward. Already this felt like a lost battle. Aemond was to be wed to the Baratheon girl and she would make her home here beside him. And Saerah would be shipped away again to Highgarden, this time with a husband on her arm.

Still, she tried again. “I…only mean to say, there are others to consider. The Eyrie, the North, and perhaps even one from Dorne. Why not keep the options open until we’ve a better handle on this war.” She made careful sure to exclude western options, still feeling greedy emerald eyes on her form.

Otto shifted in his chair, a sharp sigh hissing from his nose. “I know this is not the match you desire, granddaughter. And neither would the Eyrie, North or Dornish houses would be your preference.” Her lilac eyes flickered up to his, cheeks heating at the fact that was spat like an insult. “Nevertheless, the Tyrell’s have been good friends of the Crown and it does us no good to drive them into our enemies’ beds.”

“And who would Viktor Tyrell marry? Rhaenyra’s only daughter is dead, Baela and Rhaena promised to Jace and—“ damn it all. It had been short weeks since Lucerys’ death, and oftentimes Saerah found herself forgetting.

“Yes, now she understands it.” Lord Lannister murmured into his wine cup. Saerah wishes for Aemond’s strength then, so she might show his pompous face into that cup, breaking glass over his skin. It did not escape her notice that Aemond was absent from the room, and Saerah wondered if the Council acted with stealth, silently inviting her to treat with them and bring this offer to her without Aemond’s interference.

Even still. Saerah’s cold, embittered heart wondered if he would even care. He certainly sold himself into marriage easily enough.

“Rhaena is a far lesser prize than you are, sweet girl.” Her mother murmured, her wide eyes looking imploringly up at her youngest daughter. “Pride is a fragile thing. Deny the Tyrell’s what they desire and every man outside those gates holding a golden rose banner…they will disappear and show up on Dragonstone.”

“Mother, I…”

Alicent sighed. “Just…have an open heart, my dear. You got on well enough at Highgarden.”

Viktor Tyrell gifted her with a beautiful diamond necklace upon their meeting again. It was a private enough meeting—he had come to her chambers, his own servant in tow who carried a gorgeous velvet box. She promised to wear it to the feast that night, held in welcome for their new friends from the Reach.

It was heavy and cold as a chain around her neck. And Aemond took notice at once.

“‘Tis a pretty necklace, sister.” He murmured to her softly, leaning closer to her side. They sat at the high dais, their new king sat at the centre, Helaena sat to his left, and the Hand at his right. Viktor sat beside Otto, and thankfully, she Aemond and his Baratheon girl sat beside Helaena.

The black haired girl in question had gotten up to dance and it was only then that Aemond dared speak to her. Another slight to her poor heart.

“A gift. From Lord Tyrell.” She replied, taking a bite of pigeon.

“Hm. Generous of him.” He hummed, eye flickering back to the other man in question. “Not really the gift of friendship, though, is it?” Saerah did not reply. “More that of what a man might offer his wife.” Again Saerah did not react. “Or his whore.”

Her fist met the table and although the music did not cease, she could feel multiple eyes on her. “Gift one to your Baratheon girl, brother.” Aemond’s lilac eye bore into hers, burning. She hated that she could not hate him. This hurt may not feel so much like betrayal, then. “It is a very pretty betrothal gift, after all.”

“He put you in chains, Saerah.” He growled lowly in High Valyrian. “Say the word, and he’ll have disappeared before dawn.”

“He’s a good man, Aemond.” She murmured back, taking up a little carrot with her fingers.

“Not for you he’s not.”

Aemond did not make life easy for Viktor at court. Saerah was never sure what Aemond did, but over the next month so noticed Viktor lost a bit of weight and had dark circles under his eyes.

#game of thrones #asoiaf #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x sister!oc #jealousy #arranged marriage #angst

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cornybunbun · 3 months

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A Broken Doll - A Sebaciel Fanfic

Chapter Twelve

Summary

Under the gaze of the Bone Tower, all are equal. Human, Demon, Fae... Death does not discriminate.

Sebastian has a job to do: he is to infiltrate the Human Realm and find out the source of their magic. The easiest way to get access to the Human Realm is by arranging a marriage and then seducing the human pitiful enough to be bound to him.

However, on his wedding night Sebastian finds himself collared by a child with magic burning in his eye and contempt written across his face. Now he is Ciel Phantomhive's dog, and although he wants to carry out his job for the Demon Realm he finds himself entranced by the way his new husband commands him to kneel.

Chapter Eleven

High up on the the vaulted roof of the eyrie, in a shadowy valley where two towers met, concealed from view by the sprawling legs and stone around them, Sebastian and Ciel were hidden. This was a part of the eyrie which Sebastian had found as a whelp, and it had remained one of his best kept secrets all these years. He had come here numerous times in his life to lick his wounds and reassemble his broken pride. Without even thinking about it, he had come here with Ciel wrapped up in his own cloak of whispers.

Far below from within the eyrie, he could hear the distant sound of Claude searching for them. No doubt he would be destroying the eyrie and all of Sebastian's personal belongings as a punishment for letting the night's entertainment be cut short. Let him. Sebastian had long ago learned to not bring anything of value around his brother.

In all the times they had been married, Sebastian had never been allowed to spend a night by Ciel's side. He had always assumed it was a way of showing dominance. Sebastian was Ciel's to command to come and go as he saw fit, there was nothing more to it than that. But that night he learned the truth.

Ciel's body sleeping body began to shake. Shudder. Convulse. His back arched like a bowstring. Hands grasped and clawing at his sides. His eyes flickered open to reveal glassy whites shot through with red veins. His lips parted with whimpers and small cries.

When he realised this wasn't a kind of seizure but a nightmare, Sebastian tried to wake him. But whatever was happening inside Ciel's brain was holding him down too tightly.

"No... Let go... I don't... Stop it!"

His whispers started small. Tiny whimpers and words that Sebastian could barely make out. But then Ciel's fingers gripped Sebastian's wrist and his eyes flew open in unseeing terror as he screamed. A scream that was so loud, so visceral, that it hardly seemed human! Pure terror and pain, ripped from deep within Ciel's subconscious.

Sebastian clapped his hand over Ciel's mouth and dug deep into whatever last reserves of magic he had to silence him. The effort had his body shuddering and his head swimming with fatigue. But he couldn't risk Claude tracking that sound and finding them when his husband was so vulnerable.

Ciel's eyes eventually rolled back in his head. His body slumped against the cold stone. Quiet whispers and whimpers fell from his lips once more.

#black butler #sebaciel #sebaciel fic #ciel phantomhive #sebastian michaelis #my fic

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layce2015 · 2 years

Text

Secrets Of Dumbledore (Newt Scamander x Female!Reader)

Chapter 8: Our War With The Muggles Begins Today

Previous Chapter / First Chapter

Newt and (y/n) started to wake up and see they are surrounded by the crowd. Then Newt sees Fischer making her way up the stairs ahead. Towering above supporters and voters are massive freestanding banners, which act as screens to reflect the ceremony above. As Newt and (y/n) stare at the banner, in reflection, Vogel appears

"I thank the candidates for their words." Vogel said as Liu, Santos and Grindelwald stand behind him, side by side. "Each represents a distinct vision of how we will not shape only our world...but the non-magical world as well. Which brings us to the most important part of our ceremony...the walk of the Qilin." Vogel said and the Qilin is brought forth.

Newt and (y/n) reach the great steps that stretch up to the Eyrie, seeing a tiny figure up ahead with Newt's case, Fischer. As they pound up the steps, he looks across to the banners and sees the Qilin being put before Grindelwald, Liu, and Santos.

The Qilin moves tentatively forward, towards the candidates. As the Qilin moves to Grindelwald, Liu and Santos exchange a glance.

Newt and (y/n) charge towards Fischer, who simply turns to look at them, making no effort to move.

The Qilin stands in front of Grindelwald and gazes up at him.

Fischer holds out the case. Newt studied her, perplexed by her demeanor, then reaches out. As his fingers make contact, the case turns to dust. In a panic, he watches the particular drift into the air while (y/n) gasped and places a hand over her mouth. They look back to Fischer, who continues to smile.

As the dust drifts up, the banners reveal Grindelwald and the Qilin. The Qilin then bows to Grindelwald and, for a moment, there was a long silence. "The Qilin has seen. Seen goodness, strength, qualities essential to lead and to guide us. Who do you see?" Vogel asked and the assembled witches and wizards thrust their wands into the air, spells explode. The three colors of Liu, Santos and Grindelwald stream into the sky and then turn to one, Grindelwald's green.

"No..." (y/n) whispers, devastated, as Newt stands there, stunned.

"Gellert Grindelwald is the new leader of the magical world by acclamation." Vogel said as Grindelwald savors the adulation. The crowd roars, Acolytes on either side of Newt and (y/n) shove them up the steps. Grindelwald nods to Rosier and she brings forth Queenie and Jacob.

Newt and (y/n) try to push their way toward them but the four Acolytes restrain them. Rosier brings Jacob farther up the steps and hands his snakewood wand to Grindelwald. He surveys the crowd, who waits, eyes fixed in him, then gestures to Jacob.

"This is the man who tried to take my life. This man, who has no magic, who would marry a witch and pollute our blood. Create a forbidden union that would make us less, make us weak, like his kind. He's not alone, my friends. There are thousands who seek to do the same. There can only be one response to such vermin." Grindelwald said and he tosses away Jacob's wand and raises his own.

As Jacob turns to face him, Grindelwald hits him with a spell that throws him down the steps and sends him sprawling onto his back at Queenie's feet. "Crucio." Grindelwald recites and a lightning spell sends Jacob writhing in pain at Queenie's feet.

"No!" Newt and (y/n) shout and try to go towards him but the Acolytes hold them back while Queenie falls to her knees, crying. "Make him stop!" She cries. "Our war with the Muggles begins today!" Grindelwald bellows and his supporters cheer wildly.

Lally, Theseus, Jason and Kama moves through the crowd, looking shocked. Jacob remains writhing in pain on the ground until Santos raises her wand and lifts the Cruciatus Curse afflicting him. Relieved, Jacob lies back in Queenie's arms.

Grindelwald turns bus face to the sky, basking in his glory. He stays like this, reveling in the moment when he spies the Phoenix circling overhead. A solitary feather of ash seesaw from the sky and attaches itself to his cheek. He wipes it away, looking troubled.

He turns, squinting, as a figure emerges from the steps...

Credence.

Grindelwald studies him with interest as he approaches, looking weak but defiant. As he stops in front of Grindelwald, he reaches out, as if he were gonna cradle Grindelwald's face, then takes his finger and smears the ash on his cheek.

Aberforth and Dumbledore emerge at the back of the crowd as Credence turns, addressing the dignitaries. Isabella, who looked ragged and disheveled, makes her way through the crowd, an angry look on her face.

"He's lying to you. That creature is dead." Credence admits as Newt regards the bewitched Qilin sadly. Nearing the end of his strengt, Credencefalls to his knees. Aberforth moves to help him, but is held back gently by Dumbledore. "Not now. Wait." Dumbledore said to his brother as (y/n) pulls free of her captors.

"He did it to trick you. He killed it and bewitched it so that you might think him worthy to lead. But he doesn't want to lead you. He just wants you to follow." she said and Isabella glares at her. "Words. Words designed to deceive. To make you doubt what you've seen with your own two eyes." Grindelwald said then Newt breaks free from his captors too.

"There were two Qilins born that night. A twin. And I know that...I know that..." Newt said but stops and bites his lips, sadly. "Because...? Because you have no proof. Because there was no second Qilin. Am I not right?" Grindelwald asked Newt. "Its mother had been killed, it." Newt said. "Then where is it now, Mr. Scamander?" Grindelwald asked as he looks at Newt and (y/n), triumphantly, when his gaze falls to a green-robed dignitary.

The figure steps forward, into the light, a case in hand, and gives it to Newt, who stares at it, dumbfounded. The robed figure looks up and removes their robe to reveal...Edmund.

"No one can know everything, Newt. Remember?" He said, smirking, and Newt gives him a grateful and relieved look and (y/n) gasps a sob and Edmund smiles at her then turns to face Isabella.

"Edmund..." she scowls.

"Isabella..." Edmund said, plainly, while Newt sets the case down on the ground and opens the lid of the case. A small head emerges, looks about.

The Qilin.

Vogel stares incredulously, nervously eyeing Grindelwald, who looks unsettled as well. Theseus and Lally exchanged stunned glances and Jason smiles, proudly. Tina watches on from the American Ministry. Newt, more stunned than anyone, smiles, feeling both relieved and grateful.

As everyone watches, the Qilin crawls out of the case and stands upright, blinking in confusio, trying to get its bearings. Then, sensing something, it turns and sees the bewitched Qilin standing by Grindelwald's side.

Instantly, the Qilin softly keeps, calling out, the sound heartbreaking in its naked emotion, but its twin's expression remains unchanged, its eyes blank. Newt kneels down beside the confused Qilin.

"She can't hear you, little one. Not here...but perhaps somewhere she's listening." Newt said, softly, to the creature. "This is the true Qilin!" Vogel exclaims as he snatches up the bewitched Qilin and turns to all those watching. "Look at it...you can see it with your own eyes. This is the true..." he said but he falters as the Qilin in his hands slumps to the side, its eyes dark and empty.

Then a witch steps forward. "This can't be allowed to stand. The vote must be taken again. Come on, Anton. Do something." She said while Vogel looks confused, frightened. The living Qilin slowly walks up to the candidates then makes its way to the crowd and towards Dumbledore.

"No, no, no, please." Dumbledore whispers, pleadingly, and the Qilin eyes him carefully, it probing eyes silencing Dumbledore. The Qilin begins to glow and then slowly bows. Newt and (y/n) look on curiously, compassionately.

"I'm honored." Dumbledore said to the Qilin as he kneels down to it. "But just as two of you were born that night, there's another here, equally worthy. I'm certain of it." He said and he gently strokes the Qilin. "Thank you." He said and the Qilin eyes Dumbledore, curiously, before making its way toward Santos to bow, as Grindelwald watches in with disgust.

He looks at Dumbledore, consumed by the moment--and raises his wand toward the Qilin. Credence, seeing Grindelwald taking aim at the Qilin, summons what strength he has and stands before him.

Lightning fast, Grindelwald turns and casts a spell toward Credence when a bright, blinding shield of light materializes in front of Credence, courtesy of Dumbledore and Aberforth. Both of them, reflexively and independently, cast protective spells.

As Grindelwald's spell strikes the shimmering shield of light, his and Dumbledore's spells have knotted together. As one, their gazes meet, each stunned to find themselves shackled to the other. For a moment, they remain like this, connected, each draining the power of the other, the world in suspension.

Then the troth's chain shatters, sending the crystal slowly spinning to the ground. Grindelwald and Dumbledore watch as the light from the troth begins to flicker, and with a flash, everything goes suddenly silent. The world goes slowly still, as if the rotation of the earth itself were slowing.

The troth continues to spin slowly through the air, its center cracking. Their spells evaporate. Grindelwald's and Dumbledore's eyes meet, both realizing in the same moment that they have been emancipated.

Instantly, their wands rise, flashing again and again...fire and parry in a dizzying and cathartic display of power. As they continue to battle, they draw closer and closer, neither able to get the best of the other, neither willing to concede until finally, nearly face-to-face, their arms cross and they...stop.

Chest heaving, eyes locked on each other. Dumbledore reaches out, delicately puts his hand on Grindelwald's heart. Grindelwald does the same, hand on Dumbledore's. Dumbledore, head bowed, peers up into Grindelwald's eyes.

Just then, a thin thread of yellow light stitches its way up into the sky from the crowd below. Moments later, another thread of yellow lights joins it. Then another. Grindelwald watches, his face betraying an impending dread.

Dumbledore watches more threads of light knit their way into the sky and, looking strangely moved, turns away, making to rejoin the frozen world behind him. Grindelwald stands stricken. "Who will love you now, Dumbledore?" Grindelwald asked him just as the blood troth strikes the floor.

It breaks in two, and smoke rises from its center...the world begins to rotate in its axis once more, the figures surrounding Grindelwald and Dumbledore coming back to life. Dumbledore doesn't turn, leaving Grindelwald behind, to stand alone. "You're all alone." Grindelwald said as the thousands yellow threads lace the sky and all are bathed in a soft yellow light.

Magical Ministries around the world, including Brazil and France, cheer for Santos, sending their own exploding yellow spells into the air. Grindelwald looks on, defeated. He gazes over at those who oppose him, unified now as they move toward him, led by Santos and the Qilin, pointing their wands in his direction.

Apparating to the edge, Grindelwald stands backed to the precipice of a great cliff. He rapidly puts a shield around him as spells are cast from those who stand opposite. But there is only one person who interests him: Dumbledore. "I was never your enemy. Then, or now." Grindelwald said.

Almost as one, spells fly towards Grindelwal, when, with one final glance at Dumbledore, he falls backwards and Apparates. Theseus, Lally, Kama, Jason and Edmund, followed by others, race to the wall to see he's gone.

Dumbledore looks away, sees Aberforth cradling Credence. Credence, now weak, looks at Aberforth curiously, his face bathed in yellow light. "Did you ever think of me?" he asked Aberforth. "Always." Aberforth admits and they share a look. "Come home." he said and he reaches his hand out and lifts his son up to his feet.

As they begin to descend, Dumbledore watches as the Phoenix takes flight behind them and drifts slowly down the mountain.

Newt looks out over the sea of yellow and the Kingdom if Bhutan beyond. He has a weary look on his face. "Here she is." Edmund said and Newt turns to see him standing with the Qilin. "Well done, Edmund." Newt said and Edmund shakes his head and smiles.

"Come on, little one." Newt said to the Qilin and opens the case. "I'm sorry, my boy. I must have given you an awful fright." Edmund said as Newt takes the Qilin, then he shakes his head. "No, I think...sometimes it takes losing something to realize quite how much it means." Newt said as he looks over Edmund's shoulder.

Edmund looks over his shoulder and see (y/n) hugging Queenie, both of them looking happy, while Jason comes up to them and (y/n) introduced him to Queenie.

"And sometimes you just...Sometimes you just know." Edmund said as he looks back at Newt with a knowing smile. Newt smiles a bit then looks down at the Qilin. "Right, in you pop." he said and he places the Qilin in the case. "Did...did they...capture...?" Newt started to ask Edmund but the older man nods.

"They've captured as much of Grindelwald's followers as they could, including Isabella." Edmund informs and Newt nods. "I'm very sorry, Edmund." Newt said and Edmund shakes his head and waves his hand, vaguely. "It's alright, my boy. At least she won't be causing anymore trouble." Edmund said and he pats Newt's shoulder.

"Mr. Kowalski. I owe you an apology." Dumbledore said as he walks up to Jacob. "It was never my intent for you to suffer the Cruciatus curse." he said. "Yeah...well, you know, we got Queenie back, so we're square." Jacob said then he thinks for a moment before turning to Dumbledore. "Hey, can I ask you a question? Can I keep this? For, like, old times' sake?" Jacob asked as he holds up the snakewood wand. Dumbledore studies him and smiles.

"I can't think of anyone more deserving." He replied and Jacob smiles, widely. "Thanks, Professor." Jacob said and he pockets it and Dumbledore watches him head towards Queenie while (y/n) walks over to Newt.

Dumbledore joins them, inspects the edge of the cliff, then removed the broken blood troth from his pocket and shows the couple. "Remarkable." he said. "But how? I thought you couldn't move against one another." (y/n) said, curiously. "We didn't. He sought to kill, I sought to protect. Our spells met." Dumbledore said then he smiles, ruefully.

"Let's call it fate. After all, how else will we fulfill our destinies?" He said and the couple eyes him, curiously, before Theseus joins them. "Albus. Promise me. You'll find him and you'll stop him." Theseus said and Dumbledore nods at him.

#fandom #fanfic #fan fiction #reader insert #x reader #harry potter #newt scamander x reader #newt x you #newt scamander imagine #newt x reader #newt scamander #secrets of dumbledore #fantastic beats and where to find them #fantasticbeasts #fantastic beasts #fantastic beasts and where to find them #wizarding world

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