#✿ | Symbol of Conquerors

[beaulesbian]

ah yes, thank you One Piece-summary/flashbacks-corner for including this specific Marco scene, where Zoro once again has to remind everyone that he would always follow Luffy's orders. It's just a thing that naturally comes out of his mouth ever so often. Love to see it!

[vinnianlovesdinosaurs]

House of The Dragon Hot Take #11

House Targaryen is an allegory for colonization. From the very start of their line they have taken things that aren't theirs. Whether it be people, land, kingdoms, and lives. Until Aegon I, Visenya, and Rhaenys came around and waged war against everyone in Old Valyria and the neighboring kingdoms, House Targaryen really wasn't all that important. They weren't even the most powerful house in the kingdom because it wasn't their kingdom until they tore it away from the rulers and killed the people who disagreed. Same with what they did with Dorne for years. House Targaryen is full of colonizers, blood purists, and terrorists of all kinds. While this is not me saying I hate every Targaryen character, I am saying that it's important to know that they are a realistic representation of colonization because:

They came in > They stole the land and the throne > They killed the people that disagreed or tried to defend themselves > Their families took over until their house finally died out.

[wildlyresonantspell]

According to Wong: white symbolized treachery, a sinister nature, suspicion of others, and the willingness to visit evil deeds on others, while red symbolized honor, loyalty and heroism. (Avatar fandom wiki)

[selkiewife]

Symbolism in the Alicent and Rhaenyra Confrontation

I can't stop thinking of the potential symbolism of the confrontation between Alicent and Rhaenyra in the Driftmark Episode. The inclusion of the Night King slaying catspaw dagger (which we find out in HOTD is also Aegon's dagger) charged the whole scene with Azor Ahai and Nissa Nissa symbolism for me. I wondered if anyone else felt the same? 

The hidden inscription that Aegon had the pyromancers put on the blade- From my blood come the prince that was promised and his will be the song of ice and fire- was likely intended to mean from his (Aegon's) bloodline. But when Alicent drew Rhaenyra's blood with the dagger it got me wondering whether it could mean the blood that the dagger spills. As if the dagger itself is speaking- from my blood (the blood that I spill) comes the prince that was promised.

And then that made me think about the parallels between two people that are cut by Aegon's dagger in showverse: Rhaenyra and Catelyn. They are both mothers defending their children who are voluntarily sacrificing themselves (if need be) for the greater good (their kids) which is very similar to Nissa Nissa:

"... 'Nissa Nissa,' he said to her, for that was her name, 'bare your breast, and know that I love you best of all that is in this world.' She did this thing, why I cannot say, and Azor Ahai thrust the smoking sword through her living heart. It is said that her cry of anguish and ecstasy left a crack across the face of the moon, but her blood and her soul and her strength and her courage all went into the steel. Such is the tale of the forging of Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes. ~ A Clash of Kings, Davos I

I remember a while ago @st-clements-steps brought up the fact that everyone is always trying to figure out who Azor Ahai is when Nissa Nissa is as equally (if not more) interesting since she is the person who CHOOSES to sacrifice themselves to save the world. She is described as someone who voluntarily presents herself as a sacrifice. I think that a mother defending her child and willing to sacrifice her life for theirs is a really powerful Nissa Nissa image. Nissa Nissa sacrifices herself to save the future of the world. The Mothers (Rhaenyra and Catelyn) putting their bodies between a dagger and their child is a similar symbolic idea. 

Whether it is the blood that flows from the dagger or the bloodline- the fact that it is two mothers whose blood is spilled by the dagger feels significant. Corlys was right when he said "History does not remember blood, it remembers names." And what names are the ones that are remembered? Well, the male ones. The surnames of the noble males are the ones that are passed down. Aegon himself believed that the Prince that was Promised would come from his bloodline. But interestingly, "his line" comes from his sister, Rhaenys the Conquerer, who was rumored to have lovers:

Whilst no one ever questioned Visenya’s fidelity to her brother-husband, Rhaenys surrounded herself with comely young men, and (it was whispered) even entertained some in her bedchambers on the nights when Aegon was with her elder sister. ~ Fire and Blood, Aegon's Conquest

So even though all the Targaryens are related to Aegon, there is a chance that the direct line of rulers is from Rhaenys and whomever she chose as her lover. Which I’d like. It doesn’t make Aegon wrong. It’s still his blood since it is his sister's blood. But I love how it also subverts what he believes as well. And in a way that makes women and bastards more important than true born male heirs. In the world of asoiaf, so much emphasis is put on the importance of trueborn male heirs. And yet, the two charcters most likely to be the Prince that was Promised are Daenerys Targaryen and/or Jon Snow. A woman and a bastard.

And speaking of that, the idea of the Prince that was Promised being a girl or a woman is supported by both the novels and by the show. As Maester Aemon said in the novels:

"No one ever looked for a girl... It was a prince that was promised, not a princess. Rhaegar, I thought … the smoke was from the fire that devoured Summerhall on the day of his birth, the salt from the tears shed for those who died. He shared my belief when he was young, but later he became persuaded that it was his own son who fulfilled the prophecy, for a comet had been seen above King’s Landing on the night Aegon was conceived, and Rhaegar Targaryen was certain the bleeding star had to be a comet. What fools we were, who thought ourselves so wise! The error crept in from the translation. Dragons are neither male nor female, Barth saw the truth of that, but now one and now the other, as changeable as flame. The language misled us all for a thousand years. Daenerys is the one, born amidst salt and smoke. The dragons prove it." ~ A Feast for Crows, Samwell IV

And Missandei explained from the show:

MISSANDEI: Your Grace, forgive me, but your translation is not quite accurate. That noun has no gender in High Valyrian, so the proper translation for that prophecy would be, "The prince or princess who was promised will bring the dawn. ~ GAME OF THRONES, Season 7, Episode 7: "Stormborn"

And then, of course, Arya Stark (an unlikely girl) is the one in the show to slay the Night King.

So it is interesting that in the confrontation between Alicent and Rhaenyra, we have the role of the Azor Ahai being symbolized by Alicent- an incredibly “unlikely” person to symbolize Azor Ahai or The Prince that was Promised. And yet, taking into consideration the idea of “we never looked for a girl,” and considering that it was actually Arya who was the girl that saved the world, it makes a lot of sense. It’s even roughly the same choreography. You have person 1 (Rhaenyra and the Night King) facing person 2 (Luke and Bran) and then person 1 turns around and stops the hand of person 3 (Alicent and Arya) who has unexpectedly showed up with Aegon’s dagger in their hand. Obviously the roles of protection are reversed here (with Rhaenyra protecting Luke against Alicent’s knife instead of Arya’s knife protecting Bran) but it’s still an interesting parallel linking Alicent and Arya as the unlikely wielders of the magical prophetic weapon. Unlikely because they are girls/women (“we never looked for a girl.”) Unlikely because they are not Targaryens. 

But! Are they truly not? Alicent- a mother of Targaryens- could symbolize Dany the mother of Dragons (yes! Dany is the only mother of literal dragons but I’m talking symbolism here.) She is also a Targaryen by marriage. And she was a forced child bride in the show- another parallel to Dany. There have been better posts that you can find explaining the role of Dany as an Azor Ahai figure in the books. But we are talking mostly about the show canon and in the show, Alicent can also be symbolizing and foreshadowing Arya. I originally thought that Arya could also end up having Targaryen blood if the show decided to make the rumored Jace and Sara Snow romance canon but it looks like that is not going to happen. However, Arya's dagger is still "tempered" by her mother's blood, so perhaps mothers' blood is the magic and not necessarily a Targaryen mother's blood. This also supports the idea that the prophesies come true- but not in the way the dreamer/interpreter believes they will. Arya and Rhaenyra are also shown to have a lot of parallels so perhaps there is symbolic link more than a literal blood link between them. Or perhaps Rhaenyra is the Nissa Nissa to Arya's Azor Ahai (and in the books it may still be Daenerys or Jon.) I think Rhaenyra putting herself in harm's way to protect Luke (her bastard) can also foreshadow Lyanna dying to birth Jon Snow.

On the whole, I do think it is really interesting that Rhaenyra and Alicent mirror Nissa Nissa and Azor Ahai in this scene. Especially when you consider the potential homoerotic undertones to their friendship. According to the legend, Azor Ahai and Nissa Nissa did love each other before one killed the other. Though it is a change from the books, I like how the relationship between Alicent and Rhaenyra highlight the asoiaf theme that, as Arya says, "The woman is important too!" Nissa Nissa is important. The dead mothers are important. The unremembered blood of mothers is important. Bastards are important. The relationships between women are important. The unlikely heroes are important.

tagging @targaryenfamilyorgy who wrote this post

[hauntingblue]

NAMI NEEDS TO GO UP THERE AND FIGHT BIG MOM I AM SO SERIOUS!!! THIS IS A BATTLE FOR THE ROMANCE DOWN TRIO!! SANJI DO NOT DARE TAKE HER SPOT!!!

[dreamedfyre-a]

perhaps controversial take? but parading meleys' head isn't in itself an absurd or clearly stupid idea imo. it is disrespectful af, it's gross, but it's meant to be a display of strength — the thing is, because of the context and situation as a whole, it misses the inspiring awe and showing strength goal they were aiming for and leaves the smallfolk terrified and desperate instead. the idea a dead dragon's head takes away from the magic and mystique surrounding the royal family seems a little silly to me. everyone knows dragons can die. meraxes was literally killed by people! with weapons! normal humans! ( shoutout to dorne for being the best, anyways) people know dragons can be killed. and in this specific scenario, it can't even be taken as showing people they might kill a dragon, because meleys was killed by another dragon (i think in the show they advertise it as being sunfyre? not sure), not something easily done. might be what the show ends up going for, but i just can't see it as encouragement for people to look at dragons differently

[thrallflower]

I had to search for this and click through four different articles before anyone would show me a damn close-up so I could decide for myself. I now know WAY MORE about embroidered horse cock than anyone should learn in a lifetime. HERE. GOD.

And I can only conclude that that is not a penis, much less one in "anatomically fulsome" detail as the professor enthuses. And it's also not a dagger. That man is a time traveler with a goddamn gun. IDK exactly how it's sheathed but that's a gun. I had to learn 50 facts about ancient tapestried horse cock to look at a man carrying a gun irresponsibly? I ALREADY LIVE IN AMERICA

Things are heating up in the embroidered medieval penises fandom

[buckets-and-trees]

So Black the Darkness Hums

Characters/Pairings: Viking King Steve Rogers x curvy Female!Reader, unnamed husband of reader Word Count: 9.1k Summary: Your wedding day is destroyed when your village is raided by the vicious king Steven and his viking warriors. He will lay claim to all he wants, including you.

Content/Warnings: DARK, invoking prima nocta, non-consent/rape, stealing of virginity, explicit smut (oral - male and female receiving, unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, vaginal intercourse, anal fingering, anal intercourse, breastplay, overstimulation, orgasm denial, forced orgasms), use of pet name (little bride), dacryphilia, innocence kink, implied breeding kink, exhibitionism, human tribute/trade

Notes: I was struck by the idea of a very mean viking Steve last Thursday, and he would not let me go. Thanks to the encouragements from @biteofcherry, @witchywithwhiskey, and @vonalyn. An unapologetically brutal offering for the ninth week of Chris-mas.

Additional Note: I've gone with the term magnate over chieftan per this source.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You had already made a long walk, dressed in white, towards a man today. But where this morning you had walked happily in the sunlight to your betrothed - the eldest son of the village magnate - now you walk over the flagstones of the village hall to the seat typically occupied by the magnate.

A seat now filled by the brutal and terrifying Steven - warrior and king of an army which had landed on the shores of your village to raid and conquer today.

And conquer they had.

Your white dress, once pristine and flowing, now clings to your skin, damp with sweat and streaked with dirt and leaves. The veil that had adorned your hair this morning lies discarded somewhere in the forest, torn away by grasping branches as you fled.

The memory of your desperate flight from your wedding into the woods plays in your mind like a fevered dream. The screams of the villagers, the clash of steel, the acrid smell of smoke as buildings burned – all of it had driven you and a group of women and children to seek refuge among the ancient oaks. The forest, usually a place of comfort and familiarity, became a labyrinth of terror as you led the group deeper and deeper, branches scratching at your arms and face, tearing at the delicate fabric of your gown. The sounds of pursuit never seemed to fade, no matter how far you ran.

As dusk fell, you huddled together, exhausted, praying to gods old and new that you would not be found. But the gods were silent, and the crunch of heavy boots on fallen leaves had filled their absence. You were all discovered, bound and forced back.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you approach the throne, each step echoing in the cavernous hall. The white gown that once symbolized joy now feels like a shroud.

The smell of blood and sweat permeates the room, a stark contrast to the polished wood and fine tapestries of the hall.

Steven's piercing eyes lock onto yours, a predatory gleam reflecting in their depths like shards of ice. His massive frame dwarfs the ornate chair, his battle-scarred hands gripping the armrests with a strength that could crush them at any moment. A round, wooden shield leans against the side of the throne. He looks both handsome and terrifying, his rugged features perfectly fitting for a fierce Viking warrior king. The intensity in his gaze sends shivers down your spine, making you wonder if he is capable of unspeakable violence or if it is all just an act to maintain his reputation as a fearsome leader. Either way, there is no denying the raw power emanating from him, and you find yourself unable to tear your eyes away from the captivating figure before you.

Your steps falter, but a rough shove from one of Steven's men propels you forward. You stumble, nearly falling at the conqueror's feet.

"So," Steven's voice booms, a mix of amusement and contempt, "you are the bride I've heard so much about."

His face is scarred, weathered by countless battles, but still impossibly handsome, and his eyes gleam with intelligence. You see something there – a flicker that suggests he is not just a brutal conqueror, but a man with depth and complexity.

Dangerous.

"I hear you were wedded to the fine magnate’s son," Steven continues, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "How fortunate that I arrived in time for the celebration."

Your throat constricts, choking back the bitter retort that threatens to escape. You force yourself to square your shoulders and hold his gaze, summoning every ounce of courage you possess.

Steven's eyes narrow as he studies you, his gaze raking over your disheveled form with predatory intensity. He leans forward, the worn leather of his armor creaking with the movement.

"Come closer, little bride," he beckons, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

Your feet feel leaden as you force yourself to take another step forward. You are by no means small, but he is so large in comparison that the term ‘little’ would apply to most who come into his presence. The flagstones beneath you are cold and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the soft grass you had walked upon just hours before, your heart full of hope and promise.

Steven's lips curl into a wolfish grin as you approach. "Tell me," he says, his voice deceptively casual, "were you to be a proper bride for your husband?"

The insinuation in his words is clear, and heat rises to your cheeks. You can feel the eyes of his men upon you, their gazes hungry and leering. You swallow hard, struggling to maintain your composure.

"I was to be a dutiful wife," you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Steven's laughter booms through the hall, echoing off the stone walls. "'Dutiful,'" he repeats, mockery dripping from the word. "And what duties did you imagine, little bride? Mending his clothes? Warming his bed?"

Your fists clench at your sides, nails digging into your palms. The urge to lash out, to scream defiance in his face, is almost overwhelming. But you force yourself to remain still, knowing that any show of rebellion could mean death – not just for you, but for the other villagers as well.

"Whatever duties were required of me," you reply, striving to keep your voice steady.

Steven leans back in the chair. "Tell me, little bride, do you know what happens to dutiful wives when their husbands fall?"

Your stomach churns at his words, but you force yourself to stand tall. "I imagine they mourn," you reply, a hint of defiance creeping into your voice.

The warrior king's eyes flash dangerously. In one fluid motion, he rises from the chair, towering over you. His hand, calloused and rough, grasps your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

"Oh, he may have wished for death in battle, but he was merely conquered and imprisoned.”

There’s a small relief, but it’s fleeting as you know this is far from over.

“Dutiful wives plead and bargain what they can to spare their husbands an even crueler fate.”

You tremble with both fear and anger.

“And the bride of the magnate’s eldest son needs to bargain for far more than the fate of only one man.”

Your sink to your knees at Steven's words, now with the fate of your village laid at your hands. Your once-pristine dress pools around you like spilled milk over the cold flagstones. The stone bites into your skin, a sharp reminder of how far you've fallen in just one day.

Tears blur your vision as you look up at Steven, his massive form looming over you like a colossus. The firelight from nearby sconces casts dancing shadows across his face, making his scars seem to writhe like serpents.

"Please," you whisper, your voice cracking. "Spare them. Spare the village. We are simple folk, we have nothing to offer but our loyalty and our labor."

A low chuckle rumbles from Steven's chest. "Getting on your knees is a good start, little bride," he says, his voice low.

Your cheeks burn with humiliation at his words, but you force yourself to remain kneeling. The fate of your village, your family, your new husband – all of it rests on your shoulders now.

Steven circles you slowly, like a predator sizing up its prey. His heavy boots echo on the stone floor, each step sending a shiver down your spine. You can feel the eyes of his men upon you, their gazes a palpable weight.

"Loyalty and labor," Steven muses, coming to a stop before you. "Those are indeed valuable commodities. But I wonder, little bride, if you truly understand the depths of loyalty I require."

He crouches down, bringing his face level with yours. His breath is hot on your cheek as he speaks. "Your village will serve me, yes. But you... you will be the seal on our bargain. The trophy of my conquest."

Your heart stops.

“And to my earlier curiosity, I shall ask plainly and have you answer me in kind: are you a virgin bride? Untouched? Unsullied?”

You close your eyes and nod.

Any hope you had been harboring that your fate would not turn this way vanishes now.

“A king is entitled, if he so chooses, to invoke the rite of prima nocta.”

Your blood runs cold at Steven's words. Prima nocta - the right of the first night. An ancient, barbaric custom that you had only heard whispered about in hushed tones. Never did you imagine it would become your reality.

"No," you whisper, the word escaping your lips before you can stop it. You immediately regret it as Steven's eyes flash dangerously.

He grabs your chin roughly, forcing you to meet his gaze. "No?" he growls. "You dare refuse me? Perhaps you need a reminder of your position."

With a snap of his fingers, two of his men drag in a bound figure, depositing him on his knees off to the side of the hall but in clear view. Your heart sinks as you recognize your new husband, his body littered with cuts and bruises.

"For every refusal, every act of defiance," Steven says coldly, "he will suffer. And not just him. Your family, your friends, you are all of you conquered and my men can hunt through this village to pull any one of them here if it serves me.”

Your eyes well with tears because you do not doubt his resolve.

“You will spare them if I give you my maidenhood?”

He straightens back up to his full height. “I think I could spare your village for at least one night.”

Steven turns to his men, waving a dismissive hand. "Leave us," he commands, his voice echoing through the hall. "But the husband stays. He will bear witness."

The soldiers file out, swiftly acquiescing to their king’s request. The heavy doors slam shut behind them, the sound reverberating through your bones. Now it is only the three of you - conqueror, conquered, and the terrified bride between.

Steven's fingers tangle in your hair, forcing your head back. His other hand works at the fastenings of his breeches. "Show me how dutiful you can be, little bride," he growls.

Steven towers over you, his massive frame blocking out the flickering light from the nearby torches. You can smell the leather of his armor, the tang of sweat and metal that clings to his skin.

Your eyes flicker to your husband, but he refuses to look at you, apparently unwilling to watch. You would not have him suffer, but his refusal to even look your way hurts. You held no silly romantic notions for the eldest son of the magnate, but he was a fine man, good, you had been happy to make a match with him, and you thought there was a growing affection between you.

“Do not look at him, little bride,” Steven growls, impatiently shaking you by the hair. “Why are you looking at him? Look at me. He can not help you.”

You force your gaze back to Steven, your heart pounding. His eyes bore into yours, dark with desire and cruel triumph. You swallow hard, trying to find your voice.

"I... I don't know what to do," you whisper, heat flaming your cheeks. It's true - you are a virgin, after all, and the mechanics of what he expects are foreign to you.

Steven's laugh is low and mocking. "Oh, little bride," he says, his voice a rumble. "I'll teach you everything you need to know."

His hand leaves your hair, moving to cup your face. His thumb traces your lower lip, rough and calloused. "Open," he commands.

You hesitate, your eyes darting once more to your husband. This time, his gaze meets yours, and you see the resentment burning in them. It wounds you more than anything this cruel conquering king has done to you so far.

Steeling yourself, you look back up at Steven and part your lips.

His thumb pushes into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. "Suck," he commands.

With trembling lips, you obey, closing your mouth around his thick digit. The taste of salt and leather fills your senses as you tentatively suck on his thumb. Steven's eyes darken with lust, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his free hand working at the laces of his breeches. "That's it, use your tongue."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you obey, swirling your tongue around his digit, your cheeks burning with shame. You try to focus solely on the task at hand, to forget where you are and what's happening. But the sound of your husband's labored breathing, the cold stone beneath your knees, the looming presence of Steven above you – it all serves as a stark reminder of your situation.

The sound of fabric rustling makes your stomach clench.

Steven withdraws his thumb, replacing it with two fingers. They press deeper into your mouth, nearly making you gag. "Breathe through your nose," he instructs. "You'll need to learn this."

Your heart races as you struggle to follow his command, fighting against your gag reflex as his fingers probe deeper. The taste of salt and leather is overwhelming, and you can feel saliva gathering at the corners of your mouth.

"Open your eyes," Steven growls. "I want you to see everything."

Reluctantly, you obey, your gaze meeting his. His eyes are dark with lust, a predatory gleam that makes you shiver. With his free hand, he finishes unlacing his breeches, pushing them down just enough to free himself.

Your eyes widen at the sight of him, fully aroused and intimidatingly large. A whimper escapes you around his fingers, and he smirks.

"Don't worry, you'll learn to take all of me in time."

Steven withdraws his fingers from your mouth, leaving you gasping. His hand moves to grip your hair again, tilting your head back as he positions himself before you.

"Open wide, little bride," he commands, his voice husky with desire.

You hesitate, your heart pounding in your chest. The reality of what's about to happen crashes over you like a wave. But then you hear a pained grunt from your husband, and you know you have no choice. Closing your eyes, you part your lips.

Steven wastes no time, pushing himself into your mouth with a groan of satisfaction. The taste is foreign, salty and musky, and you struggle not to gag as he fills your mouth.

"Use your tongue," he instructs, his hand tightening in your hair. "And mind your teeth."

Tears stream down your face as you try to obey, running your tongue along the length of him. Your whole body trembles with fear and revulsion, but his grip on your hair is unrelenting. He thrusts in and out of your mouth, setting a brutal pace that makes you gag and gasp for air.

"You're doing well, my little bride," Steven grunts, his voice thick with lust. "Just relax and take it all in."

You try to comply, but it's a struggle. Your eyes are dripping with tears, overwhelmed from the force of his movements, and you feel like you're choking on him. But you know you have no choice but to endure it or risk angering him further.

As he continues to use your mouth for his pleasure, you feel a sense of detachment wash over you. It's like watching yourself from a distance, your body merely a tool for his satisfaction. You can't believe this is happening – this reality had never even haunted your nightmares.

A sharp pain shoots through your scalp as Steven tugs harder on your hair, pulling your head back even further. You whimper at the sting, struggling against the urge to cry out.

"You make such beautiful noises," he growls. "But I want more from you."

With that, he starts thrusting deeper into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat each time. You choke and gag around him, tears flowing freely down your cheeks now.

But then something changes – he starts moving faster and faster until suddenly he stills inside you with a groan of release. Your mouth is flooded with his release, and you swallow what you can, tasting him on your tongue as he pulls out of your mouth, leaving it feeling raw and sore. A mess of tears, his cum, and your drool drip down your chin and neck as you gasp for air.

Steven's thumb roughly grazes down your cheek, a false gesture of affection. Then he speaks, his eyes moving from you to your husband. "Such a pretty thing," he purrs. "Isn't she?" the question - a taunt - directed at your husband.

He shifts uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact with both of you. Steven's laughter fills the room as he continues, "They say you are a noble and good man, always treating her right. I bet you would never have asked her to do anything so degrading, may have waited months or years before coaxing her to suck your cock."

You don’t even know how to process what he is saying and how the other man is reacting - or not reacting - to Steve’s words.

“You would never use her.”

Steven’s focus shifts fully back to you.

“But I will.”

A whimper escapes your chest as he roughly grabs your chin.

“I will ruin you and wreck you for my pleasure, and he does not get to see what I will do to you next.”

The other man makes a strangled sound, finally trying to fight his bonds.

Steven laughs darkly. “It may have tortured you to watch,” he says, and then leans down and scoops you up from the floor and into his arms - bridal style to drive the point of his dominance and the humiliation of your special day home, “but not knowing what I do to your bride next will eat you alive for the rest of your days.”

As Steven carries you from the hall, your world becomes a blur of sensations and emotions. The warmth of his body contrasts sharply with the cold dread settling in your stomach. His arms, corded with muscle, hold you firmly against his broad chest, and you wrap your arms around his neck for steadiness as he moves so swiftly. The scent of leather, sweat, and something distinctly male envelops you in such close proximity, making your head spin.

As he carries you from the great hall, you find yourself unable to look away from his face. The flickering torchlight casts deep shadows across his features, accentuating the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the curve of his jaw. His eyes, when they meet yours, are dark and cold like the sea in a storm, and it chills your bones. He leans down and steals a fast, ruthless kiss, nipping at your bottom lip, and you look away when he ends it, uncomfortable with the sensation it stirs in your belly.

The corridors of the village hall, once so familiar, now seem alien and menacing. Shadows dance on the walls, cast by flickering torches, creating grotesque shapes that mirror the turmoil in your mind. The stone beneath Steven's feet echoes with each step, a rhythm that matches the frantic beating of your heart.

You pass tapestries depicting scenes from your village's history - harvests, celebrations, battles long past. They mock you now, reminders of a life that seems to have ended mere hours ago.

As Steven carries you further into the depths of the hall, the familiar corridors give way to parts of the building you've never seen before. The air grows cooler, damper, and you shiver involuntarily against his chest. He notices, a cruel smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Cold, little bride?" he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "Don't worry, I'll warm you up soon enough."

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out his words, to pretend this isn't happening. But the solid warmth of his body against yours, the strength in his arms as he carries you, makes denial impossible.

Finally, Steven comes to a stop before a heavy wooden door. With one hand still supporting you, he reaches out and pushes it open. The hinges creak ominously, and your heart rate spikes as he carries you across the threshold.

The room is dimly lit by a few sputtering candles, casting long shadows across the stone walls. In the center stands a large bed, draped in furs and silks - a stark contrast to the simple furnishings you're accustomed to. You see the ceremonial bridal lace, embroidered with the flower of the magnate’s clan, laying atop the other furs and silks and realize this was the bedchamber intended for you and your husband. The irony is not lost on you - this room, where you should have spent your wedding night and started your new life with your new husband, will now be the site of your defilement.

Steven tosses you onto the bed unceremoniously, and you land with a gasp, your white dress billowing around you.

Steven looms over you, his massive frame blocking out the dim candlelight. His eyes rove over your body hungrily, and you feel exposed despite still being fully clothed. You try to curl in on yourself, to shield your body from his gaze, but he tsks disapprovingly.

"Now, now, little bride," he says, his voice low and dangerous, "don't hide from me. I want to see all of you."

His hands move to the laces of your dress, and you flinch away instinctively. Steven's eyes narrow, and he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one large hand. With his other hand, he reaches for a knife at his hip, brings it up to the neckline of your dress, positioning the cool blade between your skin and the fabric and pulls down swiftly, tearing your dress down the middle. He releases your hands so he can use both of his to finish ripping away your clothing, throwing it to the floor. Your attempts to fight him are easily shunted, and once you’re naked, he presses you back down to the bed, holding the blade of the knife cruelly to your neck, just below your jaw.

“Do not think I will maintain much patience. I will not hesitate to punish if you continue to resist,” he promises. “Understand?”

“Yes,” you whisper, a tear escaping and rolling slowly down your cheek.

“Good," he says, his voice low and husky, "it's time to consummate the arrangement you agreed to fulfill."

He moves away, positioning himself next to the bed. His hands move to the fastenings of his leather armor, slowly removing each piece, then his shirt. The firelight gleams off his muscled torso as it's revealed, highlighting scars that tell tales of countless battles. You can't help but stare, a mix of fear and unwanted fascination coursing through you.

Steven notices your gaze and smirks. "Like what you see?" he taunts.

You quickly avert your eyes.

Steven chuckles darkly. "Don't be shy now, little bride. You'll become very familiar with every inch of me soon enough."

He finishes undressing, his massive frame now fully revealed in the flickering candlelight. Despite your fear and revulsion, you can't help but notice the raw power of his body - all hard muscle and battle scars. He is undeniably handsome in a rugged, dangerous way that makes your heart race with a confusing mix of terror and unwanted attraction.

Steven climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he looms over you. His hand trails down your body, callused fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake. You shiver involuntarily, eyes closing.

"Open your eyes," he commands. "I want you to see everything I do to you."

Reluctantly, you obey, your gaze meeting his. His eyes are dark with lust, a predatory gleam that makes you shiver. He looms over you, his muscled body casting you in shadow.

"Please," you whisper, a final, desperate plea. "You don't have to do this."

Steven's hand cups your face. “But I want to,” he growls, “and I always take what I want.”

His lips crash down on yours, harsh and demanding. You whimper against his mouth, overwhelmed by his forcefulness. His tongue pushes past your lips, exploring every inch of your mouth as his hand slides down to grip your breast roughly.

You gasp at the sensation, your body betraying you as your nipple hardens under his touch. Steven chuckles against your lips.

"Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind resists," he murmurs, his thumb circling your nipple teasingly.

His hand continues its travels lower, skimming over your stomach before reaching the junction between your thighs. You try to squeeze your legs shut, but his knee wedges between them, forcing them apart and settling himself between them. His fingers find your most intimate place, and you jerk at the unfamiliar touch.

"So soft," he growls, his fingers exploring the apex between your thighs. "And already getting wet for me."

You flush with shame, hating your body's involuntary response, feeling things you’ve never felt before and with a cruel stranger instead of the man you had pledged yourself to, built a budding relationship and trust with through your courtship.

"So responsive," he murmurs against your lips. "And so tight. This will hurt, little bride, but I'll make it good for you too."

His fingers probe deeper, and you cry out at the intrusion. Steven's mouth moves to your neck, sucking and biting as his fingers work between your legs. You feel a building pressure, your body responding against your will to his ministrations.

"That's it," he murmurs against your skin. "Let yourself feel it."

Tears stream down your face as waves of unwanted pleasure course through you. Your hips buck involuntarily against his hand, seeking more of the sensation.

Steven chuckles darkly. "So eager now," he taunts. "Are you ready for me, little bride?"

Before you can respond, he positions himself at your entrance. You feel the blunt pressure of him against you, and panic rises in your chest.

"Wait," you gasp. "Please, I'm not-"

But Steven doesn't wait. With one powerful thrust, he sheathes himself inside you. The pain is sharp and immediate, tearing a cry from your throat. Steven groans in pleasure, his massive frame pinning you to the bed.

"So tight," he growls, his breath hot against your ear. "You feel even better than I imagined."

Tears stream down your face as he begins to move, each thrust sending waves of pain through your body. You turn your head away, unable to look at him, but his hand grips your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"I told you to watch," he snarls. "I want to see the moment you break."

His pace increases, and you whimper with each brutal thrust. The pain begins to dull, replaced by a strange, burning sensation that spreads through your lower body. Your breath comes in short gasps, matching the rhythm of his movements.

You whimper beneath him, your body trembling with the shock of the intrusion. Steven's hand cups your face, his thumb wiping away a tear that has escaped down your cheek. The gesture is almost tender, a stark contrast to the brutality of his actions.

"Breathe," he commands softly. "The pain will pass."

You try to breathe more evenly, but it feels impossible as he maintains his brutal, relentless pace.

Your body feels torn between pain and an unfamiliar, building pleasure. You hate yourself for responding to his touch, for the way your hips begin to move in rhythm with his thrusts. Steven notices, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

"There it is," he growls, his pace quickening. "Your body knows what it wants, even as you continue to deny it."

His hand snakes between your bodies, finding a sensitive bundle of nerves above where you're joined. You cry out as he begins to circle it with his thumb, waves of sensation crashing over you.

"Let go," Steven commands, his voice husky with exertion. "Come for me, little bride."

Your body obeys even as your mind recoils. The pressure builds and builds until it finally shatters, your back arching as you cry out. Steven groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as he follows you over the edge, spilling himself deep inside you with a guttural moan.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is your mingled breathing. Steven's weight presses you into the mattress, his body slick with sweat. You lie there, trembling, tears streaming silently down your face as the reality of what just happened washes over you.

Steven lifts himself onto his elbows, looking down at you with an unreadable expression. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away your tears. "You did well, little bride," he murmurs, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

The tenderness in his touch and his voice confuses you, but the moment passes because his eyes darken once more as he gazes down at you. "The night is far from over," he murmurs, his voice husky with renewed desire.

He shifts his massive body, moving downward until his face is level with your breasts. His rough hands cup the soft flesh, kneading and squeezing with a possessive grip that makes you gasp. You feel his hot breath against your skin, sending involuntary shivers through your body.

Steven's mouth descends on your left breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple before he takes it between his lips. He sucks hard, drawing a whimper from your throat. His teeth graze the sensitive bud, sending jolts of sensation through your body.

He alternates between your breasts, sucking and biting with increasing intensity. What starts as pleasure soon edges into discomfort, then pain. Your nipples, sensitive and swollen from his attention, ache as he continues his ministrations. You squirm beneath him, trying to escape the overwhelming sensations, but his body pins you firmly to the bed.

"Please," you gasp, "it's too much."

Steven lifts his head, his eyes dark with lust. "Nothing is too much for you, little bride," he growls. "You'll take everything I give you and beg for more."

His mouth returns to your breast, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. You cry out, tears springing to your eyes yet again. The pain mingles with a confusing undercurrent of pleasure, your body betraying you once again.

Steven's hand slides down your body, fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs again. He begins to stroke in slow, deliberate circles, and you feel yourself responding despite your best efforts to resist. You’re shocked at how your dripping hole is aching again already. These sensations are foreign to you and frightening to experience at his hand.

Steven's fingers move with expert precision, building a slow, inexorable tension in your core. His mouth continues its assault on your breasts, alternating between gentle sucks and sharp nips that send jolts of sensation through your body. The dual stimulation overwhelms your senses, leaving you gasping and writhing beneath him.

His fingers quicken their pace, circling your sensitive bud with increasing pressure. The tension coils tighter and tighter, a spring wound to the breaking point. Your hips begin to move of their own accord, chasing the building pleasure despite your mind's desperate attempts to resist.

Steven's mouth moves to your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "That's it," he growls, his voice low and husky.

Your body trembles on the edge of release, every muscle taut with anticipation. Just as you feel yourself teetering on the edge of release, Steven suddenly withdraws his hand. You whimper at the loss, your body aching for completion. He lifts his head from your breast, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.

“I told you I would ruin you,” he murmurs, “and this is part of your ruining.”

Steven rolls onto his back, his massive frame sprawled across the bed. His eyes, dark with lust, lock onto yours as he beckons you with a crook of his finger. "Come here, little bride," he commands, his voice a low rumble. "I want to feel that pretty mouth on my cock again."

You hesitate, your body still trembling from the denied release. Steven's hand shoots out, gripping your hair and pulling you towards him. "I said, come here," he growls, his patience wearing thin.

Reluctantly, you crawl towards him, positioning yourself between his muscular thighs. His manhood lies semi-hard against his stomach, still glistening with the evidence of your earlier coupling. The sight and scent of it make your stomach churn with a mix of revulsion and unwanted arousal.

"Take me in your mouth," Steven orders, his hand still commanding the back of your head. “Show me what you’ve learned.”

Slowly, as if in a trance, you lower your trembling form towards his groin. You can't believe the turn of events that have brought you to this point – from a joyful bride to a conquered villager at the mercy of Steven and his ruthless warriors. The knowledge burns in your heart, but you force it down, focusing instead on surviving this nightmare.

As your lips touch the velvety head of his member, Steven emits a low groan of pleasure. His hand loosens its grip on your hair just enough to allow you some movement. Despite yourself, you remember the way he had thrust into your mouth earlier, how he had seemed to enjoy it when you'd used your tongue. Drawing on that brief flash of experience, you tentatively flick your tongue over his cock. The taste is overwhelming - a potent mixture of his earlier release, your own arousal, and the metallic tang of blood. It's a stark reminder of what's transpired, of your lost innocence.

Steven groans as you engulf him, his hips bucking slightly. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice husky with renewed desire. "Take it all in."

You struggle to accommodate his size, your jaw aching as you try to take more of him. His hand guides your movements, setting a steady rhythm as he uses your mouth. Your tongue teases across the sensitive underside of his shaft, encountering a vein that runs along its length, and you try to apply more pressure there. Steven groans in response, low and guttural, spurring you on.

"That's it, little bride," he grunts, the praise almost an animalistic growl. "Suck harder. Take more of me into that pretty mouth."

You struggle to obey, pushing yourself to take more of his length into your mouth. His hips begin to thrust upwards, forcing himself deeper. You choke and splutter around him, saliva dripping down your chin.

"Relax your throat," Steven commands, his voice strained with pleasure. "Breathe through your nose."

You try to follow his instructions, fighting against your gag reflex as he pushes deeper. Steven's hand tightens in your hair, guiding your movements more forcefully. "Look at me," he commands, his voice rough with desire.

You raise your eyes to meet his, your cheeks burning with shame as you continue to work your mouth over him. His gaze is dark and predatory, filled with a hunger that makes you shiver.

"Such a good little bride," he murmurs, his hips starting to thrust up to meet your mouth. "Taking my cock so well. But I think you can take more."

Without warning, he pushes your head down, forcing himself deeper into your throat. You gag and choke, face pushed flush to his pelvis. The taste and scent of him overwhelm your senses, throat struggling at his intrusion, and you feel lightheaded from the lack of air. Just when you think you can't take anymore, Steven pulls you off his cock with a wet pop.

Gasping for breath, you look up at him through tear-blurred eyes. His face is flushed with arousal, his eyes dark, but gleaming with… pride?

“You are such an exquisite, pliant thing,” he says. “It has been too long since I’ve been so well-pleased, so near insatiable.”

Your chest constricts at the praise. You did not want any of this nightmare, but his danger is novel and alluring, the unknown pleasures he’s exacting from your body, guiding you down paths you’ve never explored before - it’s all twisting your body and your very soul, seeping through your veins, a poison you can’t stop now that he’s pierced into you.

He sits up, frames your jaw in both of his calloused hands, and then lewdly licks one cheek and then the other, lapping at your tears. It’s not tender. He’s playing with his prey.

Steven's hands move to your shoulders, gripping them firmly. With a sudden, forceful movement, he flips you onto your stomach. You gasp at the abrupt change, your face pressed into the furs on the bed. His large hands grasp your hips, pulling them upwards as he pushes your upper body down, positioning you on your hands and knees before him.

"Spread your legs wider and present yourself to me," he commands, his voice husky with desire.

Trembling, you obey, pushing your knees out further, lowering your chest to the bed, and raising your hips higher. You feel completely exposed, a new kind of vulnerable in this position, and your cheeks burn with shame. The cool air of the room caresses your most intimate places, making you shiver.

Steven's large hands grip your hips, kneading the flesh of your buttocks, spreading them apart.

"Such a pretty sight," he murmurs.

His thumbs dig into the soft flesh of your buttocks as he spreads you open further. You tense, expecting the brutal intrusion of his manhood, but instead, you feel his beard brush against your most intimate flesh as he presses his mouth to your core. His tongue, hot and wet, slides up the cut of you, and you cry out in surprise. You had been told your husband would couple his manhood with your maidenhood. You had heard the lewd rumors of men using a woman’s mouth for his cock.

No one had ever whispered even a word that a man might put his own lips to your sex, and it’s an onslaught of pleasure you were in no way prepared to experience. The moan you let out is obscene and unrestrained, and you grasp helplessly at the blankets and furs beneath you.

Steven's tongue explores your folds with wicked precision, alternating between broad strokes and focused flicks against your most sensitive areas. Your body trembles uncontrollably, overwhelmed by the intense sensations. You try to stifle your moans, burying your face in the furs, but Steven's hand snakes up to grip your hair, yanking your head back.

"Let me hear you," he growls against your flesh. "I want to hear every sound you make."

His mouth returns to your core, his tongue delving deeper, tasting every inch of you. His beard scratches against your sensitive skin, adding another layer of sensation to the overwhelming pleasure. Your hips buck involuntarily, pressing back against his face as he continues his relentless assault. You feel his lips close around your sensitive bud, sucking hard, and a cry tears from your throat.

"That's it," Steven murmurs, his voice vibrating against your flesh. "Let go, little bride. Show me how well you enjoy being ruined by your new king.”

His words send a shiver through you, a mix of shame and unwanted arousal. Steven's tongue continues its relentless assault on your cunt, building a tension in your core that threatens to overwhelm you. Your body trembles, teetering on the edge of release.

His hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as you writhe against him. The tension within you builds to an unbearable level, and with a final, targeted flick of his tongue, you shatter.

A cry tears from your throat as the waves of ecstasy wash over you. He laps up your juices eagerly, groaning in satisfaction, before he pulls away.

You whimper at the loss, and he chuckles. “Worry not, there is yet more pleasure I will force upon you this night,” he promises.

Before you can catch your breath, you feel the blunt head of his manhood pressing against your entrance. Steven guides the tip of his cock up and down your slit, over your oversensitive bundle of nerves, and you shiver. But it is soon evident he is in no hurry at this next pursuit.

Steven continues to tease you with the head of his cock, running it along your sensitive folds. Up and down, up and down. Slow strokes, sometimes bumping against your clit, sometimes ignoring it, unpredictable in the pattern so you don’t know when the surge will come. Your body trembles, overstimulated and overwhelmed. Despite your mind's protests, your hips shift back, seeking more contact, even though you're still sore from his earlier intrusion.

His fingers dip into your core, pulling from the wetness dripping out of you, and then he swipes them over your tight rosebud, and you gasp. You know immediately what he intends to do next, though you could never have imagined such a thing, and you can not process any sort of reaction against it. Indeed, he presses the tip of one of his fingers against the tight muscle, then insistently pushes through, and your heart pounds in your chest with fear. The foreign feeling is shocking.

Shocking because it should not feel as good as it does.

You squeeze your eyes shut, tears of shame and frustration leaking from the corners.

He moves his finger in and out in only a very small motion - not fucking you with the finger, but pressing pleasure there in small, torturous amounts. He resumes the rutting of his cock against your folds, and you begin to openly weep, feeling wanton, confused, but moans accompany your sobs that you cannot hide from him.

He leans over you, his broad chest pressing against your back. His breath is hot against your ear as he speaks. "Eager for more, are we?" Steven chuckles darkly. "Beg for it, little bride. Beg for your king's cock."

You hesitate, torn between your body's desperate need for release and the last shreds of your dignity. Steven's free hand moves to circle around the front of your throat, possessive, threatening.

"Beg," he snarls.

The words stick in your throat, and Steven removes his finger from your tight hole and his hand comes down hard on your ass, the sharp sting making you gasp.

"I said beg," he growls, his voice low and dangerous.

"Please," you whimper, the word barely audible.

Another stinging slap lands on your other cheek. "Louder," Steven demands.

"Please!" you cry out, your voice breaking. "Please, I need... I need you.”

He slaps your ass again. “I want to hear you say it. Tell me exactly what you need."

You swallow hard. But you can’t deny betrayal of your body, aching for his touch, for the release only he can provide. "Please," you whisper, your voice trembling. "Please... fuck me. I need your cock inside me."

A growl of satisfaction rumbles through Steven's chest. "As you wish, little bride."

He shifts and begins thrusting his cock inside your cunt again.

Steven's cock enters you with a single, powerful thrust, filling you completely. The sensation is overwhelming, a mixture of pain and pleasure that leaves you gasping. He sets a relentless pace, each thrust driving deep into your core, your body rocking forward with the force of his movements.

His hands grip your hips tightly, fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave bruises. The room fills with the sounds of flesh meeting flesh, your breathless moans, and Steven's grunts of exertion. The musky scent of sweat and sex hangs heavy in the air.

"So tight," Steven growls, his voice strained with pleasure. "So perfect for your king, the perfect tribute."

You respond to his words, to his touch, clenching around him involuntarily. The friction of his cock against your walls sends waves of pleasure coursing through you, building a familiar tension in your core. He hits a particularly sensitive spot on the front of your walls that has you writhing in ecstasy, and he presses the head of his cock there over, and over. You're overwhelmed by the sensations, the fullness, the way he plays and experiments with your body, until you spasm, thrown over the edge into another orgasm.

Your body convulses as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you weak and trembling. Your limbs feel heavy, your muscles liquid, as if all the strength has been drained from your body. You struggle to stay on your hands and knees, your arms shaking with the effort of supporting your weight.

Steven senses your weakness, feeling the way your body has gone limp beneath him. With a growl of satisfaction, he pushes you down flat against the mattress. The furs are soft against your oversensitive skin, tickling your nipples and sending shivers through your body. You turn your head to the side, gasping for air, feeling utterly spent.

Before your breathing can return to anything close to normal, before you can prepare yourself, Steven’s rough hands are spreading your cheeks, and he rams his cock into your ass. The intrusion rips a tortured scream from your throat.

The pain is sharp and immediate as Steven forces his cock into your tightest opening. Your body instinctively tenses, trying to reject the intrusion, which only intensifies the burning sensation. More tears spring to your eyes as you gasp for breath, though you don’t know how you still have more tears to shed.

"Relax," Steven growls, his voice strained with effort and pleasure. "The more you fight it, the more it will hurt, and I’m not going to stop."

You try to force your body to relax, to accept him, but it's a struggle against your instincts. Steven's hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as he continues to move. Each thrust sends shockwaves of pain and an unfamiliar pleasure through your body.

"So tight," he groans, his pace increasing. "You feel incredible."

The friction is intense, unlike anything you've ever felt before. It's not quite pleasure, but it's no longer just pain. It burns, but the fire consumes your whole body. You feel stretched to your limit, filled completely by Steven's massive cock.

His hands roam over your body, rough and possessive, groping at your flesh. You bite your lip, trying to stifle your cries, but it's futile. Each thrust draws a whimper or moan from you, your body betraying your mind's resistance.

Steven's hand snakes around to the front of your body, his fingers finding your sensitive bud. He begins to stroke in time with his thrusts. The dual sensations of his thick cock stretching your ass and his skilled fingers on your clit create a maelstrom of sensation that threatens to overwhelm you completely.

You're only vaguely aware of the sounds escaping your throat - desperate, wanton moans that you scarcely recognize as your own. This may be the first night you lie with a man, but though you are inexperienced, you think it can not be possible to experience any more of the overwhelming pleasure he seems determined to rip from you yet again.

Your body trembles uncontrollably, caught between the pain of the intrusion and the impossible mounting of pleasure. Each thrust sends sparks of electricity coursing through your nerves, building the tension in your core. You've never experienced anything like this before - the intensity, the fullness, the way your body seems to betray you at every turn.

Steven's pace increases, his hips snapping against your ass with bruising force. His fingers match the rhythm, pressing harder, moving faster. You are hurled over another cliff of ecstasy, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps, body jerking futilely beneath his massive form. He pounds into you once, twice, thrice more, and on the fourth thrust, he shouts and stills, cock buried inside you, and groans as he empties his seed in your tightest channel.

Finally spent and satisfied, Steven collapses on top of you, his massive weight pressing you into the furs. You feel utterly crushed beneath him, struggling to draw breath, yet there's an undeniable warmth from his body enveloping yours that sneaks unwanted into your bones. His heart thunders against your back, matching the frantic pace of your own. The room is filled with the sound of your mingled panting as you both quest for normal breath.

The scent of sweat and sex hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the earthier smells of leather and furs. Your body thrums with residual pleasure, every nerve ending still singing from the intensity of your coupling. You feel utterly boneless, all strength drained from your limbs.

Slowly, your breathing begins to even out. You become acutely aware of every point of contact between your bodies - the rough hair on his chest against your back, the way his thighs press against the backs of your legs, his hot breath against your neck, and his lips too close to that tender and intimate space as only a beloved’s should be.

Finally, Steven rolls to the side and off of you, but you are not freed from him as he bands an arm around your waist, resettling you with him. He curls around you, and you resign yourself to being held captive, bound by his thick, corded muscles yet a while longer - possibly until the morning.

Just as you are about to drop off into sleep, he speaks directly into your ear. “I have claimed all of your holes, little bride. You will always know that I had every bit of you first, leaving him nothing.” The words are cruel, wicked, and his voice low and far too intimate.

You take a shaky breath in, and out, and beg for sleep to take you so you do not have to think of how his words haunt you now and will haunt you forever.

In the morning, your body still feels spent beyond its limits, aching, but as you shift and stir, you discover the bed is empty.

Your heart accelerates at this discovery.

Then plummets the next moment as the cruel conqueror speaks breaks the silence. “Get up and get dressed,” he commands from where he’s perched on the windowsill, watching the first light of morning appear.

Your eyes dart around the room, drawn to the scraps of your wedding clothes. “I’ve no clothes to-”

“On the chair over there,” he interrupts and gestures to a pile of clothing and shoes that have been brought in.

You slip out of the bed, trying to ignore thoughts of whether or not he watches you - he has already seen your naked form, so what does it matter?

There is a well-made linen chemise with a fine, blue linen dress to go over it. You hastily slip on the chemise, but as you reach for the dress, you hesitate. The detailing is finer than anything made in your village. This came from him.

“Shall I assist you?” Steven asks, making you jump as he’s silently crossed the room to stand directly behind you.

“No, I can dress myself,” you answer, but it falls on unhearing ears, as he’s already reaching past you for the garment.

He assists in pulling the dress over your head, and his hands roughly tug at the ties of your dress. Then he turns you to face him, and his eyes bore into yours with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine.

"I've decided your husband will truly be left with nothing," he declares harshly. “After last night, I cannot abide him having you as his bride when clearly you should be mine. His father - the magnate - with the rest of the elders have accepted my bargain to take my men, leave your village, and never return on condition they surrender you to me as tribute.”

You cannot speak, the shock of Steven's words rendering you mute. Your mind reels, trying to process the implications of what he's just said. The village elders, including your own father-in-law, have agreed to trade you away like chattel to save themselves. The betrayal cuts deep, leaving you feeling hollow and abandoned, and yet you know it was likely a choice of little difficulty when weighing the safety of the village.

Steven cups your cheek again in that way that pretends a tenderness that is not there, and kisses you roughly. His lips are demanding, forceful, claiming you once more. The taste of him is now too familiar. His beard scratches against your skin, a sharp contrast to the softness of his lips.

His tongue pushes past your lips, exploring your mouth with a possessive fervor. Your body responds traitorously, a warmth blooming in your core despite everything, and you tangle a hand in his long hair.

Steven breaks the kiss, leaving you breathless and conflicted. His eyes roam over your face, taking in every detail as if committing it to memory.

"You are not why I came to these shores, but you are mine now," he says, his voice low and possessive. "My little bride, my tribute, my prize."

His words send a shiver down your spine - fear, anticipation, and something else you can't quite name. You know you should be horrified, should be fighting against this fate with every fiber of your being. But after the night you've shared, after experiencing all-consuming pleasures you never knew existed, a part of you - a part you're ashamed to acknowledge - is drawn to the thought of belonging to this powerful, dangerous conqueror.

Steven's hand moves to grip the back of your neck, holding you in place as he speaks. "We sail with the morning tide and leave within the hour. My men are already loading the ship with supplies - food, weapons, gold. And you, my little bride, are the most valuable cargo of all."

Your breath catches in your throat at his words. The reality of your situation crashes over you anew - you're leaving behind everything you've ever known, everyone you've ever loved. Your family, your friends, the life you were meant to have - all of it gone in the span of a single day and night.

"Please," you whisper, your voice trembling. "Let me say goodbye to my family, to-"

"No," Steven cuts you off, his voice firm. "There will be no goodbyes. We leave now. I am your husband, your family. My lands will be your lands, and you will learn to forget. Perhaps all the sooner as you learn to crave the pleasures only I can give and ultimately grow with my child in your womb. Mine completely.”

so... if any of you are still alive, screech for help. I won't be able to help, because I have perished from writing this, but someone else might be able to assist you.

SEQUEL: CEREMONIAL RITUALS

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

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[vhaenaera]

Queen Vhaena Targaryen

Vhaena Targaryen, the only daughter of Queen Visenya and King Aegon the Conqueror, was born just a year after Queen Rhaenys’ death. Inheriting her mother’s stern features—the sharp cheekbones, silver-gold hair, and piercing violet eyes—she bore little resemblance to her aunt, Queen Rhaenys, yet it was her temperament that most recalled the late sister-queen. Where Visenya was cold and unyielding, Vhaena was warm and wistful, her mind often adrift in fancies. Unlike her mother, who wielded Dark Sister and commanded armies, Vhaena was a creature of gentler pursuits, preferring poetry, needlework, and song. Yet there was another gift—one far rarer, and more troubling—that set her apart: the sight.

Vhaena was among the first Targaryens in settled Westeros known to possess the power of prophetic Dragon-Dreaming, a gift both feared and misunderstood. It was said she spoke in riddles and saw things no one else could, glimpses of futures yet to come and pasts long forgotten. Though some in court dismissed her mutterings as the prattle of an idle woman, others whispered of madness. None were louder in their condemnation than Tyanna of the Tower, who openly derided the queen’s visions and worked to ostracise her from court. Maegor’s other wives paid her little mind, preoccupied with their own suffering in the Black Bridegroom’s grip.

Her frailty only worsened her standing. An ailment unknown among the Targaryens before her birth plagued her from youth; her skin was pale, her body thin, and oft she grew weak and lightheaded, forced to retreat to her chambers. Some maesters sought to cure her with leechings and tinctures, but none could explain the bloodless pallor of her face or why, at times, she struggled even to mount her dragon. Whatever the cause, it left her at the uncommon mercy of Maegor, who tolerated her presence but offered no great affection in public; behind closed doors however, he assured her comfort.

At court, she was often a silent, spectral figure, her body present but her mind far away. When Maegor grew impatient with her distant stares, he would recall her to the moment with a hard squeeze upon her wrist. She flinched, but never spoke against him. Yet one thing she would not abide was the presence of Tyanna. Whenever the Pentoshi witch was seated at the council table or among Maegor’s wives, Vhaena would press herself as far away as she could, her hands turning the rings upon her fingers, her gaze averted. The sight of Tyanna made her shudder, and it was said that in her presence, the Queen’s blood pounded in her ears like a war drum.

Few sought her company. When Maegor’s other brides or the ladies of the court attempted to speak with her, they found themselves unnerved by her ways. She answered questions with riddles or fell into silence altogether, too absorbed in her embroidery to respond. In her solitude, she stitched dragons, flames, and winged figures upon cloth—symbols whose meaning only she seemed to understand.

Some cuter facts about her, is that she has a love for butterflies. Oft does she leave her windows open so they can flutter in and enjoy the floral arrangements within the princess’s chambers. One time, Maegor had visited her under good will. He found his sister at her balcony with the delicate insect perched upon her pale finger. He fed his curiosity about her fascination, asking her why she bothers with such weak, fragile bugs. In response, Vhaena responded with a smile and proclaimed that they spoke to her. The butterflies batted their wings ever so softly to communicate, the words translated by the wind into a soft breeze in which she can understand. Maegor just scoffed and decided to quell any protest that lingered on his tongue.

Vhaena also struggled to share a bed with anyone, as nightmares plagued her youth so she took to hiding within another’s bed for comfort. The peaceful moments never lasted long, as she often sought out warmth in her sleep and in turn woke anyone who she touched with her icy hands or feet. So rules were set for her to don stockings and gloves before sharing a bed.

She would hate sherpa.

[aphroditelovesu]

Enemies to Lovers

❝ 📜 — lady l: Everyone loves an enemies to lovers, right? 😉 And so begins the 7k special! I'm really excited about it and, until it's over, I'll focus as much as possible on this special but, don't worry, I haven't forgotten about the other works. And this is soo long lol. I hope you like it and forgive me for any mistakes! ❤️

❝tw: yandere behavior, mention of death, conquered city (massacre, slavery), "captivity", implicit dub-con, suggestive themes.

❝📜pairing: yandere!alexander the great x female!reader.

❝word count: 3,289.

— 7k special masterlist.

— tagging: @fangirlmusicbiashoe.

Your city fell shamefully quickly to the merciless advance of the Macedonian conquerors. The walls, once a symbol of security and pride, proved fragile in the face of the ingenious siege engines and the savage determination of the attackers. Within days, the siege was broken. The gates were broken down. And the soldiers, like a tide of steel and fury, invaded the streets.

The massacre was brutal. There was no mercy. Men were torn from their homes and executed right there, in front of their families. Screams of agony echoed through the alleys, mixed with the metallic sound of swords and the crackling of flames that devoured temples, houses and markets. Women, even the noble ones, were captured, tied up like cattle, branded as property. Children, torn from their mothers' arms, met the same fate: slavery.

The city, once alive, full of music, aromas and smiles, was now nothing more than a blackened ruin. Ashes in the air. The streets were covered in blood. The smell of burning flesh, ash and destruction permeated everything.

The "royal family" — your family — also paid the price for their resistance. Although your parents had received what the conqueror dared to call a "pardon," there was no real redemption in it. It was an empty pardon, cruel in its irony. There was no throne left, no city to rule, no subjects to protect. The riches had been plundered, the royal halls reduced to rubble, and the dynastic pride destroyed as easily as stepping on an insect.

Only the shadow of what had been remained. Only destruction.

And you... You were destined for an even crueler fate. You were given to Alexander as a gift, as a living symbol of victory, a spoil of war offered by one of the generals thirsting for recognition. A piece of humiliation, a constant reminder of the conquered city and the vanquished royalty.

At first, Alexander barely noticed you. You were just another figure among many — silent, broken, insignificant in the eyes of a man accustomed to taking empires into his own hands. He didn't seek you out, didn't speak to you, didn't even look in your direction. And for that, you were grateful. The last thing you wanted was to face the man who had destroyed your world, who had torn your life apart by the roots.

But, over time, something changed.

During the long campaigns, on the cold nights of marching and the suffocating days of endless battles, Alexander began to observe you. Not in a vulgar or immediate way, but with that calculating and indecipherable gaze he cast on everything he deemed to have some value.

It was subtle at first — a question here, a lingering glance there. You noticed. You felt the weight of attention growing like a veiled threat, like the harbinger of a storm that had not yet begun but that you knew was coming.

Over time, you began to be summoned more frequently to Alexander's tent. At first, they were rare audiences, justified by formalities — a word exchanged about the land he now claimed to rule, a vague comment about culture, history, language. But soon they became regular, almost ritualistic encounters, and it did not go unnoticed among the generals, servants, and soldiers. Whispers spread like smoke between the tents of the camp, speculating about what was passing between the great king and the concubine.

But Alexander would not touch you.

He never tried to kiss you, never reached out beyond the limits of conversation. His words were measured, sometimes even gentle, as if he were trying to get something out of you that wasn't hate. Maybe respect. Maybe understanding. Maybe something he couldn't name. But you didn't give him what he was looking for.

You were polite — enough to keep your head on your shoulders. But your voice was cold. Harsh. Anger burned in every word, even when it was masked by a veil of politeness. Because you hated him. And that hatred was the only thing that still gave you strength.

You hated looking at that man, hated every moment his face appeared before you. Because Alexander's face was the face of tragedy. It was the face behind the orders that had turned your city to ash, that had condemned innocents to slavery as if they were bargaining chips. The face that had led men like a storm, and left behind only silence and death.

"It's the way of war," you heard it often, from soldiers, from advisors, even from Alexander. But that didn't make the pain any less real. It didn't make anything right.

You clung to your hatred like a shipwrecked man to a lifeline. And deep down, you prayed — if there was any faith left in you — that Darius, the king of the Persians, would defeat Alexander. That he would crush him with the same fury with which your city had been crushed. That he would show this barbarian conqueror the taste of his own medicine: defeat, despair and ruin.

And maybe, deep down, you longed to see the look in his eyes then — so that he, too, would know what it was like to lose everything, just as you had.

"I don't want you to be afraid of me."

Alexander's voice broke the silence of the night like a lover's whisper — low, full of unspoken promise, but fraught with something darker. He sat before you, another of the long nights when he demanded your presence in his tent. It was almost a ritual now. You were summoned, escorted by guards through the war camp, and left there, alone with him. There was never any touching, no lewd, degrading orders. Just conversation — simple, but always steeped in a melancholy that seemed to poison the air around him.

You folded your hands in your lap to keep from impulsively frowning. You bit your tongue to stop yourself from saying something that could cost you more than your already wounded pride. Ever since your city fell, ever since members of your family were killed in front of the people and you were declared part of the spoils of war— a prize — your life had been all about swallowing words and feelings.

"Your temper will destroy you one day, my sweet child." Your mother had said this so many times, always with affection, but now those words echoed like a curse. She might still be alive, but she was far from you. Just like everything else, your family had been taken from you.

Alexander watched you with eyes that had seen dozens of battles and thousands of deaths. Different colored eyes, the right one blue and the left one brown, cold but not always cruel. There was something broken in them — or maybe just very old.

He held out a cup of wine, the gesture calm, almost casual. You hesitated, then took it. When your fingers brushed his for a brief second, you felt it. A shiver, almost imperceptible, ran through his body. Like a subtle shock. Too quick to be faked.

Curious.

You looked up, defying his gaze with the same haughtiness you had when you were still the royalty of a free city. Your people might have been crushed, but you were still made of iron inside.

"I'm not afraid of you."

The words were out before you could stop them. They were sharp, reckless, and yet... True. In part, at least. You hated him. Hated everything he stood for. But fear? No. It wasn't fear he inspired in you. It was something more complex. More dangerous.

A faint smile appeared on his lips, momentarily distorting that face carved by war and pain. A smile that seemed genuine, yet tired. Marked by invisible scars.

"Good."

You decided that you would seduce Alexander.

The decision did not come out of nowhere, much less was it born of frivolous impulses. It was cultivated, word for word, perhaps a blatant manipulation of your servant, the only one you had after the destruction of your city, one of the few women who had not been sold into slavery because she already belonged to you.

It was a warm night when your servant told you about it, while brushing your hair with slow, almost reverent movements.

"It will be beneficial, my lady." Her voice was low and submissive, laced with care, but it held a firmness that was hard to ignore. "If you become his mistress, you will have more influence than any of his generals. You will be able to ask and desire whatever you want."

You huffed, trying to push the suggestion away like an uncomfortable smoke. But it hung thickly. Uncomfortable.

"I don't want anything from that man." Your answer came out harsher than necessary, laden with the bitterness that filled her days. "I will never love him."

She smiled, that enigmatic smile of someone who has lived too much and seen too many women trade innocence for survival. She leaned in slightly, her firm fingers holding your chin, forcing you to look at her.

"And who spoke of love, my lady?" The question hung between you, like an obscene revelation.

You held her gaze. Your servant's green eyes were clear and calm, but they held secrets you would never dare ask. There was a silent wisdom there, built on the fringes of male power, where women shaped empires without ever wielding swords or shouting orders from atop a horse.

You never thought of becoming someone's mistress. Your parents raised you with virtue, with rules that now seemed to belong to an extinct world. You grew up believing that you would only give yourself to your future husband, in a political union sealed with honor and, if you were lucky, love.

But the future was burned in the squares of your city. The present was made of ashes and painful choices.

And maybe... Maybe winning Alexander's heart — or at least his desire — was the only weapon you had left.

"Teach me what I need to know." Your voice was soft, but filled with something new. Determination. Hunger for control.

Your servant smiled, this time with pride. A wide smile, like someone who had just placed the first piece in a dangerous game.

"With pleasure, my lady."

Your servant stopped combing your hair, putting the brush aside and picking up some of the jewelry you still had. There were few, few treasures you had managed to save.

"Beauty is a weapon, my lady. And you must learn to use it."

Your servant's voice was a sweet, submissive whisper, as sharp as the knives hidden under women's cloaks for centuries.

She fastened the gold bracelet around your wrist with deft fingers, the metal glinting in the soft torchlight. It was an antique piece of jewelry that had belonged to one of your aunts — a woman known as much for her elegance as for her ability to win men over with a smile. You missed her.

You watched her silently, feeling the weight of her words. This wasn't just a piece of jewelry. It was armor. A statement.

"I've heard that Alexander is a curious man," She continued, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with measured care, "and that he likes rare and beautiful things."

Your eyes met hers again. The flame of the candle glowed between you, reflecting two women at war: one training to survive, the other training to conquer.

Rare. Beautiful. Curious.

Words that had once seemed vain now sounded like strategies. You knew that Alexander was a man of vast ambitions, a collector of cities, victories, treasures and foreign philosophies. Perhaps, then, he also wanted a woman who was not only submissive, but intriguing. Who knew how to dance the fine line between desire and challenge.

"Do you think I can seduce him?" You asked, not out of doubt, but calculation. You needed to hear the words out loud to shape your plan.

"I think nothing of it," Your servant replied, her eyes shining with conviction. "I know you can, my lady."

Alexander was an easy man to please.

Despite his achievements and his status as the son of Zeus, he was, at heart, a soldier. He slept in tents even when he had palaces at his disposal. He ate what his men ate. He had grown up under harsh discipline, molded by a Spartan education that taught him that glory was more valuable than gold, and that the blade of a sword was worth more than any jewel.

But men like that... They always made room for a desire they could not control.

And you — you would become his most precious possession.

Not out of affection. Never for that. You hated him with every fiber of your being. You hated the sound of his name, you hated the way his men spoke of him as if he were a god. You hated the way he looked at you sometimes, with something that seemed like regret... Or pity.

But now, you understood. Survival was more urgent than pride. More cruel, more insatiable.

As painful as it was to admit.

You were beautiful. You knew it. It was a beauty that no one could take from you, not even war. Not even him. The silk of your dress glided against your skin, molding your body elegantly. A few carefully chosen jewels sparkled discreetly, drawing the eyes where you wanted them to look. Your hair fell like a curtain over your shoulders. You didn’t need to be adorned like a queen — you just had to look unattainable like one.

You waited for his servant to come and call you.

As he did every night. It was a habit now — a silent routine where you just talked. Warm words, exchanged under the light of the flame. Sometimes he spoke of battles, of his mother, of Aristotle. Other times, he just listened to your voice as if it were the only living thing in that blood-stained world.

But not today.

When one of his servants called you, you stood up with a soft sigh, trying to control the subtle tremor that threatened your hands. You looked at your servant, who returned your gaze with a proud gleam in her eyes — a mix of complicity and expectation. She adjusted a last loose strand of your hair and whispered, as a reminder:

"Remember... You are the prize, not the gift."

You nodded slightly and, with what remained of your dignity dressed in silk and silence, made your way to his tent.

The interior was warm with the light of the flames and the smell of wine and leather. Alexander was reclining on cushions, a half-read parchment beside him, his boots still on his feet. When his eyes met yours, something subtly changed in his expression. He blinked once, surprised — not by your face, which he knew so well, but by how it revealed itself that night. His gaze lingered on your bare shoulders, on your arms delicately exposed, on the curve of your neck wrapped only by a thin chain.

It was a surprise for him. And, to your silent shame, it was pleasant for you. A bitter wave of pride ran down your spine. Pride that you could still control something — even if it was only the desire of a man you hated.

But along with pride came disgust.

The disgust of knowing he was exactly where you wanted him: attentive, vulnerable to what he couldn't possess by force.

"Is there some special occasion I’m not aware of?" He asked, a smile tugging at his lips as he held out a cup of wine to you. His voice sounded carefree, but there was too much tension in his shoulders to be natural.

You accepted the cup with a polite smile, your fingertips lightly brushing his — on purpose, this time.

"None," You replied, your voice velvety, low, almost casual. You lifted the glass to your lips, savoring the wine before continuing, "I just thought... I should dress up to see you."

The answer fell between you like a spell.

You watched him take a deep breath. A single, heavy sigh that said more than any words could. Like he was fighting something — an impulse, a thought, a desire. His eyes traced you with more intent now, but they were still hesitant, as if he didn't want to break the strange bond you had built. The conversations. The nights of words and safe distance.

But you knew: that security was over. Because today, he wasn't facing the prisoner. Or the "princess". He was facing you, a version of yourself that you didn't even know existed.

You walked elegantly through the tent, your feet almost silent against the thick carpets. You pretended to observe the environment as if it were the first time, even though you already knew every corner, every carefully arranged object. Alexander followed your movements with his eyes, his body still still, but attentive, like a predator that doesn't know if it's hunting or being hunted.

You approached the table where he had left the parchment and ran your fingers delicately over the surface, distracted, as if you didn't notice his gaze burning your skin. Then, you turned slowly, the fabric of your dress sliding over the curves of your body, and sat down — not in your usual place, but closer.

"You look tired, Alexander." Your voice was soft, almost gentle, but filled with intent. "The battles are taking a lot out of you."

"It's the price of victory." He replied, with a hint of irony, still studying your face.

"And who takes care of the king when he returns from the field?" You asked, leaning in slightly, your neckline parting subtly with the movement. "Who helps him forget his scars, even for a night?"

The silence that followed was thick as velvet. Alexander didn't answer right away. His eyes had darkened a little, and the muscle in his jaw twitched. He raised the cup of wine to his lips, but didn't drink. He just watched you.

You knew what you were doing — and so did he. But this was part of the game. And he wanted to see how far you would go.

With a delicate gesture, you removed the necklace from your neck, as if you were relieving a weight. Then, you leaned over once more and placed your hand on his leg — nothing vulgar, just the minimal, calculated touch of a woman who knew the value of her own body. Exactly as your servant had taught you.

"If you want me tonight..." You said, without trembling, even though everything inside you was at war. "I will be yours."

He remained still for a moment, as if the world had stopped spinning. Then, he spoke, his voice lower and hoarser than usual, "Are you sure about this?"

You held his gaze. Didn't blink. Didn't run away. As much as you wanted to.

"I am certain that I want to survive. And that I want to be able to, Alexander. Like all the beautiful things you collect… I can be useful too."

Something changed in his gaze. It wasn't just desire. It was admiration, or perhaps respect — for your boldness, for your coldness. Perhaps for the courage to use the only weapon the conqueror could not yet control: yourself.

He raised his hand, hesitantly, and touched your face. His fingers warm against your skin. You didn't flinch.

"Then come." He said, almost in a whisper.

You closed the distance between you, your bodies close together, and when he kissed you for the first time, you just let him guide you, undress you, and possess you.

You still hated him and knew you always would, but now... You gave yourself over to the pleasure, to the power and influence you could gain over him.

Your survival was greater than the hatred you felt at the moment.

[branwinged]

harrenhal, king's landing, and volantis are all metaphors for the same thing, that the structural injustices which led to the creation and maintenance of these places will eventually result in their collapse. harrenhal is a symbol of the worst of feudalism, i say 'worst' because the books do romanticise certain aspects of it, oathkeeping as fidelity is clearly intended to be beautiful and moving in brienne's storyline and "the north remembers" but what harren the black did was exploit the riverlands and the iron islands and employ slaves in its construction, thousands dead for one man's monument to power and dominion over others. it was a castle built on fear, not fealty. in a non magical sense, the curse of harrenhal is hubris. it was intended to be the height of feudual power because it was virtually impregnable - impervious to 'normal' medieval warfare, but ended up being destroyed by yet another king, this time in possession of a more fantastical means of power - dragonfire (the hubris theme is strong in the main series, the castle is awarded to scheming, ambitious, and amoral political players who either engineer their own downfall or are eventually pushed off the board by someone who can scheme better them).

but the thing that interests me is that the burning of harrenhal also positions the targaryens as capable of status quo upsetting, radical change. they can disrupt existing power structures because what are walls in front of a dragon? dragons fly. the visionary bit here is the unification of the realm, which is definitely framed as an admirable thing by the narrative because of the upcoming threat of the long night—what aegon invades westeros for. i don't think the targaryens are, like, evil for being conqueror kings, that's a disingenuous reading, but i do think this is a somewhat corrupt idea of 'unification' as it is primarily focused on the dynastic interests of this one family. because the other thing he did was make the iron throne, something that's currently the biggest obstacle to the possibility of the realm uniting in the face of a common enemy. it's significant that a fight over the throne is what kills their dragons, that's a very blunt way of saying that the the iron throne is what ultimately smothers their ability to enact any wider social change, by the end they weren't any different from the other houses. so king's landing is no longer a symbol of targaryen rule, both their dragons and their dynasty died there and any vision of radical change that they began the conquest with was consumed by the iron throne. kl as a whole is symbolic of the game of thrones, the city's geography is modeled after the iron throne with the king within the red keep on top of aegon's hill and the smallfolk left to rot at the bottom. and the inheritors of 'the game' are the lannisters, the ones who swindled the city and the throne from the targaryens. tywin continues aerys's legacy of violence, aerys would burn a city out of 'madness', tywin would do it out of pragmatism ("Lord Tywin would not have bothered with a search. He would have burned that town and every living creature in it"), so it makes sense for tywin's philosophy, that of exploitative and dehumanising violence in the pursuit of power, to be the cause of its destruction. several posts have been made about why joncon and cersei are the ones haunted by the memory of tywin's crimes with reasons to want to emulate him, so i'm not going there, but i feel it's also really important for king's landing to go out because of purposeful grasping over the iron throne and without any dragonfire (even accidental) involved. king's landing is doomed in a very apocalyptic sense because 'the game' is unsustainable. nothing new will come out of the city's destruction and dany's use of fire is always transformative, she creates life out of death. wildfire only destroys.

the city dany will bring fire and blood to is volantis, not king's landing. volantis is the final remnant of the freehold's imperial legacy. a society built on systemic evil, on the backs of slaves cannot go on. the cyclical story here is obviously that of the dragons being redefined and redeemed as symbols of liberation after they historically helped the freehold perpetuate the evil of imperial expansion and slavery. i think the error lies in assuming dany has a personal connection to king's landing but she really doesn't. it used to be their seat and then the targaryens doomed themselves in westeros because of the iron throne. dany is not here to repeat those same mistakes. where she must go instead, is harrenhal. aegon burned it on the first day of his conquest, a conquest he began because of the prophecy of the prince that was promised. the castle is left in a half ruined state so it's not allowed to, like, die. the targaryens kept returning there and got involved in events that altered course of their rule forever - the council of 101 which led to the dying of the dragons and the tourney at harrenhal that led to their line almost ending. i think the narrative 'curse' at its heart is that the castle is the site of unfinished business. it was a result of excessive feudal violence and the conquest was supposed to lead to a different, better model of governance, i do think the targaryens came close to achieving that at certain points in their history because it was a reign of both splendour and horror, but they also ended up being responsible for the perpetuation of that very feudal violence in king's landing. as the last targaryen, dany's destiny lies in unifying and protecting the realm during the long night, this is what they survived the doom for. and i think to do that she has to go to this castle that's a place of both narrative beginnings and endings but also in stasis, and finish what her ancestors began—what aegon and rhaegar wished to achieve at harrenhal but couldn't, one too motivated by conquest and the other by prophecy. because only then will the curse break and the song end.

[nrilliree]

Aegon wears the crown of Aegon I. Maegor the Cruel was the last person to wear the conqueror's crown. Maegor, who murdered his nephew, the rightful heir to the throne, and usurped the throne for himself. He died a tragic death, leaving no heirs, and his line became extinct. The crown is too big, too heavy and doesn't fit his head. The crown doesn't fit him well, it's not for him.

Rhaenyra wears Jaeherys' crown. The last person to wear this crown was Rhaenyra's father, the king chosen by Jaeherys as his heir, Jaeherys who defeated the usurper and did not wear the crown worn by him, but created his own, which was to be a symbol of the return of the rightful line of succession to the throne. The crown fits perfectly on Rhaenyra's head.

[no1onepiecefan]

zoro unlocking conquerors/supreme king haki while having a flashback about luffy, explaining him as the reason he did so, was insane narratively.

zoro’s devotion is as unquestioned as humans’ need for oxygen, his loyalty is as sure as the need for ground beneath our feet. but to place luffy at the center of even his willpower and ambition, that’s something.

supreme king haki is an unteachable, one in a million power that’s tied with having ‘kingly’ qualities. but zoro doesn’t want to be a leader, he relishes in following. he states, with a picture of luffy in his mind, luffy commenting that he needs no less than the world’s greatest swordsman, that he made a promise. his promise to kuina and luffy is at foundation of his drive.

zoro’s supreme king haki does not stem from the ambition of a king, it comes from wanting to be his king’s very best soldier. he wants to be the greatest, and he wants to be no less than that for luffy. a king, sure, but in the way that a king would answer to a god.

when asked “so you intend to be a king, then?” zoro’s initial instinct was simple, “what?” because that had never even crossed his mind. but he agrees shortly after, with the image of luffy in his mind, “that’s right.” and he became the king of hell, serving a god of the sun.

zoro doesn’t have ambition to conquer, not in the same way luffy does, but he wants to conquer whatever stands in luffy’s way. his ‘kingly’ attributes are accelerated by devotion, like a king would devote his life to his country, his everything. while becoming the world’s greatest swordsman is a convoluted example of a king, sitting atop a throne of symbolic power, i think it’s more accurate to call what zoro unlocked ‘supreme soldier’ haki. ‘conquerors’ haki in the way a marshal would lead an army for his king, and not the king himself. conquering the battlefield as a victory for not only himself, his ambition interconnected with others (those he loves).

i don’t mean to diminish zoro’s ambition, to be the world’s greatest swordsman is a king in itself and that should be recognised. but nothing can detract from the fact that as he unlocked this power, the power of ultimate will, his mind was full of luffy and his smiling face. luffy has always and will always be at the base of zoro’s goal, since the day he met him. becoming the world’s greatest swordsman was no longer solely tied to kuina but now equally his captain, who could have no less than the world’s greatest swordsman.

and what an interesting development we saw happen in front of us. comparatively, the reason for every strawhat’s dream is born from their past, but we witnessed the reason behind zoro’s dream evolve in present time. he no longer strives for kuina alone. he will be a king, because it is what luffy needs as well. he will be the world’s greatest swordsman because he’s got a promise to keep to his captain and his best friend.

a one in a million power, unlocked as a result of a promise. zoro’s devotion is indescribable, his loyalty and his love is quite literally one in a million. if not even rarer as we have never seen an instance of supreme king be activated for someone else. i cannot articulate the beauty of it

[book-daenerys]

GEORGE R. R. MARTIN’S STATEMENTS AND HOUSE OF THE DRAGON INDICATING THAT DAENERYS TARGARYEN IS THE PROPHESIED HERO OF A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE

George R. R. Martin: *associates Daenerys with the founder of the Targaryen dynasty who intended to unite Westeros in preparation for the War for the Dawn - she’s literally called “Aegon the Conqueror with teats”*

*has Daenerys dream about burning white walkers with dragonfire* 

*makes it clear that Daenerys is Azor Ahai/Princess That Was Promised* (“Azor Ahai shall […] wake dragons out of stone”/“No one ever looked for a girl. […] Daenerys is the one. […] The dragons prove it.”)

*confirms that Daenerys and her dragons are the Fire - which, according to his own description, symbolizes “love”, “passion” and “sexual ardor” in contrast to Ice representing “betrayal”, “revenge” and “cold inhumanity” - of A Song of Ice and Fire*

House of the Dragon (note that GRRM had more influence on that show than on Game of Thrones): *plays a song called “The Prince That Was Promised” - which was inspired by Daenerys’ theme songs - during the reveal of Aegon I’s prophetic dream (which came from GRRM himself)*

*has Aegon I name his dream ‘the song of ice and fire’ - which, as the GRRM himself already confirmed, refers to the Others and Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons*

*reveals that Aegon I’s dream (aka the song of ice and fire) is about a Targaryen king or queen - most likely Daenerys Targaryen - uniting humanity against the Others*

*has Daemon see the red comet (aka the herald of Azor Ahai) before it cuts to Daenerys (aka Aegon the Conqueror with teats, Azor Ahai Returned/Prince That Was Promised, the Fire of ASOIAF) and her dragons (aka Lightbringer) in his prophetic dream*

[novaursa]

https://www.tumblr.com/novaursa/763433066909810688/hello-dear-how-are-you-i-hope-im-not-bothering?source=share

Thank you for your answer. I would like to send a request for Maegor. I hope he has no problem. Dark Maegor Targaryen and second wife reader. (Reader can be Tyrell or Dayne. Or nobel lady from another house.) When Maegor starts looking for a woman to have an heir (37 Ac/earlier than the year he started in the original story) he meets the reader. When he gets , he is determined to make the reader his wife. He gets rid of Ceryse (maybe by poison or by accident) and marries the reader. The reader immediately becomes pregnant and gives birth to three babies. This causes Maegor's obsession to increase. Because the reader gave him three babies like the three-headed dragon in the symbol of his house. The reader is fertile enough to get pregnant every year.

Crimson Fate

- Summary: Maegor takes you as his bride after Ceryse fails to give him an heir.

- Pairing: dayne!reader/dark!Maegor I Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

Maegor’s eyes settle on you the moment he arrives at Starfall, and from that moment, there is no mistaking his intentions. You hear the whispers from the courtiers, the rumors of Maegor’s insatiable ambition to secure an heir, to further his line and strength. His first wife, Ceryse, has yet to bear him a child, and many speculate he has come south seeking a new wife—one capable of giving him what the Hightower woman could not.

The first time Maegor speaks to you, his presence is overwhelming. His tall, imposing figure clad in black and crimson, his eyes burning with something far more dangerous than mere desire. It is as if he has already decided your fate without consulting you, as though the idea of refusal is inconceivable.

“You are Dayne,” he says, his voice low and commanding, the words wrapping around you like chains. “From the blood of the stars.”

Your throat tightens, a shiver of unease sliding down your spine. You manage a nod, keeping your gaze lowered, though you feel the weight of his stare, lingering on you like a predator studying its prey.

“Tell me,” Maegor continues, stepping closer, “how many sons does your house expect from you?”

There is no answer you can give that will change your fate. In that moment, Maegor has already chosen you to bear his heirs, to fulfill the destiny of House Targaryen. You are no longer a daughter of the stars, but a piece in his game.

Weeks later, news comes from Oldtown—Ceryse has died. There are whispers, dark ones, that she and Maegor had quarreled, that the fight escalated, and her death, though unexplained, was no accident. The dread among the court is palpable, as many know Maegor is quick to wrath, but none dare speak it aloud in his presence. The timing is too convenient to be coincidental. Ceryse's death clears the way for what Maegor desires.

You know what is coming, yet you are powerless to stop it. When Maegor asks for your hand in marriage, there is no question of refusal. He does not ask out of love, nor does he seek your opinion. It is a demand cloaked in formality. And so, you are wed to the King’s half-brother, the man who would soon rule with fire and blood.

Your wedding is a display of power, of domination. Maegor does not look at you as a man looks at his bride, but as a conqueror looks at new territory. That night, you feel the true weight of what it means to be his wife. His touch is possessive, harsh, as if he is claiming you in both body and spirit. You are not just a woman to him—you are a vessel, the key to his legacy, the bearer of his children.

And soon, that is exactly what you become.

Your belly swells with the evidence of Maegor’s claim, and the court watches in awe as the rumors begin to swirl. You are carrying not one, but three babes. It is as if the gods themselves have blessed your union, gifting Maegor with a legacy befitting his house—the three-headed dragon of Targaryen. His obsession grows with each passing day as your pregnancy progresses. He watches you constantly, his hands never far from your stomach, his gaze intense, possessive, and burning with an unspoken madness.

When you finally give birth, it is as if the entire realm holds its breath. Three babes—two boys and a girl, each as perfect as the dragons their blood rides—are born to you. The court hails it as a miracle, and Maegor’s obsession deepens, solidifying into something far darker. He sees you not just as his wife but as the mother of his dynasty, the woman who gave him three heirs, who brought the Targaryen sigil to life in flesh and blood.

“You have given me what no other could,” he says to you, his hand resting possessively over your belly, even as you cradle your newborns in your arms. His voice is thick with pride, but there is something else there—something darker. “Three-headed, like the dragon. You are my wife, my queen. You will give me more.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air like a threat, and though your body is still weak from the birthing, you know Maegor will not wait long. He is not a patient man, and now that you have proven yourself capable of giving him heirs, he will want more. His hunger is insatiable, and his obsession with you—his vessel, his wife—has grown into something that feels like madness.

It is not long before you are with child again, your belly growing heavy with Maegor’s next heir. The court watches with a mixture of awe and fear, for they know that you are the key to Maegor’s power, the woman who can provide him the legacy he so desperately craves. He watches over you like a dragon guards its hoard, his eyes always on you, his hand always tracing the swell of your belly as if ensuring that his claim remains intact.

But there is no love in Maegor’s gaze—only possession. You are his, body and soul, and you know that you will never escape him. He is the dragon, and you are his queen, bound to him by fire and blood.

[aajjks]

The conqueror (XXIII.)

Synopsis: He had conquered everything, anything but your heart.

Pairings: Yandere!King Jungkook x Commoner!servant Reader

warnings: yándèrè, DÁRK TRÍGGÈRÍNG THÈMÈS, dárk óbsèssíòn, cràzy júngkòòk, dèprèssíón, 18+ thèmès, íntènsè thèmès, kórèàn tràdítíòns, àttèmpt át súícídè, NÓNCÔN KÍSSÍNG, TÓUCHÏNG, lüst, sèxúàl thèmès,

note. YALLLL This chapter is my best one yet I am so proud. Also, just a warning I have copy pasted some of the Korean traditional stuff from Google so I’m just telling you guys in advance and if you have any questions ask or anything to tell me just come into my inbox because this chapter is a terrifying. And sooooo sexy 🥵🥵🥵 undeniably, sexy… I have no words, but please please please share your feedback. OK I love you guys. Enjoy.

series masterlist

taglist: @mageprincess7 @starsggukk @sprinkleoftee @koremis @minshookie29 @sana-b @bangtannoonalvg @oonaaurora @jeonsweetpea @sugaslittlekookies @outro-kook @kthyg @lunaashes @debicaptain-saturn @laurynne5 @captainsjoongs @myblackconfessions @lanalanexpjm @namjooncrabs @shadowmoon21 @kookunot @natalie-rdr @angelicasdre @iwasfuckinginnocentonce @mermaidtea @foulnightharmony @ungodlyjoon @quechulitaaa @telepathytae @silversparkles11 @j3alous-ang3l @bunzom @1-in-abillion @breadgeniedope @jiminie-08 @artgukk @lovesthetword @bunijmin @pinkcherrybombs @afangirllikeme-blog @twilight-love-nochu-main @wedarkacademia @hollxe1 @bighitfics @darkuni63 @golden-thv @investedreader @sweetempathprunetree @koocreampie (I can’t tag anymore people, it’s full 😭😭)

The air feels heavy, oppressive, as if the entire palace is holding its breath in anticipation of this day. Your wedding day. The day your life is to be bound forever to the man you hate most in this world. You sit in your chambers, unable to bring yourself to look in the mirror. The room is alive with movement, court ladies bustling around you, adjusting every detail of your appearance as though they’re preparing a lamb for slaughter.

The silk of your hanbok feels suffocating, its intricate embroidery weighing you down. The deep crimson and golden hues, symbols of purity and virtue, mock you with every thread. This is not a union of love. This is a chain, cold and unyielding, tying you to a man who thrives on blood and power.

“Perfect, my lady,” the seamstress finally declares, stepping back to admire her work. Her smile is full of pride, but it feels hollow.

Nothing about today is perfect.

“How fortunate you are to marry the king,” Na-yeon whispers close to your ear, her tone laced with a smugness that makes your stomach turn. “Most women would kill to be in your place.”

You don’t respond. Your throat feels tight, your heart heavy. Most women don’t know the truth about him. Most women haven’t seen the darkness that festers behind his piercing gaze. If they did, they’d run far, far away.

“Leave me alone,” you whisper weakly, your voice cracking. The court ladies exchange glances but obey, bowing before quietly filing out of the room. All except Na-yeon. She lingers, always watching, always ready to report back to him.

“You should feel honored,” she says, her voice soft but sharp, like the blade of a knife. “This is the greatest moment of your life.”

You swallow hard, fists clenched in your lap. “The greatest moment of my life?” you repeat bitterly. “This is the worst moment of my life. I’d rather die.”

For a fleeting second, her expression falters, but it’s gone just as quickly. She straightens, smoothing the front of her hanbok. “You mustn’t say such things, my lady. The king wouldn’t like to hear that.”

You glare at her. “Let him hear it. I don’t care anymore.”

But even as the words leave your mouth, you feel the weight of them settle in your chest. You’ve felt the consequences of his anger before. You know better than to provoke him. And yet, part of you doesn’t care.

You’re desperate, grasping at any semblance of control, even if it means testing his patience. You wish that you had died last night when he had attempted to take your own life, but then….

Na-Yeon had caught you. She has been like a shadow and now you’re here.

The palace courtyard is alive with activity, the sound of drums echoing through the cold morning air. The ceremonial guards stand in perfect formation, their armor gleaming under the pale sunlight.

Nobles and officials gather in clusters, their voices hushed as they exchange whispers about the grand occasion.

You’re led through the courtyard by a procession of attendants, their hands firm on your arms as they guide you toward the altar. You want to run, to scream, but your body betrays you. Your legs move mechanically, your feet dragging across the stone path as though weighed down by chains.

The altar looms ahead, a grand structure draped in silk banners and adorned with offerings of fruit, rice, and incense. At its center stands Jungkook, his figure imposing, cloaked in the rich robes of a king. His dark eyes find yours immediately, piercing through the crowd, and your breath catches.

There’s something about the way he looks at you—intense, unyielding, predatory. It sends a shiver down your spine. He’s been waiting for this moment, and the satisfaction in his expression is unmistakable.

As you approach, the murmurs of the crowd fall silent. All eyes are on you now.

“Bow,” one of the court ladies hisses under her breath.

You hesitate for only a moment before lowering yourself to the ground, your knees pressing against the cold stone. Your head dips forward in a deep bow, a gesture of submission that makes your stomach churn.

Jungkook steps forward, his movements slow, deliberate. You feel his presence before you see him, the weight of it suffocating.

“Rise,” he commands, his voice deep and resonant.

“AND… you, the court lady… never ever talk to my wife like that, or I will have your tongue for breakfast.” Jungkook growls and the lady immediately cowers in fear, he glares daggers into her head.

You watch and you hear everything.

He’s so scary.

You obey, standing on shaky legs as he towers over you. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes tell you everything. You belong to him now.

The ceremony begins with the gabae, the presentation of gifts. Silk, gold, jewels—each item is placed before you with great ceremony, a display of wealth and power that feels more like a taunt than a gesture of goodwill.

Jungkook watches you intently, his gaze never wavering. You can feel the heat of it, burning into your skin, as though he’s daring you to object. But you don’t. You can’t.

Next comes the pyebaek, the bowing ritual. You kneel once again, this time before Jungkook and the royal elders. Your movements are stiff, your body trembling with each bow. The elders nod in approval, their expressions impassive, while Jungkook watches with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs under his breath, so low only you can hear. The word feels like a brand, searing into your skin.

The final ritual is the joongin, the sharing of food. A tray of offerings is placed before you—steamed rice, dried fish, and fruits carefully arranged in intricate patterns. Jungkook picks up a piece of fruit, holding it out to you.

“Eat,” he commands.

You hesitate, your eyes darting to the food. Your hands tremble as you take the fruit from him, the act feeling more symbolic than it should. As you take a bite, the crowd erupts into applause, their cheers echoing across the courtyard.

It’s done. You are now his queen.

The celebrations continue long into the evening, but you barely notice. Your mind is numb, your body moving on autopilot as you’re led through the motions of the day. Smiling when prompted, nodding when addressed—it’s all a blur.

As the sun sets, the palace is bathed in the warm glow of lanterns. The air is thick with the scent of incense and wine, the sounds of laughter and music filling the halls. But you don’t feel joy. You feel hollow.

Later that night, Jungkook finds you in your chambers. He’s shed his ceremonial robes for a simpler, darker outfit, but his presence is just as commanding.

“Come,” he says, extending a hand toward you.

You don’t move. Your feet feel rooted to the ground, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Don’t make me ask again,” he warns, his voice low, dangerous.

Reluctantly, you take his hand. His grip is firm, almost possessive, as he leads you toward the royal chambers.

The night stretches ahead of you, long and uncertain. You don’t know what awaits you behind those doors, but one thing is certain: your life, as you knew it, is over.

•••

Hours later… you are even more terrified.

The air in the bridal chamber is thick with tension. The flickering candlelight casts long, trembling shadows across the walls, the golden dragons embroidered on the silk bedding almost seeming to writhe. You stand frozen in the center of the room, your hands fidgeting with the delicate fabric of your wedding hanbok. Your heart pounds in your chest like a caged animal, the cold sweat on your back soaking through the layers of expensive silk.

The heavy door creaks open behind you, and you flinch. His footsteps are slow, deliberate, each one a deliberate announcement of his presence. King Jungkook—no, your husband now—steps into the room, his dark robes flowing behind him, the faint scent of musk and sandalwood following him.

He stands tall, broad shoulders and a powerful frame outlined by the flickering light. His strong jaw clenches slightly, and his dark, piercing eyes drink you in. His presence is suffocating, his physique commanding. The ceremonial attire does little to hide the strength beneath the fine fabric, his toned chest visible through the parting of his robe. His raven-black hair falls slightly into his eyes, framing his perfect like features. He is devastatingly beautiful, and that terrifies you.

“You look breathtaking,” he says, his voice low and husky, carrying an edge that sends a shiver down your spine.

You take a small step back, the edge of the bed pressing against the back of your legs.

His eyes narrow at the movement, but he doesn’t comment. He shuts the door behind him with a soft click, the sound filling the silence like a judge sealing your fate.

Jungkook moves toward you slowly, his gaze fixed on you like a predator stalking its prey. Your mouth feels dry, your throat tight as you take another step back, only to have your knees buckle slightly when you bump into the bed.

“There’s no need to be afraid, my queen,” he murmurs, his voice deceptively soft. “Tonight is ours. No one will disturb us.”

You open your mouth to respond, to beg or plead, but the words die on your lips when he reaches out. His hand is warm as it brushes against your cheek, his thumb tracing your trembling lower lip. The touch is almost tender, but the hunger in his eyes betrays him.

“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this moment?” he whispers, his tone dark with an undercurrent of desperation. His thumb presses slightly against your lip, as if testing your resolve. “How many nights I’ve dreamed of you, Y/N?”

“Y-Your Majesty—”

“Jungkook,” he interrupts, his tone firm, almost commanding. “You are mine now, my queen. No more formalities.”

Your breath catches in your throat as he leans closer, his face mere inches from yours. The warmth of his body radiates against your trembling form, his scent intoxicatingly rich and masculine. You can feel the raw strength in his presence, the way his chest rises and falls, the way his arms flex as he reaches for you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, his lips hovering just above yours. “Do you know what it does to me? Seeing you like this? Knowing you’re finally mine?”

Before you can respond, his lips capture yours in a kiss that steals the air from your lungs. It is not gentle. It’s forceful, claiming, a declaration of his dominance. His hand moves to the back of your neck, holding you in place as he deepens the kiss, his other hand gripping your waist and pulling you against his chest.

Your hands press against his chest in an attempt to push him away, but it’s futile. His chest is solid, the muscles beneath the silk unyielding. You feel the raw power in his body, a strength that both intimidates and overwhelms you.

“Stop,” you whisper against his lips, your voice trembling, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, your resistance only seems to fuel his desire.

“Stop?” he repeats, his voice low and laced with frustration as he finally pulls back. His dark eyes bore into yours, the hunger in them burning brighter than ever. “Why do you keep running from me, Y/N? I am your husband now. Your king. You belong to me.”

Tears well in your eyes, but you force them back, refusing to let him see you cry. “Please,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “I—I can’t—”

“FUCK, YN.”

He screams and you flinch, for a moment as he hears his voice through the walls of this chamber, he almost feels bad as he stares at you

You’re so terrified, a crying mess, but God knows, it’s only turning him on more.

Why are you so fucking frustrating?

His jaw clenches, the muscles in his neck tightening as he stares down at you. His gaze flickers to your trembling hands, your heaving chest, and then back to your tear-filled eyes. For a moment, something unreadable flashes across his face—hurt, perhaps, or maybe just irritation.

“I’ve given you everything,” he says, his voice cold now, but still laced with that obsessive edge. “I’ve built a kingdom for you. Killed for you. And yet you still flinch when I touch you.”

You don’t respond, unable to find the words.

His hand moves to your waist again, sliding around to the small of your back as he pulls you against him. His other hand trails up your arm, his touch light but possessive. The contrast between his strength and his touch sends a chill down your spine.

“You’re so delicate,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “So fragile. But you’re mine. Do you understand that, Y/N?”

You shake your head slightly, tears spilling down your cheeks. “No,” you whisper. “I don’t want this. I never wanted this.”

His grip tightens for a moment, his jaw clenching as he exhales sharply. The air between you grows colder, the tension suffocating.

“You’ll learn,” he says finally, his voice low and dangerous. “You’ll learn to love me. To need me. Because no one else will ever have you.”

He leans in again, his lips brushing against your neck this time. You feel the heat of his breath, the light scrape of his teeth against your skin, and you shudder.

But then, he stops.

For a long moment, the room is silent except for the sound of your uneven breathing. He pulls back, his eyes scanning your tear-streaked face. His expression hardens, and he lets out a low growl of frustration.

“You’re not ready,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Not yet.”

His hands fall away from you, and he steps back, his jaw tight and his eyes dark with barely-contained frustration. “I could take you right now,” he says, his voice cold. “But that wouldn’t satisfy me. Not like this.”

You stare at him, unsure whether to feel relief or dread.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his disheveled hair as he glares at you. “You insult me with your fear, Y/N,” he says, his voice low and venomous. “But you’ll come to me willingly one day. You’ll beg for my touch.”

He turns abruptly, his dark robes swirling around him as he moves toward the door. Before leaving, he pauses, his hand on the handle.

“Remember this, Y/N,” he says without looking back. “You’re mine. In this life and the next.”

The door shuts behind him with a finality that makes your knees buckle. You collapse onto the bed, trembling, your mind spinning with fear and confusion.

The silence of the room is deafening, but it doesn’t give you no comfort. You know this isn’t the end—merely the beginning of a life trapped in the clutches of a man whose obsession burns hotter than any love ever could.