#and perhaps even heir of doom

[tychogender]

doodle while i try to figure out how the fuck im going to classpect these guys and their friends

[strayingawayy]

series: love me two times

businessman minho! x former one night stand reader (and soon to be spouse)

chapter 2: trending naked

read introduction here

chapter 1

word count: 2500 words

WARNINGS: strong language, sexual content, emotional manipulation, toxic family dynamics, power imbalances, alcohol use, eventual gun violence, blood and injury, blackmail, surveillance, themes of control, secrecy, betrayal, repression, psychological tension under the guise of romance, dubious business dealings, manipulation via arranged marriage, and consistent, unapologetically bad decision making from most, if not all, characters involved. british humour. in case you all pussy out from that.

A/N: after a month of banging my head, here's chapter 2. i'm not that proud to present it but i sincerely hope you all enjoy it. to a certain extent atleast.

playlist.

─── Some things weren’t meant to be seen.

Not by cameras. Not by friends. Certainly not by the entire world before breakfast. Some truths weren’t meant to come out, not this fast, not like this, and definitely not with a scandal trending in thirty countries.

And some mornings…

Well, some mornings arrive like a car crash in slow motion—silent, bloody, and impossible to stop. This was one of those mornings.

And by nightfall, it wouldn’t be the only thing that had exploded.

Because the scandal was just foreplay.

Minho doesn’t give too many fucks. That, perhaps, is exactly why the media can’t get enough of him. His reputation for ignoring paparazzi—walking past flashbulbs like they were beneath him, brushing off scandal like lint from his shoulders—only fuels the curated image the world has built for him: rich, cold, handsome.

The kind of man who never apologises, never chases, never looks back.

A man with cufflinks that cost more than most people’s rent and a gaze sharp enough to file lawsuits.

He never fails to live up to the version people have conjured of him: an aloof enigma who seems to have stepped straight out of a bloody Wattpad story with a dark past, a tailored coat, and a five-star attitude. Ice in his veins. Designer cologne on his skin. The untouchable heir to a corporate empire.

Which is why it was, in fact, utterly unacceptable that he had woken up to find himself trending worldwide.

Naked.

Trending naked.

His bed, once a haven of order and pristine thread counts, was now a battlefield of duvet limbs and existential panic. And just as he stirred—blissfully unaware that his dignity had been annihilated in high definition—his bedroom door was kicked open with the force of a raid.

“BLOODY HELL, MINHO, WAKE UP, YOU ABSOLUTE WEAPON!”

Three things happened in rapid succession.

First: his brain registered Han Jisung’s voice at an inhumane decibel level.

Second: his eyes opened to the sight of said menace launching himself bodily onto the bed.

Third: he was being shaken so violently he momentarily forgot his own name.

“YOU’RE ON THE NEWS,” Jisung screamed, as though this were the beginning of a film and not, as it would turn out, the single most embarrassing day of Minho’s entire existence. As though the evening of the engagement wasn't enough.

Minho groaned, shoving weakly at Jisung’s hyperactive limbs. “So? I’m always on the news.”

Jisung’s eyes went white with incredulity. “NOT LIKE THIS.”

As if summoned by the very chaos vibrating through the room, Changbin barrelled in behind him, phone clutched in hand, screen already aglow with doom.

And there it was.

The headline that would haunt Minho for the rest of his natural life, and potentially a few reincarnations after that:

LEE MINHO & FIANCÉ(E)’S PRIVATE MOMENT LEAKED — SCANDAL OR SECRET LOVE STORY?

Minho blinked. “...Private moment?”

Jisung, ever helpful, snatched the phone from Changbin with the reflexes of a pickpocket (we’re going to ignore his experience in this regard) and began scrolling like a man possessed.

“The media’s trying to be classy about it,” he muttered, squinting at the article, “but, mate, it’s a full-blown sex tape.”

“That’s not possible,” Minho said, more to the universe than anyone in the room.

Changbin inhaled slowly, as if preparing to deliver last rites. “Oh, but it is.”

Jisung tapped ‘play’.

And there.

There.

On the screen: Minho. You. A luxury hotel bed with gold-accented sheets. Your leg hiked over his shoulder like a Cirque du Soleil audition. The unmistakable cadence of debauchery. There was a brief moment of hope—it could be someone else, blurry or cropped footage—

But no.

There was his face, though not evidently visible but definitely his. His body. His hair slightly mussed in that aesthetically criminal way. And then—just to ensure he’d never sleep again—audio.

“Oh my God,” Minho breathed, horror pooling behind his eyes like storm clouds.

Changbin nudged him, eyes still on the screen. “Bro, you gripped the headboard.”

Han let out a noise so ungodly it might’ve summoned spirits. “Nah, why did Y/N tell you to shut up and you actually did?”

Minho’s hand shot out, slamming the phone screen-down against the mattress like it would do him any good. “I am going to pass away.”

But alas. The gods of disgrace were only just getting started.

Because the next moment?

Jisung—bright, chipper, and holding a remote like a harbinger of doom—turned on the television.

And there, in crisp HD on national news, was a panel of analysts dissecting Minho’s thrusting technique.

“So, if you pause at 1:15, we see Minho taking the lead.”

“Briefly.”

“Right, so that’s where you can see the power shift. Minho thinks he’s leading, but actually Y/N takes control.”

“Fascinating power dynamic. Wonder if that’ll affect the company in the future. And at 2:03, we see a rare moment of desperation—”

“And a rare moment of his perky arse—”

Minho buried his face in his hands. “This is not happening.”

“This is the best day of my life,” Jisung corrected, practically vibrating with mirth.

And just when Minho thought he’d reached the peak of his humiliation—

The door slammed open.

You.

You looked like a mythological fury: hair askew, eyes burning with a fury that could level cities, your phone clutched so tightly it was a miracle it hadn’t shattered under the force of your wrath.

Minho had faced hostile shareholders. Ruthless competitors. Once, even a death threat from a rival conglomerate.

He had never been this afraid.

“YOU,” you spat, striding towards him like a vengeance incarnate.

“Me,” Minho squeaked.

You hurled your phone at him—a Samsung-shaped missile of fury. He only just managed to catch it before it smacked him between the eyes.

The screen?

A live press conference.

“We are deeply concerned by this invasion of privacy—”

“Yes, but let’s focus on the real issue. What does this mean for Lee Corp’s reputation?”

“More importantly, what does it mean for his stamina?”

Minho launched the phone across the room like it was cursed.

Han and Changbin were now weeping on the bed with laughter, occasionally slapping the duvet for oxygen. Like that would help.

“FIX THIS,” you snarled, stepping closer.

Minho gulped. “Okay. But, um, how?”

You were incandescent.

“I don’t know, Minho, maybe by explaining why THE WHOLE WORLD JUST WATCHED ME DOMINATE YOU IN A FIVE-STAR HOTEL?”

Jisung wheezed.

Changbin slid off the bed entirely.

Minho inhaled a dust bunny from the mattress and promptly choked on his own spit.

“First of all,” he croaked, his ears practically glowing, “I would not say ‘dominate’—”

You grabbed a pillow and smacked him with it. Full force. Righteous and deserved.

“THIS ISN’T FUNNY.”

He held up both hands. “You’re right. Not funny. Very serious.”

You exhaled sharply, pacing now like a tiger in a cage.

“This is huge,” you muttered, half to yourself. “My career? Ruined. My name? Dragged through the mud. My family? Calling me to ask if I’ve ‘forsaken God’—”

Minho blinked. “Okay, that’s dramatic.”

You stopped dead, eyes wide.

“DRAMATIC? MINHO, I HAD TO BLOCK MY AUNT ON FACEBOOK BECAUSE SHE CALLED ME A JEZEBEL.”

A beat.

“…What century is she living in?”

“FOCUS.”

Minho sighed, dragging his fingers through his hair.

And for the first time since this entire trainwreck had begun, he really looked at you.

Your arms were folded tightly across your chest, jaw clenched so hard it trembled. Your breathing was uneven. And underneath the righteous fury, the fire, the rage—

He saw it.

Humiliation.

Fear.

This wasn’t just a scandal to you. This was your life. Your reputation. Your family.

Your safety.

Minho straightened, cleared his throat and managed to muster enough courage to find his voice.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter now. Calmer. “We’ll fix this.”

You laughed—a bitter, brittle thing. “And how do you plan on doing that?”

Minho’s jaw locked.

He didn’t know.

Not yet.

But whoever had leaked that footage? Whoever had thought they could reduce you to gossip and grainy pixels? Humiliate you and smear your life across the tabloids like it was theatre?

They had made the single worst mistake of their lives.

And Lee Minho was going to make sure they regretted it.

•━━━━━━━━━━━•

Twenty minutes later, however, Minho was sitting in his office, head in his hands, while his PR team screamed at each other like contestants on a reality show.

“Do we deny?”

“We can’t deny! It’s him! We can literally see his face!”

“Okay, but how do we spin this?”

“Maybe say it was deepfake technology?”

“Oh, so AI Minho was out here breaking beds now?”

“WE NEED AN OFFICIAL STATEMENT!”

Minho groaned. “Jesus Christ, can everyone just—”

“Shut up?” one intern offered, ducking as a binder went flying across the room.

The office was a warzone. Papers. Coffee cups. Screaming. Someone crying softly in the corner. Possibly the Head of Crisis Communications. Hard to tell through the chaos.

Minho sat slumped at the conference table like a cursed prince in a kingdom of flaming paperwork, flanked by twelve PR specialists and zero solutions.

He hadn’t even had coffee.

“The stock’s dipped five percent in the last hour,” a voice piped up from the end of the table.

“Five?” another gasped.

“Six,” corrected a third, refreshing a graph with trembling fingers.

Minho exhaled through his nose. “So what I’m hearing is: we’re all doing really well.”

“I have a plan,” said a voice.

Silence.

All heads turned.

It was Felix.

Felix, in his immaculate blazer and pixel-perfect skin, who—until this very moment—had been watching from the window like a gothic Victorian ghost. Now, he stepped forward, chin raised, golden hair gleaming like divine retribution.

“You’re not going to like it,” he added, with the kind of grim solemnity usually reserved for war generals.

Minho gestured weakly. “Let’s hear it.”

Felix tapped his phone. The smart TV blinked to life.

LEE MINHO: THE MAN BEHIND THE HEADBOARD. A Love Story.

Minho said, “No.”

“Listen,” Felix said. “We lean in. We make it a love story. A passionate, uncontrollable, deeply consensual love story between two people thrown into an arranged engagement who—oh no!—accidentally fell into bed before marriage.”

“You are insane.”

“I’m a visionary, hyung.”

Jisung burst into the room. “It’s not insane. It’s working.”

“What?”

“Your ship tag is trending. #MinYN. There’s already a Tumblr fic called Cuffed By Fate and it’s got 4200 likes. Wish people reblogged more these days though.”

“In one hour?”

“Internet moves fast," Jisung supplies with a shrug, cheeks stuffed with grapes he had managed to grab in the midst of this chaos.

Changbin followed in, tablet in hand. “You’re not going to like this either—but your dad called.”

Minho sat up. “What?”

“He says this whole ‘sex tape’ thing? It’s good for business.”

Everyone stared.

“The engagement was polling terribly. Now people think it’s romantic. Reckless. There’s a petition for you two to star in a K-drama.”

Minho leaned back slowly.

“I want everyone out.”

They scrambled. PR scattered. Jisung took three pastries and saluted on the way out.

Only Minho, Chan, and Felix remained.

“I want to know who leaked it.”

Felix nodded, smile gone and work mode locked in as he adjusted his glasses. “We’re tracing the footage. CCTV. Remote access. Not an accident.”

“Who the fuck has that kind of access?” Minho’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

Chan’s arms folded, and for a heartbeat the room held its breath. Then, in a low, careful tone: “Someone high up. Someone close. Possibly… family.”

Minho felt the walls tilt. His mind raced—replaying every meeting, every forced smile, every curt nod exchanged with your father. Protection. Control. The words echoed in his skull.

Had the engagement ever been about safeguarding you—or about cementing ownership?

He pictured the hidden CCTV feed, the silent transmission, the deliberate timing. This wasn’t an accident. It was precision.

Minho’s chair scraped back as he stood. His pulse hammered in his ears. “Where are they?”

Chan hesitated. “Left with their father’s driver.”

“Willingly?” Minho’s question trembled on the edge of accusation.

Silence stretched. Then: “I’m not sure.”

Gears turned in Minho’s mind. Someone orchestrated this. Someone who knew every code, every security hole, every blind spot. Someone trusted. Someone inside.

He tugged on his coat, fingers brushing the gun at his hip. Outside, the city pulsed with oblivious life. But here—right here—Minho understood the stakes had just become lethal.

He stepped toward the door. His jaw clenched.

He only wished he knew the true target.

...

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[yanderes-galore]

What about a platonic yandere Aegon II with a daughter!reader after B+C?

Fell in love with this idea ON. SIGHT. Broke my own rules on this, my bad. I don't usually do young darlings, but for this it made the most sense. Don't expect stuff like this all the time... but I love the idea of Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond being platonic yanderes to Aegon's Daughter. Unfortunately no Daeron as he's not around during this period.

❗️SPOILERS FOR HOTD SEASON 2❗️

Yandere! Platonic! Aegon II with Daughter! Darling

(FT. Helaena + Aemond - Aftermath of Blood + Cheese)

Pairing: Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Female Darling, Obsession, Overprotective behavior, Child death/Murder, Blood, Manipulation, Fear of loss, Isolation, Mature language, Targcest (Aegon/Helaena), Medieval gender roles, Toxic family dynamics, Forced companionship.

First of all, let's talk about who you are.

In terms of being Aegon's daughter...

You could be one of his legitimate heirs with Helaena.

That or maybe you could be a bastard from one of his many flings. Perhaps one who later became a cupbearer for him?

Regardless of how... Aegon gets horrible after the death of Jaehaerys.

Before the assassination, Aegon isn't... very invested.

He's paying more attention to his first son, hyping Jaehaerys up as his heir.

He cares for you, but not as much as his first son.

He keeps an eye on you yet you're often with Helaena.

Helaena takes good care of you... even if your father is often busy.

You're well cared for, even as a bastard Helaena doesn't wish to leave you on your own.

Perhaps, as a dreamer/seer, she senses your fate beside Aegon and wants to aid you through it.

Your life is... decent within the Red Keep one way or another.

Things only really go downhill when the Blood + Cheese incident occurs.

Jaehaerys is murdered in the night due to assassins sent by Daemon.

The news is devastating.

Helaena spent the whole night with her mother, holding her remaining children and you in her arms.

You're older than the babe(s) when it all happens, perhaps a young kid (To make it make sense, you can probably age the characters up from canon)

In the morning... your father is furious.

Aegon's screaming at anyone he sees.

Maids, servants, the Small Council, his knights...

Anyone.

Aegon screams about Rhaenyra and her side killing his heir.

One would not think he is a man close to his children.

He only seemed to like Jaehaerys because he was a male heir.

That's what you thought, at least.

Until Aegon kept coming to your chambers.

You were often with Helaena before and after the death of your sibling.

So you were not expecting to see Aegon come in to pester you.

You are his by blood, you are his eldest daughter.

Aegon himself didn't realize how... affected he was.

He didn't know how grateful he was to have you until his son was murdered.

Aegon is a man doomed to lose all of his children in the end.

Perhaps even you.

Helaena knows this well and is worried when Aegon shows a sudden interest in you.

Aegon would get noticeably more... protective of you as his daughter.

He may have no eldest son now, but you're still one of his eldest.

He never lets you out of his sight after the death of Jaehaerys.

Helaena often asks he leaves you alone, but the king never does.

"Oh please, wife... let me see her. I won't cause her any harm."

Aegon drags you to Small Council meetings and shows you to Sunfyre.

He's paranoid yet proud of you, his eldest daughter.

He isn't affectionate at first.

But when Jaehaerys dies, he's suffocating.

The king, your father, holds you close.

During Small Council meetings, he has you right beside him or in his lap.

When his Council asks him to leave you with Helaena, Aegon blatantly refuses.

"Far as you're concerned, this is my daughter and she has the right to sit here."

Aegon would not allow betrothals.

That's one thing both he and Helaena can agree on when it comes to you.

You mean too much to him to be married off.

Even when you're of age he dismisses the thought.

Aemond is no doubt appointed as your bodyguard.

He doesn't trust Ser Criston Cole, said man did nothing when his son died.

Even if you are a woman, Aegon raises you like you're his next heir.

Maelor, his other son, is too young for now.

So, for now, you are his main heir.

If anything threatened you, Aegon is not waiting.

He will order Aemond hunt them down.

That is unless he can kill them himself.

You aren't even really allowed to play with Jaehaera or Maelor at times.

You miss your time with Helaena, your mother...

Now all you really see is your uncle Aemond or your father Aegon.

Sometimes you see your grandmother, Alicent, but Aegon isn't keen on it.

It's strange how Aegon goes from indifferent to obsessive about you.

He sits by you all the time, giving you books and often ordering Aemond to look after you.

Aemond would much rather patrol King's Landing with Vhagar... but he adores holding you in his arms so he can't complain.

Aemond may sneak swordsmanship in to teach you in private, even if you are a lady.

Aegon is irritated about it, but soon allows it.

You must be a strong queen... give Rhaenyra a run for her gold...

A way you could get Daeron involved in this is maybe you get to write him ravens while he's out being a squire.

I know this is primarily meant to be Aegon... but I feel at least most of the other Greens would be involved.

Aegon knows you should have a dragon... yet he hates the idea of something going wrong.

Sure, you get along with Sunfyre... he won't even let you near Vhagar... and Dreamfyre is rarely even with her rider...

You'd be fine with a hatchling of your own... but Aegon would be extra careful when giving you one.

He's already lost his first heir, you aren't dying too.

He's so nervous about losing you.

Even more so when he gets burned in battle.

While he's in pain on his bed, he doesn't stop asking about you once he's coherent.

You're left in Helaena and Aemond's care... but often are sent to visit the burned king.

Aemond doesn't see you as a threat to the throne.

In fact there's times he treats you like his own daughter, teaching you High Valyrian... a language Aegon isn't very proficient in.

Helaena is often showing you insects and singing to you as she holds you close.

When you visit Aegon he is adamant on you cuddling up to his good side, holding you close as he hisses in pain.

His body may be broken at this point... but he loves you dearly.

You are his little princess, his little future queen, he's sure of that.

Even in his bed, burned and helpless, he'll keep you safe...

Helaena and Aemond love you too, after all, not a soul will touch you with The Greens.

[gladiatorcunt]

- DO LEVIATHANS DREAM OF ALIENS? | 1a.

this is a low flying panic attack (cybersex is holy)

cw: kinktober prompt (aliens made them do it - bc he asked them too), nonconsensual voyeurism, extreme dubcon, yandere jacaerys, reader has a pussy, 4.6k of porn with plot, getting your back blown out in the 2001: a space odyssey trip scene, inspired by the mentioned movie, old valyria lore and obvious au where the valyrian gods are aliens, restraints, stray mpreg mention at the beginning, world building before the fucking, pussy slapping, piss kink mention

please do not repost, translate, or feed this work to ai

kinktober 2024

2 BC, Gaelithox Star System inhabitant number 616. Subject Name: Earth (Human Outreach Base)

In the wake of doom, the world smoldered. Every realm, known and unknown, was reduced to scalding ash. Except for a volcanic island guarding the entrance to Blackwater Bay by the name of Dragonstone. A century later in his eternal wisdom, Lord Aerion Targaryen set his three children, Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys to take to their dragons and scour the vast emptiness for a miracle. In another universe, there were countless bounties to acquire and lush land to conquer, gilded crowns to pass on to the heirs shared between them. However, this was not to be. Visenya’s sharp eyes spotted gigantic chunks of metal in the narrow sea that resembled castles. One was as black as her brother’s dragon’s, Balerion, scales and as all encompassing as the volcano Valyria’s capital city was built in. The other, a muddier brick red with specks of green and even bigger than the former. She shouted to her siblings, pointing and informing them that she was going to land Vhagar on one of them. Rhaenys and Meraxes followed quickly after her, then Aegon and Balerion.

The violent winds assaulted their skin as they dove down, their blood rushed to their hands and caused a pounding sensation in their ears. It felt akin to a leap of faith, they were lighting a match and tossing it onto a pile of Godswood. Blasphemous and crazed. When flayed open, Targaryens are revealed to be plundering leeches with flaming branches for veins. Birthed from white fire, they are harbingers of calamity and tragedy, some say the heat slowly singes their bones and then their brain until they die. Ripping through an ill-omened husk that wails tears of blood and exhales soot.

All three dragons hissed as their claws kissed the unfamiliar material. It was only for a moment, and strangely they titled their heads up and roared into the skies in unison, a jubilant chorus as if they were connecting with the truest parts of themselves. Visenya and her siblings watched in confusion until they were done. Then their focus shifted to the ginormous metal ovals beneath their feet, Visenya and Rhaenys were on the smaller one while Aegon was on the largest of the two. He walked along the cool surface and stopped at what appeared to be a window of sorts, an opening into the inner workings of the beguiling monolith. Before he could consult with his sisters, he tossed them a self assured grin, pulled open the hatch, and jumped boot clad feet first through it.

When he landed with a harsh grunt and the feeling of his bones being briefly jostled, he discovers that the inside closely resembles the innards of a ship. Unlike the traditional boats that traverse on water with their sails made of flax and their hard wooden bodies, this one seemed to be purely metal. Sleek and shiny, light coming from the opening bounced off of his sword as he used it to gain a feel for his surroundings. It was just as massive on the inside, he had the thought that you could very well fit every major family of Old Valyria in there along with their dragons. Though he did not mind being part of the only ones who could benefit from it, perhaps it was the gods' choice to allow only them to survive.

There were many flashy brightly colored knobs, and Aegon felt out of his depth at the sheer amount of them. A command center maybe, a gravelly voice inside him whispered, controls the entire ship and every single facet of it. He would have to explore this specific mechanism further with Visenya, his eyes wandered elsewhere down the hall to his left. The shadows beckoned him forward, and forward he went.

As he explored the ship, Aegon mentally noted the presence of personal quarters, kitchens, places in which one could conduct work, and all the things one would essentially need to live a happy life. It bore familiar cornerstones of Valyrian architecture, winding spiral spires and exquisite detailing. There was even its very own dragon pit resembling the Bojurlion arena that once sat parallel to the palace in the civic center of Valyria, stables and all sorts of riding equipment and armor included. He strongly felt that such a thing surely proved that this was the miracle his Lord father had sent him to find, from the teats of the gods and into the lap of their chosen one. They must have delivered them a shelter and a way to blaze their trail anew, this time the flip of the coin was in the Targaryens’ favor.

To the Targaryens in the long gone days of Old Valyria, survival was a choice when you were doomed to be the middle of the pack, never soaring higher or lower than where the gods put you.

He climbed through the same opening hours later, eager to catch up with his sisters. It turns out that they had an adventure of their own, their ship was similar to the one Aegon had explored, though they described it as having a much lighter energy and a deceptively cozier atmosphere. The three siblings climbed aboard their dragons and took to the skies once more, carrying hope and fierce determination in their hearts. Lord Aerion was relieved to hear of the gods’ saving grace, and in no time at all, their belongings, dragons, and servants were all ushered into either of the two ships after numerous exhaustive back and forth journeys. Remnants of Old Valyria, maesters, descendants of blood mages from the Anogorian, workers from the bathhouses, soldiers who served in the Valyrian navy, and even merchants from the street markets.

It was quite the shock when the ships shook terribly as soon as their doors closed, and gasps wrung out when the main area was flooded with white light as the vessels rose into the heavens and beyond them.

Soon both ships teemed with life, Honorary Queens Rhaenys and Visenya were wed in Dragonstone’s church. They even had biological children with the help of maesters and the ship’s wildly advanced scientific center. A miraculous device allowed their DNA to mix together and be planted in Rhaenys’ womb, with no need for a man’s contribution. Two sons were born, Maegor and Aenys. On The Red Keep, King Aegon found love with the son of a blood mage newly finished with his apprenticeship, and soon they too were wed and bore heirs of their own. Three daughters, one named after Aegon’s first love, a Baratheon. As the centuries went by, these communities in space grew much like they would have on the ground, however they do dock on Dragonstone island occasionally. It was agreed that life would be better spent among the stars than battling to live to see the next day in the dirt. They took all their human ways with them though, buried under their jewels and extravagant lifestyles, their hierarchy and ruling class and debatable penchant for fire and blood.

124 AC, Gaelithox Star System inhabitant number 460. Subject Name: Valyrian Peninsula Cluster (Interior Quadrant)

It is said that The Red Keep eclipses the Earth’s sun but Dragonstone intimidates it, depicted as having a presence so foreboding that any celestial body dims when the insidious ship passes them by.

Hopeful Would-Be-Prince Jacaerys kneels before a marble statue of the Mother.

“There is something very wrong with me, Mother.” His shake, an icy chill floods through his veins in the lukewarm temperature controlled chapel. “A sickness… a hunger… today I nearly bent my servant over while they drew my bath and tongued their cunt, I do not know if their resistance would have stopped me.”

Their tears would have looked transcendent in the reflection of the steaming hot water.

The statue’s eyes glow and emit a monotone beeping sound, standard routine for every prayer and confession.

The usually pleasant and well mannered prince frets, chewing at his fingernail in thought. Artificial breeding is all too available an option, these days one merely has to go to a maester and undergo the procedure, creating almost spontaneous life from the DNA one already possesses. Such things do wonders for couples with incompatible reproductive organs and those that want to be parents on their own, but it’s not enough for Jacaerys.

You could still be distant. There is no corner of the ship where you are free from his reach, but the prince would very much prefer it if you did not feel the need to scurry off at all. He thinks of himself as a wondrously different young man in comparison to his uncles and stepfather, Jacaerys loves you like a dragon loves a sleep. Helpless to the fear of being devoured by his hunger, but he’d keep you and roll you into a cotton ball in his mouth, savoring the pristine hairs left behind in the grooves of his forked tongue.

Wrestling you and bringing your body to the maesters, watching as they plant his child in your womb, would be meaningless to him. He wants to say he’d conceived your children in your marriage bed, as his family had done for generations before him. The advancements in technology had caused a decline in the tradition’s popularity, and that is precisely why Jacaerys wishes they had never set foot for the stars. You’d be more capable of succumbing to him if you were made to endure the pleasure he knows you could feel, without the miracle procedure. You have not yet mentioned a desire to carry children, not that that topic typically is shared between a servant and their liege.

The population on the ship is declining, the Targryens not producing the numbers they have in the past and various deaths in the family and amongst the smallfolk being a couple of the reasons. Madness from a lifetime of staring out floor to ceiling to wall windows of the same sparkly abyss, the traditionalists who spurn the technological wonders of the gods and grapple with complications in childbirth, the murders brought on by cabin fever. Unfortunate events have given Jacaerys the answer, the gift of a perfect reason to have you. To indulge in the murky facets of his soul, nursing from your bitter burning cup of wine and you in turn his.

If he were to be so goddamn lucky as to be in the same room as you, you would stumble out of there with a tummy full of triplets and a bounty of stretch marks.

“I would give all I am and have to be a loving husband, a dutiful father, if you would see it fit for that to be my path.” He bows his head and brown curls cascade around his face, an angel in the mouth of the guillotine. “At least cure me of this ailment if not, I can hardly stand the teasing from my uncles when I lose focus during the training simulations.”

Nightmares are becoming dreams in my darkest hours.

“My deepest thanks for hearing my prayer, I… I apologize, it is rather foolish I admit. I am not sure what’s come over me.”

The statue's eyes dim and it whirs as it powers down upon the prince’s exit. A most trouble occurence for one of their very own, but once this message is approved and received, the Gods will know the apt solution. Dragon eggs are their own star systems too, the cracks betwixt specks of color in the scales their own constellations, and the men born from them are the apples of the gods’ chromatic rainbow eyes.

A ghostly roar nips at Jacaerys’ heels as he strides towards his chambers, kicking off and throttling the silver pipes.

“For what it is worth, I am of the opinion that your brown hair and brown eyes suit you. Being around your family is no different than going for a stroll in the snow, but you stand out as the tree of solace in the middle. Sturdy and warm in its own way, something you rest on when you grow weary of the world around you.”

Your widening eyes are the first things he sees when he next wakes up. Jacaerys is content to consider this a dream until he moves to brush some of his hair away from his face and is stopped by a harsh clang.

The universe is howling.

He looks down to see valyrian steel chains dragging on the floor attached to cuffs around his wrists. The chains are of considerable length, he imagines that he could walk around the entire room and never get the bindings to go tight. His cuffs are so loose they hardly serve their purpose at all, but his flesh stings when he attempts to touch them. They would likely singe his skin off to the bone if he was their true prisoner and resisted. You have similar ones, but as soon as Jacaerys relaxes his chains vanish and he sits up to take stock of the room you are being held in.

Something sort of like an atrium, gleaming metallic tones with high ceilings and a large divot in the floor where the bed you both are on stands. Tall pillars showcase scrolling led screens, high valyrian scrawlings are preserved and repeated in scarlet pixels. The walls are replaced by windows into the vast openness of space, but it is different from what Jacaerys is used to. Outside is a sea of pure black, neon colors make up the waves, they seem to continuously bleed and fold into each other at the midpoint. There are no stars, no planets, but if Jacaerys squints and pays close attention he can just about make out the heavy flap of leathery wings.

“Shh, shh, it’s alright.” The prince whispers, turning his focus to your panic and stroking a finger down your cheek. “If we were supposed to be dead, we would not even be having this conversation.”

“The princeling is correct. You are safe in *indistinguishable*, this designated facility, our audience chamber, so long as you comply with us and our own.” A chorus of deep and crackling voices boom all at once in both of your minds, their syllables and inflections in their speech overlapping and melding together. “We have heard his prayers for your companionship and have decided to grant Jacaerys Velaryon his heart’s deepest desire. For he has raised valid concerns, this blessing is a multi purpose one.”

“Think of it as a bedding ceremony, and all that that name implies. Once conception is confirmed, you will face the brunt of a painful headache as we leave you. When you stumble into slumber, whether wrapped in an embrace or seperate, vessel number *indistinguishable* Dragonstone will house you once more.”

You gasp as the voices go quiet, and Jacaerys knows you must be aware of the feeling of being watched. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and gives you goosebumps down your forearms. Goose-pimpled flesh that Jacaerys traces with his fingertips, it’s the least he can do to give you a moment to calm down and get your bearings. Perhaps this is a sign that he has gone truly mad, because he can’t find the same trepidation in your expression within himself.

How often do prayers get answered? Yes, having a swarm of otherworldly all knowing beings witness your love making is quite unusual, but there is nothing Jacaerys would not put up with to form an everlasting covenant with you and your body. So he lays beside you, watching the fabric of your uniform shift and swish as you stretch your legs, a bumbling baby deer finding its footing.

He would smile and laugh, because he’d truly believe no one had ever been happier in their lives than he, but you probably would not take it all that well.

You shut your eyes tightly, either coming to grips with the bizarre reality you now found yourself in or desperately clinging to the hope that this was all a dream brought on by contaminated rations.

“M-my prince… this is not how i envisioned this moment.” You murmur at last, your eyes opening to meet his.

He wonders what you mean by that, could you really have wanted him in all the ways he has wanted you? Surely not all of them, but in the most basic and carnal of them.

Suddenly he knows in his bones that is what the two of you are meant to do, that this is so impossibly right that it must be woven in the grand fabric of fate’s design.

Jacaerys tuts and extends an offering of peace, entertaining his fingers with yours, “I’ll be gentle, this is my first time as well. It was not like I could practice without you finding out about it, I did not wish to hurt your feelings.”

Your brows pinch as he speaks, an instinctive coo gets trapped and tangled in his vocal chords. That expression is precisely why he is glad to be relying on scandalous hologram demonstrations and enticingly hedonistic data scrolls, amusingly numerous and often exuberantly descriptive. His confidence is triple what it was once years past, and Jacaerys would dearly love to lead you by example.

Fake it till you make it, but he is cocky enough now to believe you will never have to pretend in the first place.

A lock must have opened inside you, an opening made ready for him, because your brow lines smooth out and you go lax on the bed spread. You blink up at him as if trying to eat your nerves with your eyes by overindulging on the sight of him. Your face must be hot to the touch, as brave of a front as you’re putting on, you are not immune to embarrassment or fraying nerves.

Jacaerys sharply inhales and takes the tentative first step, settling a hand at the top of your chest and dragging it downward. His fingers catch on the buttons in your bodice and he undoes them with only a couple minor fumbles here and there.

“Ah.” The prince groans, peeling back the black panels in your uniform to uncover the skin beneath. “These breasts are wasted on servant rags, they’re so beautiful. You’re so very beautiful, my love.”

Your teats are round and perky things, so over encumbered with themselves that your flesh pushes out in between his fingers as he squeezes them softly. You softly moan and recline even further on the bed, as much as you are able with the chains still holding onto you. Jacaerys chuckles and lifts each one as if here debating on which decorative jeweled necklace weighed more, the rubies or the emeralds.

“Thank you, my prin- Jacaerys.” You sigh, never forgetting your well taught manners, and then gasp, “Wait, do not just grope them like that- Gods-“

Upon further investigation, the ruby, your right breast, is marginally heavier and bigger, but Jacaerys refuses to have favorites so resolves to love the emerald just as much. He rolls them in his palms for a bit before departing with a loving pat to your nipples.

His palms softly fall to bracket either side of your head, caging you in. “Now come, grant me a kiss, your nerves will fade with practice. What is there to be afraid of?”

His voice grows shakier than he’d like it too, a genuine hint of uncertainty shining through. In this he knows, at least, that it would do you a world of good to take your own leaps of faith. It would have been cruel to ask you such a thing when he had been sitting farther away, but now he is oh so close, the tips of your noses brush against each other is a shy sort of kiss.

Your eyes flick down to his lips and before he can say anything else, you’re leaning forward as much as you can and pressing against them. Jacaerys is pleased that his earlier assertion of your temperament was correct and turns his head, deepening the kiss and slotting his lips in the empty spaces left by your own as they part.

He laughs when the kiss is broken, airy and on the wings of a more formidable beast than love. The beings watching must already be impatient, for when he presses his chest further into yours, he notices a sudden lack of clothes. As if the Gods had grown tired of waiting for you to undress each other properly, not that Jacaerys minds all that much.

The prince snakes a hand in between your bare bodies, slipping down to cup your mound. He sweeps you up in another kiss so as to not afford you the opportunity to shy away when his digits sink into your slick.

“This cunt is overflowing, is this where it feels best? My thumb is right on your pearl just. like. this.” He teases and sketches tight circles on your bud, shifting his body weight to keep you down when you kick out your legs reflexively.

You keen into his open mouth, a high pitched bottle rocket about to go off and explode into bursts of bright color “Yes! Jace, just like that, don’t stop, oh my Gods- I’m so wet, how am i so wet?”

You ask him about your own body like you’re genuinely bewildered and Jacaerys is so charmed, so in love. He wouldn't peg you as the type to go a long while without slithering your hands up your skirt and delivering an unsatisfying orgasm, this much liquid must be drowning you. He takes his sweet time, flicking and playing your pearl in an obsessive fashion, taking your plush breasts into his mouth as his tongue lavishes them in saliva.

You’re making such melodic sounds, one of the songbirds must have escaped from the automated menagerie and fluttered their wings into his arms. Pinks and oranges and greens and purples and oranges spill across the void in his peripheral vision, but this bastardized marriage bed is the only thing Jacaerys cares about. It doesn’t matter that there is no sound save for the squelch of his fingers in your cunt and his rose petal pink lips popping off your tits repeatedly.

Jacaerys has seen many moons during the ship’s travels through the vastness of space, but the way your hips are arching off the bed in search of more of his touch would make any one of them bleed red in embarrassment.

Amused, he teases you now, slowing down his concentric circles into loose ringlets. “So this is not enough?”

“Jacaerys, please- You know it’s not.” You glare but still grind your hips up into his hand, not even bothering to address him by his title, he’ll let it slide in this instance.

He dips down to press a few last kisses to your breasts, nipping at your pebbled nipples and sliding a finger into your cunt. He crooks his fingers, going at a leisurely pace and waiting until you’re near tears to insert a second.

“Mmh, who knew i’d come by such a hungry cunny, almost carnivorous in its attempts to keep me inside its snatch.” Jacaerys grins and pumps his fingers, going faster as he slips a third and then a fourth one in, feeling how your walls cling onto their shape.

You’re like a leech, suckling at his flesh to the point of blood loss.

“ ‘m not…… don’t talk about it like that. Fuck, yes- Jace- take what’s yours already, i’m burning up.”

He kisses you again and abruptly pulls his fingers out of you, slapping your clit in one heavy strike. For all his efforts of taking things slow and keeping the atmosphere gentle and loving, you inspire such a deep teasing streak in him. He could never seriously hurt you, but quick smacks resulting in your eyes flashing with lightning aren’t off the table.

You whimper, wetting yourself under the heel of his palm. The intense colors around you swirl into a psychedelic kaleidoscope pattern, rhythmic beeping comes from the pillars and the atrium seems to hold its breath. You don’t notice when your mind begins to unravel, babbling about needing it being too much and you need to pee. Because there’s a drop of shame that your intuition injects in you, something more than being on the brink of a climax.

“You’re so sensitive, my love, did the slaps make it worse?.” He coos, serving you slap after slap after slap, nothing worse than what would make his hand and your mound sizzle. “Good, you can piss if you need to, there is nothing to be embarrassed about with me.”

You’re so cute, he could never understand how people could stand marrying for anything other than love. The worry that his heart will expand too quickly and splatter around the rungs of his ribcage, that you feel when you lay with someone you love, is a sensation he would slay his kin for. He is aware of its luxury, that he is lucky to experience it at all during his life on the spaceship he will live and die in. He sends a brisk thank you to his ancestors for taking yours with them when they departed and took flight from Earth, the beauty of your swollen tits and stomach will honor them.

And oh, how he wants to make you come on his tongue and around his fingers and every other way possible. In the depths of his soul, Jacaerys wants you to feel as if you were falling from a very high tower, a royal with no choice but to fall skull first into the great nothingness of the beyond. The fragments would adorn the cobblestone just like how your tears frame your lashes.

No, the first time you shatter and crumble to nothing will be around his cock. Stardust sprinkled over the void, scattered like ashes.

Perhaps the worst sin Jacaerys will commit tonight is that he is too impatient to continue the foreplay. He knows that no amount would prevent you from enduring any pain, but he also knows that he did not do enough. He, and the celestial Gods hidden in the stellar bushes, wants you to feel the burn of his cock stretching your walls. Commencing a wedding of sorts between your cervix and his throbbing tip.

“W-wait, ah!”

“Be pliant for me and take my seed, stop being so stubborn and let yourself have this, allow it to blossom and it can just be us for the next round, sweetling. I swear it.”

He will guide you through all the details later.

The neon waves crash against the windows, and the led scrawlings on the pillars glitch and scramble and unscramble themselves as you come together. The atrium dissolves into numbers after you’ve fallen asleep for the final time in the chamber, Jacaerys’s hand clutching your belly and your head pillowed on his chest. Giant wings cradle the pair in their center, ghastly creaking and groaning as they slice through the shifting rainbow patterns. Each moon along the journey is full and winking.

Jacaerys thinks he sees a comet fly over your heads when he’s halfway to consciousness, and he traces the valyrian letters for ‘I love you’ into the bloated skin of your stomach.

The chapel has mysteriously changed places on Dragonstone by the time of your actual wedding, the statue lies dormant.

[novaursa]

Legacy (future of the realm)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Canon events and timeline do not match the plot of the story.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous chapter: dragon in the garden

- Next part: the calling

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

You sat on a carved stone bench, your hands folded neatly in your lap as you watched Damon. Your son was sprawled on a soft blanket spread over the grass, his tiny hands reaching for a toy carved into the shape of a lion. His eyes were wide with wonder as he cooed at the toy.

Ser Barristan Selmy stood a few paces away, his ever-watchful gaze scanning the gardens. Though Highgarden seemed a safe haven compared to King’s Landing, Barristan remained vigilant. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, a silent testament to his unwavering dedication to your safety.

The sound of measured footsteps drew your attention. Turning slightly, you saw a man approach—a tall figure with dark hair and a dignified air, his gait steady despite the cane he used for support. Willas Tyrell, heir to Highgarden, inclined his head politely as he came closer.

“Lady Y/N,” he greeted, his tone warm yet respectful. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

You offered a small smile, gesturing for him to join you. “Not at all, Lord Willas. Please, sit.”

Willas settled onto the bench beside you, his cane resting against the edge. His gaze shifted to Damon, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “He’s a striking child. The union of lion and dragon has produced quite the heir.”

You followed his gaze, your expression softening as you watched your son. “He is my greatest joy,” you said quietly. “And a reminder of all that must be protected.”

Willas nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Highgarden is honored to host you and your family. My grandmother speaks highly of you.”

You chuckled lightly. “Lady Olenna speaks highly of few, but I will take that as a compliment.”

“She’s not wrong,” Willas said, his tone sincere. “You’ve endured much and yet remain composed, regal even. It’s... admirable.”

You glanced at him, noting the honesty in his words. “Endurance is a lesson taught early in my family,” you said, your voice steady. “But tell me, Lord Willas, what brings you to the gardens today?”

Willas hesitated briefly, as though weighing his words. “I came to see you, if I’m honest. I’ve heard much about you—your strength, your wisdom. And I wished to offer my gratitude.”

“Gratitude?” you echoed, your brow furrowing slightly.

“For Sansa Stark,” he clarified. “It was no secret that she was to be my bride before circumstances changed. Though the marriage never came to pass, I’ve heard how you’ve looked after her, protected her even.”

You inclined your head, your gaze thoughtful. “Sansa is like a sister to me. Protecting her is something I do not consider a burden.”

Willas smiled faintly. “Still, it is a kindness not everyone would extend. The Starks have suffered greatly, and to know she has someone like you watching over her... it eases the mind.”

You fell silent for a moment, your thoughts briefly drifting to Sansa and the many trials she had endured. “The world has been unkind to her,” you said softly. “But she is stronger than she knows.”

Willas studied you for a moment, his expression contemplative. “And you? Have you found kindness in the world?”

You blinked, taken aback by the question. “Kindness is a rarity,” you admitted. “But it exists, in small, fleeting moments. Sometimes, that is enough.”

Willas nodded, his gaze once again shifting to Damon, who was now babbling happily as he tried to roll onto his side. “Perhaps he will grow up in a world where kindness is more than a fleeting moment.”

You smiled faintly, hope flickering in your chest. “Perhaps.”

Ser Barristan cleared his throat subtly, drawing your attention. You turned to see him watching you closely, his expression unreadable. “Is everything well, my lady?” he asked, his tone polite but firm.

“Everything is fine, Ser Barristan,” you assured him, though you noted the slight tension in his stance.

Willas rose to his feet, retrieving his cane. “I won’t keep you any longer,” he said, his tone courteous. “Thank you for indulging me, Lady Y/N.”

“Thank you for your company, Lord Willas,” you replied, inclining your head.

As he walked away, you turned your attention back to Damon, who had finally managed to grasp the lion-shaped toy. His delighted giggle brought a smile to your lips, even as the weight of Willas’s words lingered in your mind. 

The afternoon sun streamed through the windows of Highgarden’s solar, casting dappled light on the polished wooden table where Tywin Lannister sat. Across from him, Lady Olenna Tyrell reclined in her chair with an air of practiced ease, her sharp eyes shining with amusement. Lord Mace Tyrell, seated to Olenna’s left, was all smiles, his boisterous tone filling the room as he gestured animatedly.

“Such a fine boy, Lord Tywin,” Mace was saying, his voice carrying a note of pride as if he had somehow contributed to Damon’s existence. “A true union of two great houses. The talk of the Reach, I assure you.”

Tywin’s expression was as composed as ever, his piercing green eyes fixed on Mace with faint disinterest. “The boy is six moons old, Lord Tyrell. Talk of him should concern his health and upbringing, not idle gossip.”

Olenna smirked, her gaze shifting between the two men. “Ah, but idle gossip is the lifeblood of noble houses, isn’t it?” she remarked dryly. “And it seems your son is quite the subject of fascination, Lord Tywin. Already, several of our bannermen are inquiring about potential matches.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened slightly, though his voice remained measured. “The boy is an infant. He will not be bartered away like a commodity.”

Olenna leaned forward, her cane resting lightly against her lap. “Bartered? Goodness, how harsh you make it sound. We’re speaking of alliances, Tywin, not cattle. Surely you understand the value of securing the boy’s future.”

“The boy’s future,” Tywin replied coolly, “is not a matter for speculation. It will be decided when the time is appropriate—by me and his mother.”

Mace chuckled nervously, attempting to mediate. “Of course, of course. No one is suggesting anything immediate. But you must admit, the union of lion and dragon has... captivated many. Why, Lord Florant himself—”

“Lord Florant,” Tywin interrupted, his voice cutting through Mace’s like a knife, “should concern himself with his duties, not my son’s future.”

Olenna tilted her head, her amusement undiminished. “You’re protective, Tywin. Understandable. But you must admit, it’s rather endearing to see how much sway the boy already holds. The nobility of the Reach is positively buzzing.”

Tywin’s gaze hardened, though his tone remained firm. “Let them buzz. Damon will not be paraded as a prize. His place is with his family, under my protection, and that of his mother.”

Olenna’s smirk softened into something more contemplative. “And what of his mother? She’s a clever one, Tywin. A rare combination of grace and steel. I imagine she has her own thoughts on what’s best for the boy.”

Tywin didn’t respond immediately, his expression unreadable. Finally, he said, “She understands what is necessary for Damon’s upbringing. That is all that matters.”

Olenna chuckled softly, her sharp gaze never leaving Tywin’s face. “Necessary. Always so practical.”

Mace cleared his throat awkwardly, sensing the tension. “Perhaps we should focus on the feast preparations,” he suggested, his tone overly cheerful. “After all, we wouldn’t want to disappoint our guests.”

Olenna sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Yes, yes, let’s discuss the feast. Though I must say, Tywin, it’s a pity you’re so resistant to the idea of alliances. The boy could command loyalty from half the realm before he can even walk.”

Tywin stood, his movements deliberate and controlled. “I will not sacrifice my son’s future for the fleeting whims of others,” he said, his voice cold and final. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there are matters I must attend to.”

As Tywin left the solar, Olenna watched him go, her expression thoughtful. “He’s stubborn, I’ll give him that,” she remarked to Mace, her tone laced with both admiration and exasperation. “But that boy... he’ll shape the future of this realm, whether Tywin likes it or not.”

Mace nodded eagerly, though his mind was already on the feast and the praise he hoped to garner from the assembled nobles. Olenna, however, remained silent, her sharp mind turning over the possibilities as she considered the Lannister-Targaryen child and the power he represented.

Tywin found you sitting on a stone bench near the edge of Highgarden’s famed lavender field, cradling Damon in your arms. The soft purple blooms swayed gently in the warm breeze, their sweet scent filling the air, but Tywin’s mood was far from serene. His jaw was set, his expression stern as he approached, the earlier conversation with Olenna and Mace Tyrell clearly still weighing on him.

You looked up as he neared, your sharp eyes catching the tension in his stride. Damon cooed softly, his tiny hands clutching at the folds of your gown, oblivious to the gravity of the moment.

“Tywin,” you greeted, your voice calm, though your tone carried a weight of its own. “You’re troubled.”

He stopped a few paces away, his hands clasped behind his back. “Troubled, no. Irritated, perhaps. Olenna and her endless meddling have a way of testing one’s patience.”

You offered a faint smile, though your expression turned serious. “Then I regret that what I’m about to say will likely test it further.”

Tywin’s brow furrowed, his gaze narrowing. “What is it?”

You adjusted Damon in your arms, ensuring he was comfortable before meeting Tywin’s piercing gaze. “I need to speak with you about something important. Something I cannot delay any longer.”

He gestured for you to continue, his posture stiff with expectation.

“I need to go to High Heart,” you said evenly, your voice steady despite the weight of the words.

Tywin’s expression darkened immediately, his sharp mind connecting the dots with alarming speed. “High Heart? The very place where you were captured by my men before being brought to Harrenhal?” His voice was low, edged with a rare note of incredulity. “Do you realize what you’re asking? The Riverlands are far from stable, and High Heart is no place for you or our son.”

“I know,” you replied, your tone unwavering. “But this is not a whim, Tywin. It is something I need to do.”

He stepped closer, his eyes searching yours for an explanation. “You need to do this? Why? What could possibly compel you to return to such a dangerous place?”

You hesitated, the memories of your capture and the strange dreams that had led you to High Heart flickering through your mind. Damon stirred slightly in your arms, and you took a deep breath before answering. “I cannot explain it fully. But I was drawn there before, and I am drawn there again. There are... answers I must seek, truths I must confront.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his irritation now laced with concern. “Truths? Answers? From what? From whom? You are speaking in riddles.”

You sighed, lowering your gaze briefly before meeting his eyes again. “There is something... someone... that calls to me. High Heart holds a connection I cannot ignore. It is not merely curiosity—it is necessity.”

“Necessity,” he repeated coldly, his voice laced with skepticism. “What necessity could justify endangering yourself, our son, and our position?”

“I would never endanger Damon,” you said firmly, your grip on the child tightening protectively. “Nor would I make this request lightly. But I must go, Tywin. I cannot explain it any more clearly than that.”

Tywin’s eyes burned with intensity as he stared at you, his mind clearly racing. Finally, he shook his head, his tone cutting. “This is madness. Even if the Riverlands were secure, which they are far from being, we are not prepared for such a journey. High Heart is isolated, and the dangers along the way are numerous.”

“I know,” you said softly, your voice calm but resolute. “But I am asking you to trust me. To allow me to do this.”

Tywin scoffed, though there was more frustration than malice in the sound. “Trust is earned, and this... this is a request that borders on folly.”

You stood, holding Damon close as you took a step toward him. “You’ve trusted me before, Tywin, even when it went against your better judgment. I am asking for that trust again.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he exhaled sharply, his tone measured but firm. “I will consider it. But do not expect miracles. The logistics alone make this request—”

“Thank you,” you interrupted gently, surprising him with your gratitude. “That is all I ask.”

Tywin’s gaze softened ever so slightly as he looked down at Damon, who blinked up at him with innocent curiosity. “You may find my patience finite,” he said, his voice quieter now. “But you have always had my ear, even when you test its limits.”

You smiled faintly, the tension between you easing just enough to allow a moment of understanding. “And you have always had mine.”

Tywin straightened, his commanding presence reasserting itself. “We will speak of this again when I have assessed the risks. Until then, focus on what is here and now.”

You nodded, watching as he turned and strode away, his cloak billowing behind him. 

The humid air of Essos clung to the small room where Tyrion Lannister and Varys sat. The faint hum of distant chatter from the bustling port city filtered through the cracked shutters, mingling with the scent of salt and spice carried by the breeze. Tyrion leaned back in his chair, a goblet of wine in hand, his sharp eyes fixed on the Spider sitting across from him. Varys, as usual, was impeccably composed, his hands folded neatly in his lap as he watched Tyrion with a faint, unreadable smile.

“So, Lord Varys,” Tyrion began, swirling the wine in his goblet, “once you’ve delivered me to our dragon queen, what then? Will you bask in her fiery gratitude or find some other noble cause to meddle in?”

Varys’s smile didn’t waver, though his gaze grew slightly distant. “There is always work to be done, my lord. The realm is never without its needs, and I serve the realm.”

Tyrion snorted, taking a long sip of his wine. “Ah, the realm. That abstract thing you’ve pledged your life to. How noble. But surely you’ve something more tangible in mind.”

Varys tilted his head, considering Tyrion’s words. “There is another who needs my help more immediately, someone whose future may shape the realm in ways we cannot yet foresee.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, leaning forward with interest. “Another? Let me guess—my stepmother, the Lady Y/N? She could certainly use an ally with all the vipers circling her at court.”

A faint chuckle escaped Varys, a rare sound that seemed almost amused. “A wise guess, my lord, but not entirely correct.”

Tyrion frowned, his curiosity piqued. “Not her? Then who?”

Varys leaned forward slightly, his expression carefully measured. “Her son. Your brother, Damon.”

Tyrion blinked, momentarily taken aback. He set his goblet down, his lips curving into a wry smile. “My brother? Well, that’s unexpected. I must say, I didn’t peg you as the sentimental type, Varys. But do go on.”

Varys’s tone remained even, though his gaze sharpened. “Damon is not merely a child, my lord. He is the union of lion and dragon, a symbol of a legacy that carries weight far beyond his tender age. His existence alone has already stirred whispers across the realm. He will need protection and guidance if he is to survive the world he was born into.”

Tyrion leaned back, folding his arms across his chest as he regarded Varys with an amused glint in his eye. “Protection and guidance, you say? And here I thought my father was the overbearing parent. Best not let him catch wind of your noble intentions for young Damon. He might start sharpening his quill for a strongly worded letter.”

Varys allowed himself a small smile. “Your father is a man of practicality, Lord Tyrion. I doubt he would begrudge anyone taking steps to ensure his heir’s safety.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, his smile turning sly. “His heir? Funny, I thought that self proclaimed title still belonged to my sister. You seem awfully confident in Damon’s place in my father’s heart.”

Varys met Tyrion’s gaze steadily. “Tywin Lannister is many things, but a fool he is not. Damon represents the future of House Lannister and House Targaryen. He will be the bridge between two great houses, if he survives.”

Tyrion’s expression sobered slightly, his sharp mind piecing together the implications. “If he survives. That’s quite the qualifier, isn’t it? You think he’s in danger?”

Varys’s expression didn’t falter, though there was a faint shadow in his eyes. “A child born into power is always in danger, my lord. But Damon’s bloodline makes him both a prize and a threat. There are those who would see him removed from the game before he can even begin to play it.”

Tyrion sighed, reaching for his wine again. “And you, ever the altruist, will ensure he’s not removed. I suppose that’s commendable in its own way. Though I imagine my father might find it less so.”

Varys inclined his head slightly, his smile faint but unyielding. “The realm has need of such children, Lord Tyrion. They represent the possibilities of a future unburdened by the sins of their forebears. If I can aid in shaping that future, I will.”

Tyrion regarded him for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. Finally, he raised his goblet in a mock toast. “To Damon, then. May he inherit all the ambition and cunning of my father without the accompanying bitterness.”

Varys chuckled softly, though his gaze remained contemplative. “To Damon,” he echoed, his voice quiet but resolute.

The feast was grand, as one would expect from Highgarden, with long tables draped in emerald and gold, laden with bountiful platters of food. The hall was filled with the hum of conversation, the clinking of goblets, and the lilting tunes of the musicians stationed at the far end of the room. Lord Mace Tyrell, in his typical boisterous fashion, was holding court among a group of lesser lords, his laughter booming over the polite chuckles of his audience.

You sat beside Tywin at the high table, your posture poised as you sipped from a goblet of watered wine. Tywin’s expression was as unreadable as ever, though you could sense his growing irritation with the endless chatter around him. His pale green eyes flicked over the crowd, occasionally narrowing when Mace’s laughter grew particularly grating.

“This is a spectacle,” you murmured softly, leaning slightly toward Tywin. “But I suspect it’s not to your taste.”

Tywin glanced at you, his lips twitching into the faintest semblance of a smirk. “Your insight, as always, is impeccable.”

You smiled, turning your attention back to the revelers below. The lords and ladies of the Reach moved gracefully through the hall, their laughter light and musical, their movements elegant as they danced to the lively tunes.

Tywin’s voice broke through your thoughts, low and deliberate. “It’s been some time since I’ve seen you on a dance floor.”

You raised an eyebrow, turning to meet his gaze. “I wasn’t aware you were keeping track.”

“I notice many things,” he replied, his tone neutral, though his eyes carried a hint of something more. “Would you care to remind me how well you move?”

You blinked, surprised. “Are you asking me to dance?”

Tywin inclined his head slightly, his expression betraying none of the inner workings of his mind. “I am.”

For a moment, you hesitated, studying him carefully. It wasn’t like Tywin to indulge in something as frivolous as dancing, especially in such a public setting. But the faint challenge in his gaze was unmistakable, and you weren’t one to back down.

Rising gracefully, you extended your hand toward him. “Very well, my lord. Let us remind these lords and ladies how it’s done.”

Tywin stood, his commanding presence drawing the attention of those nearby. Taking your hand, he led you to the center of the hall, where the other dancers parted to make way for the formidable Hand of the King and his Targaryen wife. The musicians adjusted their tune, transitioning to a stately waltz that suited the moment perfectly.

As Tywin placed one hand on your waist and clasped your hand with the other, you couldn’t help but note the ease with which he moved. Despite his reserved nature, there was a confidence to his movements, a precision that spoke of a man who rarely did anything without mastery.

“You’re surprisingly skilled at this,” you remarked, your voice low enough for only him to hear.

“I was taught properly,” he replied, his tone as matter-of-fact as ever. “Though it’s not a skill I’ve often found useful.”

“Yet here you are,” you said, your lips curving into a faint smile. “A rare indulgence, I imagine.”

“Perhaps,” he admitted, his eyes meeting yours. “Or perhaps I simply wished to remind these people that their idle chatter is beneath notice.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle softly at that. “Ever the strategist.”

Tywin’s lips twitched again, the closest thing to a smile he allowed himself. “And you? Are you enjoying yourself, or are you as bored as I am?”

Your gaze flicked briefly to the high table, where Mace continued to regale his audience with tales of his supposed accomplishments. “Let’s just say I’m grateful for the distraction.”

He nodded slightly, his expression softening. “Then we’re agreed.”

The two of you moved seamlessly across the floor, your steps perfectly in sync. Around you, the gathered lords and ladies watched in awe, their whispers barely audible over the music. It was a rare sight indeed to see Tywin Lannister partaking in such an activity, let alone with a partner as captivating as you.

As the dance drew to a close, Tywin brought you to a halt with a final flourish, his grip on your waist firm but respectful. The room erupted into polite applause, though neither of you paid it much mind. His eyes remained locked on yours, his expression inscrutable but undeniably focused.

“Thank you for indulging me,” he said quietly, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

You inclined your head, a hint of amusement in your eyes. “The pleasure was mine, my lord.”

As Tywin escorted you back to the high table, you couldn’t help but notice the shift in the atmosphere. The lords and ladies of Highgarden were reminded, in that moment, of the power and unity you and Tywin represented—a union of lion and dragon, commanding respect even in the most mundane of settings.

[syndrossi]

Okay, this takes place shortly after the NYE prompt for Daemon bearing down on Winterfell to reclaim his boys. Daemon's chosen backstory for full Cersei unhingedness is that he's Rhaegar Targaryen and he survived the Trident to join his family in exile in Essos.

x~x~x

“I am told you begged for an audience.”

It had been so long since Cersei had last heard him speak, the prince she had longed to marry so long ago. She did not count his battle cry in the yard as dragonflame poured from the sky to roast Robert like the beady-eyed boar of a man he was—that had been the furious roar of a dragon come to reclaim his crown.

Rhaegar’s voice had been warm honey before, enough to melt a girl from the inside, and his purple eyes dark and deep, wounded in a way that only she could heal. Handsome men and pretty boys had come and gone from court over the years, but all had paled beside the memory of his beauty.

The sadness was absent from his eyes now, which were both lighter and harder. They burn. Just as she had come to burn over the years with every new insult and indignity visited upon her by her brute of a husband. They had both changed. She was no longer that girl who longed to soothe away his heartache.

I want to burn with him.

“I did, Your Grace,” she said, taking a daring step to see what might come of it.

Rhaegar simply watched, unmoving, the suspicion in gaze lending a hardness to his features that did not lessen their beauty. The years made Robert ugly and fat, but he is as a sharpened blade.

He had heirs now to replace those her father’s men had butchered—the boys that Ned Stark had so laughably claimed as his own. Robert had proved the greater fool in believing him, as though Aemon did not look like Rhaegar reborn.

They should have been mine. She would not have sullied his dragon’s blood with dark-haired children as Elia Martell had, or whatever foreign whore from across the Narrow Sea he had been forced to claim as a bride. Or Lyanna Stark.

It was not too late, though. She was young enough to give him more, and secure her own children’s safety. He may demand that Joffrey go to the Wall. But he would be alive, her sweet son. Myrcella was the right age to wed either of his heirs, Baelon or Aemon, and be queen herself someday, a mother of dragons. And Tommen is so young, he is no threat.

Her father was an old man now and still lacked an heir. Perhaps Tommen could be the next lord of Casterly Rock, should Rhaegar decide to strip House Baratheon of Storm’s End.

“Speak, then,” he said, his eyes continuing to burn into her.

“You are without a wife,” she said, drawing nearer to him with each step.

Her dresses had been moved to the guest hall before the wagons had burned, thankfully, and she was wearing one of her favorites: a deep ruby with sleeves of black silk, the bodice heavy and glittering with black pearls and onyx beads. She had worn it on the days that she decided she would lay with Jaime, the Targaryen colors an act of defiance that never penetrated Robert’s thick skull.

“And you would present yourself as an option?” His mouth twisted faintly. “Your husband’s ashes have not fully flown Winterfell yet.”

“My marriage to your cousin was not of my choosing,” she said. He was close enough to touch, if she dared, and she dropped her eyes for a moment, wondering whether he would be enticed by wounded prey—or if he preferred the lion. “It was my duty to my house, nothing more.”

“A house of traitors.”

The vitriol in his voice was enough to make her glance up, startled. It is to be expected, she reminded herself. My father’s betrayal then threatens to doom our house now. How fitting that she should be the one who could save it.

“My heart never wavered,” she said, touching a hand to his arm. She could feel the firm muscle beneath, that of a swordsman. He was the equal of Ser Arthur Dayne. Even in this, Jaime cannot compare. “I was meant to be your queen. Our fathers chose differently, and the realm burned.”

“I will burn the realm again.”

His growl was low and deep, nothing like those haunting songs she remembered, but it shuddered through her with the same intensity. Every inch of her skin felt hot and she wanted desperately to feel his, to see if it burned like hers—like a dragonlord’s must.

She thought about riding him and feeling that heat deep within—and of riding atop his dragon, of soaring above the world and watching the people below mill about like ants.

Cersei was not a dream-addled girl any longer, nor a blushing maid. She had learned to take what she wanted, as Robert had always taken what he wanted. And Rhaegar had known women before her, and taken them too.

Why should he not have seized the Stark girl and been rid of her after the thrill had waned? For all Robert’s drunken weeping, it was no different than what would have happened once he’d wedded her. Rather than Cersei, it would have been his beloved Lyanna suffering an endless parade of whores and bastards.

“Take me as your queen.” She guided his hand to the swell of her breast, longing to drag it lower. “The Westerlands and the Stormlands will flock to your banner.”

His other hand moved faster than she could blink, closing around her wrist in a bone-bruising grip. “Cowards and traitors. What need have I of their allegiance?” He ripped his hand free of hers. “Know this, Lannister. I will burn Casterly Rock and Storm’s End. I will burn the Riverlands and the Vale. I will make a pyre of those who dared take my son from me.”

Her pulse pounded in her throat, equal parts terror and desire, as he leaned in close. “Pray to your Seven that I do not decide to throw you upon it as well.”

[biteofcherry]

Behold! I came back from the Materialists. Instead of getting my review, you shall get a promised... mafia version on John 😆 as per @stargazingfangirl18 cheeky comment 😜

John was born into the mafia ruling family. An heir to the bloody empire. However, s a very young man he didn't see himself part of it. He had a soft, loving heart of his mother, even if his sharp mind and the tactics he was taught to follow were of the future mob boss.

Ignoring his father's yell that he's being reckless and stupid, John slammed the door on his family and ran away, chasing the simple, happy life with his sweetheart - a girl who had nothing to do with the mafia, but everything to do with joy, art, and quiet safety.

A few years passed in that bliss, with John never mentioning the true reason why he isn't keeping in touch with his family. But the dark underworld catches up with him in the most brutal way.

John's whole world shatters as his love becomes a collateral in an attack against him.

With his five month old baby, he returns under his father's protection and to seek revenge.

He's more than angry when his father, barely a few months after burying his wife, tells him that John needs to take a wife. For alliance purposes, for appearance purposes, for the baby to have warm care while John is out spilling blood all over the city.

Still, he agrees. It's just an arrangement. A commodity. A wife to placate the underbosses, to solidify alliance, to provide more power and soldiets yo carry out John's revenge, to take care of the house and the baby.

There won't ever be anything more, because John is convinced his heart is dead and can never feel anything akin to love.

You've heard of the tragedy that struck John. You felt for him and his innocent child. For the love and lofe he got to experience (something you envied him), which were ripped away from him.

It didn't mean you were fully on board with the idea of being married to him, because you knew what to expect - being a nanny and possibly never receiving any affection from your distanced husband, who seemed adamant on forever mourning his lost wife.

You had no delusions about arranged marriages within the mafia, but if your chosen husband was at least single, not in love with another, then there was a chance of slowly building some sort of bond. A kinship, if not love.

With John you were doomed for living in emotional solitude.

But, maybe, living together and caring for the fragile little being will provide the both of you with opportunities to really see each other.

Perhaps, underneath all the pain, John is still capable of that soft vulnerability.

[mqyim]

What Was, What Is

(And Never Shall Be)

brienne of tarth x stark!reader | corporate!brienne x heir!reader | modern!brienne

#: angst, slow burn, emotional hurt/comfort, past and present, secret relationship, mutual pining, forbidden love, parallel timelines, doomed romance, no beta we die with honor

Summary: You weren’t supposed to fall in love—not with her, not like this. But some hearts are foolish enough to try twice. Behind every quiet glance and stolen touch, something ancient stirs: a love too careful to name, too dangerous to keep.

In every lifetime, the world finds new ways to keep you apart.

In every lifetime, you reach for her anyway.

It begins like a secret.

It feels like a promise.

It ends the same way it always does.

A story unfolding across time, where love is rediscovered in a different life… only to be tested all over again.

a/n: this is not my first fic that i've ever posted. but this is the first that i've ever posted on tumblr. and this is also the first that i've written for the gwen fandom. the last fic i've written was way back 2021, so please bare with me XD. this was supposed to be a veryyy long one chapter story. but i'm way too excited to share this that i decided to post it chapter by chapter. and well, thank u for taking interest. comments and reblogs r appreciated! :)

(why is making a draft on tumblr so hard)

———

"I hope that in another life... i get to be chosen by you, Brienne."

It was cold in the north. But you were born in it, growing up here all your life, you grew accustomed to it. Although you did sometimes have a love and hate relationship with it... the cold.

Comforting, grounding. It whispers a serene beauty, its crisp breath wrapping the world in a delicate embrace, where silence reigns and the air shimmers with an ethereal clarity. But now, what you feel is reminding you that it can also be a cruel, unfeeling presence, biting with indifference, leaving the heart hollow and the warmth of trust lost in its icy, unforgiving grasp.

Or perhaps that’s how Brienne makes you feel in this moment, as you gaze into her eyes. Even now, as they meet yours with an emotionless stare, you can’t help but be captivated by their undeniable beauty, a beauty that cuts deeper than you’d like to admit.

The silence stretched between you like a thick rope, pulling taut with every passing second. You wanted to say something — anything — to break the stillness. But the words felt lodged in your throat, as if they were forbidden, as if speaking them would break something that could never be repaired.

"I can’t choose you," Brienne’s voice was low, almost lost in the wind, but it cut through the stillness with cruel clarity. She took a step back when she saw you trying to approach, her expression unreadable, but you could see the way her shoulders tensed, the way her jaw tightened as if keeping herself from trembling. "You know this."

You stilled and opened your mouth to speak, to argue, to beg. “Brienne, please—” But the words crumbled in the face of the truth that had long loomed over both of you. The truth that your families, your duties, and your futures were tied in ways that no feeling could ever undo. You choked back a sob, forcing yourself to speak through the lump in your throat. “I don’t want this. I never wanted this. You promised me—”

Her eyes flickered, but she quickly masked it, her face turning cold. "You don't understand," Brienne interrupted, her tone biting, sharper than you expected. "This is for your own good. You can't see it now, but one day, you'll thank me for this. You’ll see that this was always how it had to be."

The harshness of her words landed like a blow, and for a moment, your heart stilled. Her words were not the ones you expected, and they stung deeper than any rejection could. You stood frozen, staring at her as if searching for a trace of the tenderness you once knew.

Brienne took another step back, her eyes briefly flickering with something unspoken, before she turned and walked toward the door, her movements stiff and deliberate. Without looking back, she left the room, the echo of her footsteps growing faint.

The wind howled louder, and you drew your cloak tighter around you, as if it could protect you from the cold reality of what was to come.

"You promised me, under the weight of stars, that we would run away together just so you could have me all to yourself..."

——

The shsrp click of your heels echoed through the dimly lit hallway, a lonely rhythm in the silence of after-hours. The office had long since emptied, but you lingered—just now making your way out. As you passed one of the balconies, a flicker of movement caught your eye.

And then you saw her.

You slowed to a halt, gaze drawn—caught—by the figure standing alone beneath the glow of the city lights. Tall, unmistakable, her silhouette cast in quiet strength. Brienne Tarth.

You weren’t close. Not really. But you knew who she was.

Everyone did.

That tall, blonde woman with the kind of presence that silenced rooms and the most captivating blue eyes you’d ever seen. She works in compliance. Ethics and corporate integrity. You knew her for a year now.

Brienne’s sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, her coat draped loosely over her shoulders. A cigarette glowed between her fingers, the ember flaring briefly as she took a slow drag. She leaned on the railing, posture relaxed, gaze distant—fixed somewhere beyond the city lights.

You'd always been curious about her. Fascinated, really. But you'd never dared to get too close. Until now.

This was your chance.

So you took it.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” you said casually, stepping up beside the railing, leaving just enough space between you.

Brienne glanced at you, her profile sharp in the low light. She exhaled slowly, smoke curling like silk from her lips.

“I don’t,” she said simply, flicking ash from the end. “Not usually.”

She looked back out at the skyline, quiet for a moment. Then, softer she added, “... long day.”

This was the closest you’d ever been to her.

Close enough to see the faint creases of fatigue around her eyes, the way the city lights caught in the pale strands of her hair. Close enough to smell the lingering sharpness of smoke beneath her cologne.

“Do you usually stay this late?” you asked, voice softer now—almost hesitant.

Brienne’s eyes flicked toward you again and shook her head.

“No. Not really,” she admitted, her voice low and even.

She paused, then exhaled—not just smoke this time, but something heavier.

“There was a client pushing for us to approve a deal I didn’t trust,” she continued. “Too many loopholes, too little accountability. They pulled out after I refused to sign. It’s done now, but it left a mess.”

You nodded slowly, watching her profile as the tension in her jaw eased.

"Sounds like you did the right thing,” you said, offering a small, genuine smile. “Not everyone would’ve held their ground like that.”

Brienne let out a quiet huff—something like a laugh. “Maybe. But it makes me unpopular at board meetings.”

“Well,” you murmured, nudging her lightly with your elbow, “I think that just makes you more interesting.”

And for the first time, Brienne turned fully toward you. Her side still rested against the railing, an elbow propped casually as she studied you with a quiet intensity. The corner of her mouth lifted—just slightly—but it was enough to make your heart skip.

Without breaking eye contact, she reached into her pocket and pulled out her cigarette case, offering it to you. You hesitated for only a moment before taking one, the paper cool against your fingers. You placed it between your lips, and without a word, she took out her lighter, holding it up.

As she flicked it to life, you leaned in, letting the flame catch. The soft hiss of the lighter filled the silence before you straightened up again, the cigarette now safely in place.

When you glanced up, you caught her watching you, her gaze flickering with amusement.

"Didn't know the boss's daughter smoked too," she teased, her tone light but with a knowing edge. Her lips curled into a smirk as she lowered the lighter and slid it back into her pocket. "Guess we all have our secrets."

You couldn't help but laugh softly, the sound surprisingly warm between the two of you. “Guess so,” you replied, taking a slow drag from the cigarette. “Not every heir is as straight-laced as they seem.”

Brienne’s gaze softened, a little less guarded than before. "Maybe that's what makes you interesting," she said quietly, her voice unusually gentle.

You took another drag from your cigarette, letting the smoke curl into the cool night air. The city stretched out before you, its lights twinkling like distant stars, but in that moment, it felt like the two of you were suspended in a world all your own.

For a second, neither of you spoke. It was peaceful, yet there was an unspoken understanding between you now—a thread of connection that hadn’t been there before. Formed with only a few exchange of words.

Brienne glanced at you, her expression shifting slightly. “So… what kept you here this late?”

You hesitated, caught off guard by the question. You exhaled slowly, offering a shrug, as if the answer didn’t matter. “Just… finishing up some things,” you said, the words coming out almost too quickly, too curt.

Brienne seemed to catch the shift in your tone but chose not to press. She simply nodded, her silence enough to suggest she didn’t mind the omission.

Brienne shifted slightly, standing up straighter, her gaze lingering on you a little longer than necessary. “You should go home,” she said softly, almost as if she didn’t want to break the moment. “It’s late.”

You nodded, reluctant but not ready to let go just yet. "Yeah, you're right."

You took a breath and let the quiet hang between you both for a moment before you spoke again, almost against your will. “Maybe we should do this again sometime. You know, when it’s… less late.”

“Maybe we should,” she said after a moment of consideration, her voice softer than before, but there was something unspoken in the way she said it that made your chest tighten.

She turned to walk back inside, but then, with one last glance over her shoulder, she looked at you, her eyes holding a spark of something... warmer. Without a word, she was gone, leaving you standing there, watching her disappear into the hallway.

You stayed there a moment longer, watching the city flicker beneath you—heart steady, but full.

[bonniebird]

Aemond X Fem!Targ!Reader

Warnings:

Summery: In an attempt to keep peace, Viserys wed Rhaenyra's only daughter to Aemond. Years later Alicent finds herself caught between the loyalty to her son or her daughter-in-law. With Aemond showing he cares very little about what happens to the mother of his heir he is surprisingly enraged when she vanishes one afternoon during a council meeting.

Part 1 here

.

Aemond crumpled the paper in his hands as his fury began to make him tremble. Taking a deep breath to steady himself he let out a low seethed puff of breath that growled out between gritted teeth.

“My Prince.” One of the council members said. Aemond ignored them as he stormed to the door, ripping it open hard enough to startle the guard on the other side as the heavy wood made loud protests against being opened so furiously. His footsteps forewarned his appearance. Echoing doom as he walked the corridors. He reached Helaena’s apartments and found his mother waiting for him. She was sitting, lounging, in one of the armchairs looking out at the sea through the wide window that illuminated the empty room. She lazily sipped at the goblet in her hand as she looked at him. He stopped and looked around the empty room from the doorway. She smiled at him and raised her eyebrows.

“Do you need something, Aemond?” She asked. His eyes flicked over to her and he shook his head.

“Where is she?” He snapped.

“Who?” Alicent asked and looked at him with a devious innocence.

“My sister, where is she?” Aemond demanded and took a step further into the room. Alicent took a moment, sipping her drink and letting her hand holding the goblet swing out lazily to drape over the side of her chair. Not a drop spilled.

“My poor boy. You do seem to be having trouble keeping track of your women.” She smiled to herself as he stamped closer. He would have been intimidating to her. But now he looked little more than a large toddler stamping his feet.

“She has been exchanging letters with my wife! I WANT MY SON!” Aemond lost his temper and leaned down over Alicent. She sat up in the chair. Her free hand reached up to embrace his cheek and she smiled sadly. 

“This is the stress of helping your brother. Let the council make some decisions and take some time to rest.” Alicent said in a patronising tone. Aemond shrank back and gave her a disgusted look. 

“Perhaps it is time you sobered up, mother.” Turning on his heels he stormed out of view. After a few moments, Alicent got up to find Helaena, stopping at the door. A wilted plant was shoved into a corner. With a shrug, she tipped the rest of her water from her goblet into the pot and smiled to herself.

Helaena was not found until late in the evening. Despite being summoned multiple times, Aemond had to go to her. They managed to meet right outside the doors of the throne room. Aemond hadn’t expected her to be there and looked quite surprised for a moment. Helaena’s expression was unreadable. She gave the impression that this was always where she had intended to come across Aemond. 

“Where is my wife?” Aemond asked as he took in the sight of his sister. She was wearing a dark green dress so dark you could mistake it for being cut from black cloth. As calmly as if he’d asked her about the weather, she answered.

“Not here.” Her voice was soft and soothing. He scoffed, swallowed a slew of vulgar words and took a threatening step towards her. Helaena took a step forward herself, unflinching and fearless. She held Aemond’s gaze and he felt a shiver of hesitation crawl down his spine.

“You know where she is and I demand to know.” He tried to control the tone of his voice, afraid she would hear the trembling in his breath. “She has my son.”

“I knew where she was. But she is not there any more. You should not worry about the children. I know my sister-by-law well. I trust her.” Helaena smiled as if she was reassuring him but Aemond let his head bow low as he closed his eyes. It was always frustrating trying to get a clear answer from his sister.

“She is my enemy. HE is my heir. Of course, I should worry.” He muttered out as if he were sick of explaining something simple to a child. Helaena smiled and looked at him as if he had just solved a great mystery for her.

“She has never been your enemy. But you have always thought the worst of her. No wonder you allowed her love to be taken from you by someone else.” Helaena turned to leave. For some reason, a reason Aemond could not name or explain, those words squeezed his chest. As if his sister had reached right into his chest, gripped his heart and twisted for good measure. You were HIS wife. His. If he liked you or not it didn’t matter. No one else could have you. Helaena had retreated into the corridors of the keep. Aemond, stood alone outside the throne room. He was uncertain what the writhing feeling in the pit of his stomach was or what the ache in his chest meant. All he knew for sure. 

He should have left Helaena alone.

**********************

The wagon slowed and stopped a short distance from the men. Davos stepped away from the small camp and watched carefully before he was beckoned over. A group of men followed him from the camp and he stopped short at the wagon as the men who had stopped it pulled back the fabric cover. It revealed a small group, four women and among them, a young girl, frightened and wide eyed. Unmistakably Targaryen.

Davos glanced around and saw the men looking at him, waiting for a command. Sucking in a quick breath and bouncing on the balls of his feet he tried to look as if he knew what he was doing.

“You… urm… you are in lands…under the rules of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Declare your name.” Davos said and cleared his throat a little as he finished talking, hoping that he looked tall and formidable. 

“We are travelling to join (Y/N) Targaryen, daughter of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen. The queen’s half sister has sent us to the vale and instructed us to travel this way.” One lady with long dark hair spoke up. Davos looked at the girl carefully before motioning to his men.

“Keep them here. Delay the plans to move on until later in the day.” With that, he turned on his heels and hurried towards the small camp. Men were already taking down the tens and loading them into carts. Shouts followed Davos to halt the preparations to move until further notice. At the centre of the camp was a small tent surrounded by men guarding carefully. Each armed and looking around as if they expected an attack from every direction. Davos ducked as he entered the tent. There was a raised bed made of small trees, one of his men had spent a good portion of the day crafting the makeshift bed for the princess who sat with silver hair spilling over her shoulders. She smiled as she looked at Davos, the baby in her arms charming her with gurgles and squeals.

“There is a wagon. The women in it claim they were sent by your aunt… the girl with them is Targaryen. Of that I am certain.” Davos said quickly. He found himself smiling when the baby looked at him curiously, squealed and then waved his arms about as Davos let out a light laugh.

“I will go.” You said sweetly. Davos frowned and wanted to object but nodded reluctantly. When he left the tent with you he muttered a quiet curse. He had been quick to take up the request to rescue you when the raven had come. It had not occurred to him that a princess and a baby would need someone more than soldiers to tend to them. A young man hurried to take the baby and vanished inside the tent. Some of the men guarding the tent broke off and followed the two of you.

When the canvas covering the wagon was pulled back there was only time for a breath before the tiny girl surged forward in a silver streak. “(Y/N)” The quiet relieved voice broke out in almost a whisper. Davos watched as the girl clung to you, wrapping herself around you so tightly it was a wonder you could pull in breath. “Mother sent me.”

“I know. Come we shall see the baby together.” You said and your arms cradled the girl as if you planned to never let her go.

“If they are not here to hinder us… we must move.” Davos said. You nodded and paused on your path back to your tent. 

“When should we arrive?” You asked.

“If we push ourselves late in the evening, perhaps early morning.” Davos said hopefully. You nodded and paused to mutter something to the girl who answered in Valyrian. 

“The children and I will be ready… May the women come with me? It will help.” You asked. Glancing back you recognised all of them. Two were women who usually helped Helaena Targaryen, and the other two were highborn ladies who tended to you. One was a cousin of Elinda’s, Adrya Massey, who had become one of your ladies in waiting when you were young, the other a girl from the Reach. A Hightower cousin of Alicent’s you thought, though in truth you couldn’t quite recall.

“If you trust them. Then they are welcome.” Davos said with a nod. You turned back and caught the eye of Adrya who gave a slight nod and encouraged the others to follow her. She marched through soldiers bravely to reach you.

***********************

Cole paused as he was speaking. He realised that Aemond was no longer listening to him and instead was staring up at the sky. When Cole looked up he couldn’t see anything but there was a look on Aemond’s face that had him glancing around.

“Should we have the men take cover?” He asked and Aemond scoffed. 

“It would do little to help them.” Aemond answered. There was a far-off cry. It repeated and echoed out in the sky, silencing the birds and the animals that made homes in the corners of the Red Keep's courtyard. 

 “My horse!” Aemond bellowed. Cole saw several men hurry to fetch the fine chestnut horse Aemond favoured. As Aemond hurried to mount the horse and ordered the gates to be opened Cole saw the sky above them split. A sleek shadow glided down and broke apart the clouds, swirling and singing lazily in the sky. “It’s the princess’s dragon!” Someone said in a hushed whisper.

“Maybe she never left the city.” Another sounded out. Cole had always found your dragon as close to beautiful as a dragon could be. Unusually large for her age the dragon was sleek, graceful and deceptively gentle. The membrane of its wings were gold like the she-dragon Syrax who was known to have laid the egg. Though the rest of the dragon was a pale grey-green colour its body resembled Caraxes, long, slender and sleek. Though Rhaenyra insisted that both you and your dragon were the offspring of her lord husband Laenor and his dragon, respectively, it had never prevented the rumours that you were secretly Daemon’s and your dragon sired by Caraxes. 

“Out of my way!” Aemond shouted as he urged his horse forward. He pushed the horse as fast as it would go as he hurried to find Vhagar. He found the mass of green beast looking up at the dragon that was gliding above singing. She let out a song of her own and received one in response. Aemond could feel his heart pounding. It made his breath come and go quickly. There was a thought in the back of his mind.

~She is finally fleeing the city.~ He shook the idea from his head. He had torn the city apart. It had been likened to Daemon’s days as leader of the gold cloaks.

“Sōvēs, Vhagar!” Aemond commanded once he had dropped into the saddle. He growled with frustration when he had to repeat himself and urge her up. With a heave that could be seen as dramatic Vhagar rose and took flight. 

Something rose in Aemond’s chest as the smaller dragon flirted through the sky around Vhagar who hummed happily. The dragon often tried to follow them, usually to Aemond’s irritation. As the dragon turned Aemond felt as if his insides were stone and they had dropped to his feet. An emptiness filled him as rage poured into his body. The saddle was empty. Aemond again felt a deep pain as if part of him had hoped to find the saddle full. 

“Angōs! Angōs Vhagar!” Aemond shouted with fury. Vhagar turned towards your dragon who obliviously twirled and swung about, dipping in and out of the air that Vhargar’s flight disturbed and using it to glide neatly about them. Vhagar rumbled and let out a furious screech. The ground had moved miles below them in a blur. Vhagar let out a short burst of flames, turning towards the ground as she did, clearing her landing of trees. Aemond gave a shout in frustration as the dragon circled them and then continued on its lazy path through the air and out of sight. Vhagar lay among the smouldering ashes, refusing to rise no matter how Aemond coaxed her up. Disappointment and frustration washed over him as he sat in the sweltering heat and watched the dot in the sky slowly vanish.

[lady-lemonycakes]

(left to right) Queen Visenya Targaryen, Queen Daenaera Targaryen, Queen Rhaenys Targaryen

The Sister-Wives of Aegon the Conqueror, the Three Heads of the Dragon

Queen Daenaera Targaryen was the half-sister and wife of King Aegon I Targaryen, the first Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Her elder half-sisters, Visenya and Rhaenys, were married to Aegon as well. In fact this led to whispers that he married Visenya as it was his duty, Rhaenys out of desire, yet it was Daenaera whom he loved most. She was a dragonrider who rode the dragon Gaelithox.

Daenaera was born on the island of Dragonstone to Aerion Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone, and his wife, Lady Naerys Targaryen. Her parents were said to be lovers in their youth, separated by the actions of Aerion’s grandsire and Naerys’s uncle—Lord Aerys Targaryen—who wed her off to Lord Velaryon so her claim would be forgotten. She only birthed Lord Daemon Velaryon and mostly ruled Driftmark as her husband was far too aged to be concerned with the governance of his land. To seal the deal, he had his grandson marry Lady Valaena Velaryon, a cousin with Targaryen blood, so he would not seek out Lady Naerys. It is with Lady Valaena whom Aerion had the Conquerors with, and after her passing, Aerion was free to wed Naerys and in 17 BC Daenaera was born.  By the time she was born, her father had four children—Visenya, Aegon, Rhaenys, and Orys Baratheon. Daenaera possessed all the ever so sought-after Valyrian traits—her long, white-gold hair, which her mother styled to be bound up in rings day in and day out, and purple eyes reminiscent of amethysts. By the age of fourteen, Daenaera had grown into a beautiful young girl, though standing next to Rhaenys and Visenya, it was often stated that pretty would perhaps be a better word for the youngest Targaryen. She was a shy, dreamy child, more comfortable at her lord father’s side than other children, even her elder siblings. There was no denying she was Lord Aerion’s favorite, especially with her dragon dreams, a coveted ability for those of Valyrian descent, especially since such dreams saved House Targaryen from the Doom. This was perhaps the one thing of note for Lady Daenaera in her youth as she was oft overshadowed by her half-siblings—there was Daemon who was Lord of Driftmark and went on countless voyages, Visenya who trained alongside the boys and became as skilled at arms as any man, Aegon the enigmatic heir whose mere existence made Dany feel lesser than, playful Rhaenys who was loved by any she met, even Orys Baratheon who has been making a name for himself on the island.  According to the legends, both Daenaera and Aegon shared these so-called dragon dreams. While they were not recorded to have been particularly close in their youth, it is said in the tales of Aegon’s Conquest that it was Daenaera’s recurring dreams that planted the seeds in his head for such a feat. It was only after this that Aegon ordered the construction of the Painted Table, which displays an accurate geographical map of Westeros. It would be the pride of Argilac Durrandon, however, that many say pushed Aegon to act.  Aegon called his banners and took counsel with them and his sisters, Daenaera excluded as she was not one of the Ladies of Dragonstone to her mother’s chagrin, and only then did he send out ravens to all the rulers in the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps seen as haughty at the time, though he gave a warning that he would be the one, true king of a united Westeros and that those who bent the knee would keep their lands and titles, while those who did not would be met with Fire and Blood. As bold as it may have been, Aegon and the other two conquerors, Visenya and Rhaenys, made true of their promise. All Seven Kingdoms were brought to heel except for Dorne.  While all five of her siblings played active roles in the Conquest, Daenaera remained on Dragonstone. She ruled the island and ensured their ancestral seat would be guarded. Until she didn’t.  Aegon dreamed of ice and fire, one of the few things he confided in her about. Though she could never quite say the same. Her dreams were never quite as clear as his, always more fragmented than she’d like, leaving her to piece the puzzle together. It was one night on Dragonstone when she had a dream so clear, it was like something calling for her. Urging her to go and seek out this dream for once in her life rather than leave it to her kin to fulfill. And so, she saddles up Gaelithox, and unlike her ancestors who looked West, she was being pulled to the North—the land of ice and little glory. 

Read more on Daenaera Targaryen in House of Memories.

[jkthiighs]

I fell into LotR - chapter 2 || [x reader]

❀lord of the rings/fellowship men x reader (eventually) ➔classic 'girl fell into middle earth' plotline. self indulgent ❀ word count ; 4.4k disclaimer: this chapter might feel weird but it'll make sense in the long run TRUST TRUST

Ensnared. 

       You really should have thought this through. Of course, they would ask for proof; in fact, it would have been suspicious if they hadn’t. So why couldn’t you produce an answer? Anything would do–anything inconsequential. Your mind raced through the timeline of the movies, teeth catching the skin of your lip, searching for something that could suffice. Meanwhile, Gandalf and Elrond were staring you down expectantly, impatiently even, as they waited for your reply. Surely, this woman did not possess more foresight than a sorcerer's capacity? Even more so than the Elven race? 

        “Well, I could tell you of the council members you invited? There's Legolas, son of Thranduil. Gimli, son of Glóin, or Boromir, son of… Well–I’ve forgotten his father's name, but I know he's the steward to… uh, Gondor. A-and he has a brother named Faramir. There’s Aragorn, son of Arathorn II and heir to Isildur. The hobbits–” You had started rambling, but the half-elf cut you off. 

        “Clever words from a clever tongue. Yet cleverness is no proof of innocence. This does not attest to your claim to see the future,” He started. “It only deepens the suspicion that you are a spy. Perhaps in the service of Sauron himself.” 

        Gandalf raised a hand in your defense. “Now, now, Elrond. Lady, uh–what is your name, by chance?”

        “(Y/N).” You offered quietly.

        “Lady (Y/N) deserves a chance to speak in her defense, and perhaps, uh, offer explanations. You and I know very well not everything is as it appears.” Gandalf spoke with a cadence that was slow and steady, and yet a ghost of a smile haunted the corners of his words, a mischief buried just deep enough to wonder if you were imagining it. 

        They don’t trust you, and why would they? You needed something more convincing. “I… I could tell you of your daughter’s decision, Lord Elrond, and your grandchild that results from it. But it’s nothing you haven’t seen yourself, and it does not break your heart any less.” You were fidgeting again, this time with the silk of the tablecloth that was draped around you. ‘Might as well just get it over with, right? What’s the worst that could happen?’

         “I’m sure you’d rather I just tell you about the ring, though... Well,” You took a deep breath before looking the two immortals square in the eye. “Frodo gets the ring to Mordor, but he isn’t the one who destroys it. Gollum takes the ring from Frodo but falls into the fires while holding it, thus ending the power of Sauron.” 

        You expected a reaction. Disbelief or skepticism. A raised eyebrow. Outrage, maybe? But there was nothing, not even a blink. It was like they were frozen. At least for a few moments, anyway. “‘Well’ what, child? Please, do not keep us here all day.” Elrond spoke suddenly, his irritation seeping into his voice once again. You furrowed your brows, confusion plain on your face. “What do you mean? You didn’t hear what I said?” 

        Gandalf sighed, tapping his staff on the ground once or twice as he re-adjusted his stance. “You haven’t said anything. Now, what can you tell us of the Ring?” It was clear the old wizard, as patient as he claimed to be, was getting irritated as well, but you couldn’t understand why. You had told them already, hadn’t you? 

        “The ring will be destroyed in the fires of Mount Doom. That is its fate.” You answered again, this time with a tilt of your head while you studied the pair. Once again, their faces held no reaction. Frozen, unblinking. Could it be that time paused to prevent you from telling them the future? Their future? ‘What is this, a k-drama?’ You decided to test this theory. Before they could scold you again, you spoke; “Gandalf, you will perish fighting the Balrog that lurks within the mines of Moria.” 

        No movement. Their eyes held no indication of understanding, either. ‘Fascinating.’ You would have kept going, if only to see them stuck there while you admired them as if they were statues. But something–no, someone, interrupted. 

“I will not let you tarnish this universe by spoiling its events so soon.”

        You thought it might have been the wizard at first, but he was still standing there, unmoving. Elrond as well. You looked around the room, spinning on your heels. The guards nearby were also frozen, but otherwise, no one else could have produced that voice. You could feel your heart racing, pulse echoing in your ears. 

        “What was that? …God?” You asked tentatively aloud. There was no reply, but time remained anchored in place. “Who are you? Are you the one who brought me here?” You questioned, looking up towards the ceiling–towards the sky, as if it would help apparate the disembodied voice. You weren’t even sure why you had bothered asking or where those questions came from. But the sound was so…otherworldly, that it seemed unlikely that it was anything but.

“You have been chosen.”

        This voice…did not belong to one speaker alone; it was a tapestry of tones, some high, some low, some no louder than breath. It rolled in like midnight mist—low, steady, and velvet-smooth, each word drawn out with patient precision. The voice was neither warm nor cold, neither urging nor warning, yet stern. Like it was inviting you to step forward, to become something more. Beneath its calm exterior lay the faintest thrumming, a subtle reverberation, as though the voice itself had roots that reached deep into the fabric of the world. 

        “Chosen? Chosen for what?” You were still now, listening. Waiting. ‘Wait…should I be asking permission to speak?’ This wasn't the quiet authority that the immortals in front of you exuded; this was…absolute. Looming. Like breathing wrong might warrant punishment. It wasn’t oppressive, per se, not yet. But it was heavy. 

“To be my sword. My champion.” 

        The voice answered, but you could tell it wasn’t in full. You had a million questions, your mind reeling like it did when you first arrived. But what could you say? What could you ask that would compel a god to answer? You decided on the simplest: “Why me?” 

“I needed someone…moldable, with nothing to lose. Become my vessel and be rewarded.”

        The voice was beckoning now, as if a siren’s lure. You felt your anxieties quelled, your mind lulled, and your hands stopped fidgeting. “What…do I have to do?”

“Obey. You will be my weapon. You will strike without question, without hesitation, mercy, or failure.”

        Could this be the work of Saruman? Or Sauron? You didn’t know. You’ve never heard the voice of a god before. But this one didn’t feel evil. All you could wonder is ‘why’, but you had no will to do so besides one: “What is the reward?” At first, there was nothing. A few moments passed, and you could feel a sort of…amusement in the surrounding air. As if a knowing smile. Victory, even.

“You will not survive ‘middle-earth’ as you are now. In exchange for your life service, I will offer you the abilities of a warrior.” 

        The voice melted into your head, coiling around your thoughts, consuming your being. It showed you the rules, the exceptions, and a taste of the power it offered. This entity knew your deepest desires, your lust for acclaim. The need to be seen, known. Praised. You could be renowned. A hero. In this world, in others. All you had to do was accept. All you had to do was sacrifice. You could not choose any power of godlike capacity, but there were others. Your favorite. The Ghost. The weight of the sword in your hand, the finality of its bite. Your own. Heat spread from your stomach, bloomed into your chest. You felt it snake around your heart, squeezing your pulse ever so gently. ‘Be mine, ’ it called. ‘Sacrifice.’ 

        You would never return home, but you never really wanted to, did you? There is no harm in giving away something undesired. You could no longer tell what wants were your own, what thoughts, what feelings. It blended–no, disappeared into nothing. Refusal would end this dream and would have you tossed aside like garbage. Forgotten into the world you came from. You didn’t want that, right? You wanted to be here. You chose this place. Your testing grounds. ‘Accept.’ It cooed. Coerced. Seduced. ‘Accept.’ A flicker of doubt rose up—small, trembling—but it was crushed under the weight of a thousand unseen hands, ushering you toward your fate. Finally, the words rose from your throat: “Okay…I will be your champion.” 

        The entity—no, your god—did not answer, but you felt its satisfaction ripple through the stillness like a hand smoothing silk. And suddenly, without warning, you were wrenched from your body, no longer standing in Rivendell, no longer yourself. Some unseen force hurled your consciousness elsewhere, locking you behind another's eyes, another's flesh. You were a passenger only, bound to observe, bound to learn. You started out young, heir to a great clan: Sakai. You bore his tragedies as your own—the sting of failure, the hollow ache of endless training, the terror of battle crashing onto blood-soaked shores. You lived Jin’s life thread by thread until the weave of it was damn near indistinguishable from your own. Every failure, every broken bone, every skill and victory, all yours to claim. You wielded his katana as if it were an extension of your very arm, and it was. Months went by, bleeding into years. You got what you wanted and became the Ghost. And when the last invader fell, when Jin’s story closed, you were hurled back—snapped into the body where it had all begun—facing the wizard and the elf once more, as if no time had dared to move.

        Were you the same? Maybe. That was up for debate. You barely recognized your own voice, steady and unyielding. A distant part of you missed the anxious girl from moments before—at least you understood her, but did it even matter in the grand scheme of things? You stood in the same body, wore the same borrowed silk, and yet it was as if your bones were heavier, your blood thicker. You were a stranger to yourself. But knowledge thrummed under your skin, restless and alive, and nothing had changed outwardly. Exhaustion clung to your bones, but otherwise, everything seemed untouched. Seemed. You looked down into your empty hands, not having time to ponder what the hell had just happened before the grey old man cleared his throat. Time had resumed, and they were still waiting for your answer. ‘Right…’ It took a second to recall what the three of you had been talking about before you responded. “The Ring’s fate will be the same whether I interfere or not. However, I might be able to save some lives along the way should you permit me to travel alongside the hobbit.” 

        The words left you crisp and sure, but they startled you all the same. When had your fear been replaced by certainty? Lord Elrond furrowed his brows, clearly contemplating your answer, but Gandalf seemed to ignore it altogether. He was staring at you, more so than before. There was something different; he could sense it. Before, you had been merely foreign. Now, there was something else—something coiled around you, silent and strangling, like a serpent enveloping its prey. Yet you stood there, unafraid, like a lamb resting against the jaws of a wolf.

        “Knowing the enemy’s move before they make it could prove useful,” Gandalf said carefully, finally turning his gaze from you to the elf. Elrond, ever the skeptic, shook his head. “You’d place the fate of Middle-Earth into the hands of this…oddity?” You frowned with a few curses in mind, but said nothing. “She has come to us with knowledge no others possess. With war imminent, we are in dire need of allies. At the very least, we should have the council decide together what to do with her.”

         Elrond stepped away, looking out onto the terrace as he pondered your existence. But then something clicked. You could see it in the way he turned to look at you. “Tell me then, clairvoyant. Why do you ask to ‘travel alongside the hobbit’? No such decision has yet been made–or rather, no hobbit has yet offered themselves to bear such a burden.” 

        Your heart skipped a beat, having not even realized you’d slipped. “I told you, I’ve seen the future.” The reply was a matter of fact, like that was all you needed to explain. You could see it was not enough. Not for him. “Besides, hobbits are resilient in ways greater beings overlook,” you added, an attempt at smoothing things over, knowing that was a sentiment in which the wizard would agree.

        Gandalf’s eyes sharpened with intrigue, turning towards Elrond with a knowing raise of his brow. “Resilient they are. We’ve certainly seen enough to understand that fate often falls upon the smallest of shoulders.” The elf was still unconvinced, and he couldn’t fathom why the wizard had already taken your side. The man always had a penchant for taking in strays, it seemed. Elrond’s eyes narrowed. “Even if we believe your claim of foresight, the path to Mordor is not gentle. You might have been able to enter my halls undetected–but stealth alone will not guard you against Sauron’s forces.”

        You raised your chin slightly, but before you could move to speak, you felt your deity’s amusement—anticipation, tickling the back of your mind. A glint from steel across the room caught your attention, a glimmer in the corner of this vast chamber. Something foreign lies neatly arranged upon a stone table–metal gleaming softly under the ripples of pale moonlight. Weaponry–your weapons placed like an offering. A gift of goodwill from your new master. Unmistakably familiar were a curved katana, a matching wakizashi, two elegantly crafted bows, and a set of kunai. A smirk tugged at the corner of your lips. “Stealth is hardly my only strength now, I assure you.”

        “Prove it.” Elrond’s voice is crisp, a direct challenge that pulls you out of your trance. ‘What is it with this guy and proof?’ You gave a polite nod to mask the exasperated sigh that left you, though you were sure he heard it all the same. Elvish acuteness and all that. Slowly, deliberately, you approached your blades. The pair of immortals watching closely, not even realizing the weapon's appearance until the katana was in your hand. A shiver of recognition runs through your veins, your grip instantly comfortable–familiar, an extension of yourself. Jin’s memories pulse at your fingertips. However, in this body, the blade was heavy. Holding it out in front of you tired your arm quickly, and that would not do. Dread filled you as you realized you'd have to dedicate time to strength training…again. Your personal hell: never being able to escape going to the gym, no matter what timeline you were in.

        “How did you sneak weapons in here?” Elrond's voice cut across the hall, demanding and wary. With a quick motion from their lord, the guards nearby took up their bows and aimed their arrows directly at you. “They were not there before,” Gandalf murmurs, fascinated. He was not as concerned with the elf’s actions as he perhaps should have been.

        You turned, looking more at the archers than their lord, calculating the distance. Fear still managed to bite deep in your chest, knowing that if you mistimed a deflect, it would mean your end. But you didn't need to draw it; the katana remained sheathed, and you weren’t here to fight. Not them, anyhow. “Consider it a gesture of goodwill from my…benefactor,” whatever that meant. You responded calmly, turning the blade effortlessly in your grip, every movement elegant, practiced, controlled despite its weight. “I may have come here by mistake, but I wanted to help. I can help. Do you truly consider me a threat, my lord?”

        He said nothing, tension thickening until finally Gandalf breaks it, voice gentle yet firm. “Elrond. She has offered her service willingly, and clearly she has some measure of skill. Again, we should at least bring her before the Council. Let all decide her place.”

        The elf sighed, visibly troubled but finally conceding. “Very well,” He gave an almost imperceptible nod, to which his guards lowered their bows. “You will join the Council on the morrow, but understand this: if you threaten the lives of anyone here or Middle-earth’s fate in any manner, no weapon nor strange ‘benefactor’ will shield you from my wrath.”

        You bow your head respectfully, taking into account the gravity of his words as relief floods through you. "You got it." Elves were harder to convince than you originally thought. 

        The Master of Rivendell looked less than pleased, his face twisting into that sort of angry, disapproving look that turned him into a meme, creasing lines into his otherwise flawless face. “Escort Lady (Y/N) to the guest chambers,” Elrond instructed firmly, barely turning to his guard's direction. “She shall remain there under guard until the Council convenes.” 

        Gandalf seemed amused. You placed your katana back onto the table where it appeared, not expecting to be allowed to carry it with you, as irritating as that was. You had grown rather fond of them in Tsushima. With a sigh, you followed the guards without further protest, through winding halls and picture-perfect scenery. ‘That's one thing the fanfictions never mention,’ you thought to yourself whilst admiring the roaring waterfalls. ‘Despite all this, you still manage to miss your phone.’ Withdrawal from technology was hard, but luckily for you, there was literally no other choice. Still, you found yourself reaching towards your back pocket for the time or to Google a question you had, purely out of habit. 

        When you arrived in your chambers, the room inside was breathtaking. Ethereal and elegant, blending seamlessly with the surrounding landscape. Evening sunlight filters softly through expansive, arched openings, ever so gently illuminating the room with tranquility. You had thought that ‘under guard’ meant you were a prisoner, but it was hard to feel like it when the room was fit for a king. Intricately carved wooden pillars and graceful arches framed the space, depicting motifs of leaves, flowers, trees, and Elven figures. Candles rested in beautifully crafted holders, adding warmth with an ambient glow. The bed itself was a dream; rich, silken sheets in earthy, muted tones. The frame smooth, dark wood. Outside, lush greenery and winding pathways visible through open balconies that overlook the gardens. 

        The design was so open that you had no idea how they planned to keep you from leaving, but you were hardly complaining, nor did you want to. Your first instinct was to run and jump straight into the bed, but you stopped yourself to save what little dignity you had left. The saree was already dangerously loose around your hips now, and you feared it might come undone entirely. You needed real clothes. There was no way you were going to face a council of Middle-earth's greatest heroes looking like you'd stumbled out of a frat party gone wrong. So, before they could walk away, you turned to the guards with a coy smile. “Could you request the seamstress to visit me? I am in desperate need of new…appropriate attire for the upcoming meeting.”

        The elf raised a brow, looking you up and down. At first, the look was that of vexation, but as his eyes caught more and more of your exposed skin, a flush crept into his cheeks and the tips of his ears. After a moment too long, he tore his gaze away with an ‘ahem’ and a readjustment of his posture before giving a curt nod. He walked away so fast you thought he might trip and fall along the way. 

        After he disappeared into the distance, you were alone again. As much as you could be, anyway. You sat quietly on the bed, running your hand over the silk, finally having a chance to catch up to all your thoughts and feelings. ‘Dropped into a fictional universe, ensnared by a god, thrown into a different one just to be ripped back and tossed back into the beginning.’ You lie back on the bed, closing your eyes for a moment. It was hard to wrap your head around. Especially the part that seemed more like it belonged more in Solo Leveling than in your life. You closed your eyes and collapsed back into the bed, finally letting the exhaustion settle over you. It had only been a day in this universe, but you had spent a few years as The Ghost, and that was…a lot. Not worth dwelling over at this moment. However, before the beginnings of sleep could settle, you heard footsteps coming towards your…archway? There wasn't a door after all.

        It was a beautiful elf maiden who approached. Long, flowing brown hair framed her delicate, ageless face. Her pale blue gown rustled softly, decorated with embroidery of silver thread that shimmered in the fading sunlight. “You asked for me?” Her voice was warm and soothing, like a lullaby. You sat up on your elbows, offering a polite smile. “Yes, thank you for coming.” You replied.

        The seamstress stepped fully into the chamber, having carried a woven basket filled with fabrics and measuring tools. “I was told you needed suitable attire for a council meeting. Was there…anything else that you needed besides that?” Her words were kind, but there was careful curiosity in her gaze that was unmistakable. It felt like she could damn-near see through you. 

        “Well, I don’t have any clothes. Like, at all. So if it’s possible, I’d like to commission two or three pieces for travel and such.” You sat up fully now, fussing with the edge of your silk so that it revealed no more of your chest. “I have something specific in mind if it’s not too much trouble.” 

        The she-elf tilted her head slightly as she looked over you and the tablecloth you wore. “‘Commission’?” She asked, her voice betraying a bit of playful disbelief. “You plan to pay?” 

        “Yes…By courtesy of Lord Elrond.” A lie, and it made a grin spread to your lips, which caused the seamstress to let out a soft laugh. “Very well,” she responded, taking the chair that was next to your bed and placing it in front of you, sitting down, and pulling out a piece of parchment. “Please, describe your wish.” Her eyes twinkled with interest, but you couldn’t tell if it was your imagination or not. 

        You hesitated, trying to find the right words. The memories of Jin’s attire flashed vividly before your eyes. “Clothes that are comfortable, battle-ready, but still look good,” you started carefully. “I’m sure that might sound strange.” 

        “On the contrary,” the elf seamstress replied warmly, already sketching out her ideas on the paper. “We elves hold both beauty and practicality in high regard. I would be honored to craft garments that reflect your spirit.” You watched her draw closely, and though you didn’t doubt her ability, you knew she wouldn’t come up with what you were thinking. You thought perhaps explaining it more might help. 

        “It’s… sort of a warrior’s outfit, not the kind you’re used to seeing here, I think. The top is loose, it’s called a kimono, but for you, perhaps it’ll look more like a robe. I want it dyed a deep crimson—not bright, more like aged blood or dark cherry wood. It should fall past the hips, with wide sleeves that don’t cling too tightly—enough room to move freely, or conceal blades if necessary.” The seamstress nodded thoughtfully as you continued. “The lower half is a kind of pleated trouser—wide-legged and heavy, almost like a skirt at a glance, but stiff, like armor made of cloth. I’d like it dark, nearly black, maybe with the faintest green or blue tinge depending on the light. They wrap around and tie at the waist—thick, layered folds that hang in straight lines.” To your surprise, she managed to sketch down everything you had requested, but you were hardly finished. “There’s an obi belt around the middle—a wide sash to hold everything together. Gray or charcoal in tone, maybe with a white rope layered over it to secure weapons or pouches. It should sit tight but not restrict breathing. Layers matter—not for beauty, but for function. I’ll need it to endure movement, travel, and fighting. Light enough not to drag me down, but strong enough to survive swordplay.” You thought that maybe your ramblings might have been too much, but the she-elf had a smile on her face. 

        “All this is just…one garment?” Her tone was teasing, yet you felt embarrassed all the same. “Too much?” You asked sheepishly. She shook her head. “Consider it done.” 

        Once the seamstress had taken her measurements and later her leave, silence fell again. You sat there for a long while, still unsure of what to do with yourself. You were tired, but now sleep wouldn’t come. Eventually, you wandered toward the open archway. Beyond it, a narrow balcony unfurled like a ledge carved into starlight. Cool marble met your bare feet. The breeze was gentle, brushing past like a whisper, carrying the scent of pine and wet earth. You leaned against the curved railing, eyes tracing the dark lines of treetops below, waterfalls glittering in the distance. The sun had set now, giving way to the stars. They were unfamiliar—sharper, whiter, scattered like glass across black velvet. You couldn’t make out any constellations, nothing you could recognize. This wasn’t your sky, wasn’t your world. 

        That’s when it hit you. 

        Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—but like an ache. A hollowness inside your ribs. You would never go home. That realization was quiet and cruel in its finality. No more late-night drives. No more playlists. No more gaming. No more phone. No more family. No more you, at least the version you were yesterday—rather, before you came here. A single tear escaped down your cheek before you could stop it. You wiped it away quickly with a deep sigh, as if the night itself were watching. “I ain’t no bitch.” You cursed to yourself. “I chose this, so suck it up.”

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[goodqueenaly]

Hello Good Queen Alysanne, I have a question about Jorah Mormont and Lynesse Hightower. Was the marriage doomed from the start? Was there anything they could do to make it work (e.g. Jorah temper her expectations about the Bear Island)? I remember Catelyn said something along the line of she was unprepared for a life in the North, but eventually adapted to it.

Here’s the thing, though: we’re talking about a marriage not just between two very different people from two extremely difficult cultural backgrounds, but one which had not even been on the radar for either until maybe a week or so before it took place - and that I think is being generous with the timeline. Catelyn and Ned had certainly not known each other, in any deeply personal way, before their wedding, and each had certainly grown up (though perhaps somewhat less so, for the Jon Arryn-raised Ned) in a family and a society very different the other’s, but Catelyn had been taught from a young age to be the dutiful inheritor of her father’s political designs - and from the age of 12, had understood that duty meant eventually marrying the heir to Winterfell, becoming its lady, and continuing the Stark dynasty. Likewise, while Ned had never expected to become Lord of Winterfell or marry his brother’s fiancée, he had certainly understood the wartime necessity of taking Catelyn as his bride and preserving the rebellion’s alliances via marriage. This is not to say, of course, that Catelyn immediately adapted to being Ned’s wife and that she never experienced any struggles during her marriage; it took her time to “[find] the good sweet heart beneath Ned's solemn face”, and some aspects of life in the North always remained foreign to her - the godswood sacred to Ned’s faith, or the (ostensibly) bastard son whose origins Ned angrily refused to detail . Nevertheless, I think it’s fair to say Ned and Catelyn’s marriage succeeded, at least in part, because Catelyn came into the marriage understanding the politico-dynastic duty impressed on her for a large chunk of her pre-marital life by her father, because Ned too understood and accepted the the duty he had to marry her during the Rebellion, and because both Ned and Catelyn spent years developing passion and devotion toward one another, alongside that duty.

By contrast, what could even be said of Jorah’s and Lynesse’s respective expectations going into their wedding and marriage? Jorah very explicitly had only married Lynesse because he “could not take [his] eyes off her”at the joust, purely acting on his physical attraction to her. Lynesse, for her part, had no reason to have known who Jorah even was, except perhaps on the most general level, ahead of and even during the tourney: if she was pleased to accept the favor of a hero of the recent war, a lord in his own right and a bannerman of the victorious king’s closest friend, she likely had as little knowledge of Jorah personally as he did her. Compounding that is, as I mentioned, the incredibly short timeframe of their marriage: Jorah asked for Lynesse’s hand immediately after winning the joust, and they married while Jorah was still in Lannisport for the tourney, meaning that they were going to the altar having been quite literally complete strangers at most a week, if not a few days, before the wedding. Even if Jorah and/or Lynesse had wanted to get to know each other as marriage partners before their wedding day - and Jorah certainly doesn’t seem to have been interested, in any event - there was simply no time to do so: before either, but especially Lynesse, may have realized the full implications of what to come, Lord Leyton had already signed away his youngest daughter’s future to Jorah.

In Lannisport, in those bare handful of days, it may have been easy for Jorah, and perhaps Lynesse as well, to imagine their future as one of sunshine and roses. Literally riding high on his very recent and illustrious knighthood and his unstoppable victories during the joust, in the warmth and wealth of the oldest and southernmost city in Westeros, Jorah may have thought that the realities of Bear Island life seemed physically and culturally very far away. Lynesse, still just a teenager and one who, as the youngest of a large and wealthy family, had likely lived a pretty sheltered life, may have seen Jorah as no more and no less than what he appeared as before her - a spectacularly talented tourney knight and war hero, a lord in his own right who could make her a lady of her own castle and House, as her sisters Leyla and Denyse were not. (Let’s never forget the creepiness of Jorah being almost two decades older than Lynesse.) The deliberately fantastic environment of what for lack of a better term we have to call their courtship and engagement - even for the most high-ranking Westerosi aristocrats, life is usually not feasts and tourneys 24/7 - only heightened the lack of reality at the foundation of their marriage; their entire experience of one another had been defined by a purposefully temporary world of pleasure which could never have been sustained.

Consequently, I think both Jorah and Lynesse experienced, on their return to Bear Island, disillusionment so profound that there was no making the marriage work. Jorah tells Dany that Lynesse resented that Bear Island was “too cold, too damp, too far away”, that the Mormonts “had no masques, no mummer shows, no balls or fairs”, and that the Mormont “cook knew little beyond his roasts and stews”, but I think these complaints reflect a more fundamental alienation Lynesse was feeling in her new role. Bear Island wasn’t just different from Oldtown; it was a world whose entire life and existence could not be compared to that of Lynesse’s native city. Her faith, her experience with Oldtown’s intellectual and artistic culture and the Reach’s tradition of chivalry, her training as a southron lady - none of that had any place on Bear Island. She was, as Jorah’s aunt and cousins may have reminded her (or commented in her hearing), the lady Jorah “won … in a tourney”, a lady whose “soft hands were never made for axes … nor her teats for giving suck” - in other words, a failure compared to the Mormont ideal lady who had a baby on one hip and an axe in her other hand. She had married a lord, a war hero, and a champion jouster, only to find herself stuck as lady of a castle only so called by courtesy, on an island that to Lynesse probably seemed physically and culturally in the middle of nowhere, with a husband who never again either took up arms in war (at least in Westeros) or distinguished himself on the tourney field.

Jorah clearly grew to resent and eventually hate Lynesse, but he was far from blameless in this situation. It had been Jorah who had, on no greater impulse than his physical attraction to Lynesse, taken a likely sheltered teenager from the only home she had ever known to one only he of the two of them knew and understood; it had been Jorah who had courted (again, to the extent we can call it that) the daughter of one of the wealthiest lords in Westeros from one of the most ancient reacher aristocratic families with absolutely no practical plan on how he could make Lynesse comfortable and happy in this new world; his best option in his mind was to spend money he very well knew he didn’t have and pursue a jousting career in which he knew very well he wasn’t cut out to succeed. Could Jorah truly be shocked that Lynesse “grew wild when [he] spoke of pawning her jewels”, or “moved into the manse of a merchant prince named Tregar Ormollen” after he, Jorah, became a sellsword? Far from fulfilling whatever expectations (again, likely at least founded in unreality) Lynesse may have had of this marriage, Jorah was now asking Lynesse to give up her remaining connections to those expectations and that foundation - the jewels she may have easily received as the daughter of rich Lord Hightower, the position of Westerosi lady marriage to Jorah had offered her.

Ultimately, I think this marriage was destined to fail because neither could ever be what the other may have gone into the marriage expecting. Lynesse could not be forever the tourney fantasy he had encountered at Lannisport - the beautiful highborn maid cheering him on from the sidelines as he won tilt after tilt in a tourney on the heels of his wartime fame. Jorah could not be forever the image Lynesse encountered at that tourney - the lord in his own right, the recent war hero and royally dubbed knight, the spectacular tourney champion. Jorah could not offered Lynesse the life of ease, security, and aristocratic culture she had grown up living with and perhaps consequently expecting; Lynesse could not offer Jorah the perfect highborn southron maid who would at the same time perfectly accept life as a Mormont bride.

[very-straight-blog]

Imagine that you're the eldest son of a king who was originally born doomed. Your father wanted a son - not you, of course, but another boy - a little perfect baby who died a few days after his birth. It's impossible to compete with the dead, so you'll always be in his shadow, and also in the shadow of your sister, who for some reason was named heir, although the throne is yours by birthright. You feel like you're a stranger in your own family - your mother may love you, but she can't express it, and your father doesn't care about you. You were forced to marry your sister and you never wanted to. Most likely, on your wedding night you were so drunk that you don't remember anything. Your life is a mixture of alcohol and promiscuous sex to somehow fill the hole in your soul, and it's only getting bigger. And then your life suddenly changes - your father dies and your mother says that he decided that you should take the throne. It seems to you that at least for a second your father remembered you, saw his son in you. You become a king and for the first time you have a purpose, a reason to live. You see that the people accept you and this is the kind of love that you have never had. You have a desire to take care of the commoners, you try to be a good king in order to justify their trust and your father's trust, and you also start spending more time with your children, especially with your eldest son, who looks so much like you. It seems to you that if you were able to bring something so pure and innocent into this world, perhaps you're not a monster. Maybe you can be a better father than yours was, maybe you can fix everything. And then your son is killed. They cut off his head. Two of your people that you cared about, those people that you thought loved you. It wasn't enough, because they betrayed you anyway. And then, feeling all this anger and pain and despair, you hear your grandfather propose to turn the funeral into an act of propaganda, and your mother agrees with him. No one asks how you are, no one tries to comfort you. You're experiencing loss alone, even though you're surrounded by your relatives. And then you find out that your father never wanted you to be his heir - it was your mother's plan to seize power. Everything was a lie. It was all pointless. They used you, they wanted to control you. As a result, you have lost the most important thing in your life for the throne that you never wanted, and when you are alone, choking with tears in your chambers, your mother sees this and just walks away, leaving you alone, because in the end you're always alone.

[sphireath-wisp]

Sypnosis: Being transported into the historical manhwa you were reading is no fun, is it? What's even worse is that you're the villainess in this story! But wait! Something's off. You've tweaked the story and changed the course of fate. What route will you take now?

Warnings: Strong implications of F! Reader (since we're talking about manhwa), not proofread, Alternate Universe, (kinda) close resemblance to the original plotline of the OG universe

Where are we? -> Prologue

The glaring headlights face you head-on, almost entirely blinding your field of view. Everything feels like it's in slow motion, you can't run in time and neither can you stop now. You can hear the engine of the car, it's pitiful that you didn't get the chance to say goodbye to your loved ones. However, you don't get the chance to think about any of that now - your body has lunged forward due to the car crash.

'From rags to riches,' they say, but this is all much too sudden. Whether you consider yourself lucky or not, you've been graced with a few more conscious minutes and the pain that comes after is unforgivingly quick. The grainy asphalt against your back is uncomfortable. The car screeches to a halt beside your limp body and the driver shouts out worried yelps. You don't know whether the liquid pooling beneath your body is rainwater or blood.

Black dots your vision before you hear any sirens. Perhaps the afterlife will give you some solace. It's a thought you entertain and it comforts your fear of death. Eyes fluttering shut, you can't find the energy to open them again. You've died. You would've died. You, by right, should've died.

So then... where exactly are you? Maids left and right shoot each other cautious, but worried glances. Stumbling your way past the maids and out of bed, you find yourself in front of what's supposedly your vanity, much too luxurious and intricate than you're used to. A face that's not yours looks back at you and, this time, your memory doesn't fail you.

"Ah," Even your voice sounds alien, smooth like the sweetest of honey. Your head turns back to the maids gathered in your room, the grandiose bedroom, the spacious canopy bed, and... your uncanny reflection. You've been reincarnated, but out of all the strange possibilities and probabilities, you've been bestowed a chance to live the life of a Villainess in the novel you browsed through on a whim.

(Name), a tyrant at their peak, and a ruler doomed to meet an early death by the guillotine with the jeers of your people. Your consciousness is now bound to the body of a cold-blooded heir of the Mortalis Kingdom, and you must take up their name as your own.

With a hand on your beating heart, with your body burning up more than it should, you feel yourself collapse. "Your Highness!" the maids scramble around you like a flock of bewildered fletchings, but they all hesitate to even graze your skin. "You shouldn't leave your bed, your grace. You've only just got over that terrible fever!"

Ah, so that's why you felt so tired. No worries, you'll spend much-needed time recovering and resting to your heart's content. Plus, you can spend all that extra time planning your next course of action without a disturbance - you'll need it! The Elysian Kingdom, ruled by the angels, already have a sour impression of you, (Name). Where do I even begin with the demons in the Umbryss Kingdom? You're such an easy puppet for them to take over Mortalis! Thorns overwhelm your path to a long life and the revolution that will take your head isn't far!

Will you make it?

Hi! In case I was too vague, let me explain the world I've created simply for those who are confused.

Mortalis -> Human World

Elysian -> Celestial Realm

Umbryss -> Devildom

In this world, you are the villainess in line for the throne, the direct descendant of the ruler of Mortalis. I'll introduce each character slowly and give them time to develop. Please note that there will be an overlap of characters in various chapters, BUT - of course - each character will have their own chapter to star in.

Note that demons and angels DO NOT exist in this universe, but magic does! Remember that these are spin-offs so the characters won't be the exact same as canon.

Tag list: @honeymoo-cafe, @whatever-fanfics

[morverenmaybewrites]

Imagine Wayne Manor as a Haunted House (Bruce Wayne x Reader)

Been thinking about Wayne Manor.

What it would be like as a haunted house, and Bruce Wayne cursed as its last living heir.

Imagine Wayne Manor as a haunted house, its great stone walls overgrown by twisting kudzu vines, its hallways creaking with the weight of all the tragedy that had befallen the Wayne family tree.

In an upstairs bathroom, a leaky faucet drips water like tears. A strange stain darkens the bottom of the tub, where one of Bruce's ancestors had drowned herself after the loss of her lover.

No one ever uses that bathroom, yet there are days when Bruce can hear running water. And he would feel a grief so profound that it would leech all of the color out of the sky.

And he would remind himself, with renewed determination, of all the terrible fates that befell anyone who has loved a Wayne.

Imagine Wayne Manor as a haunted house, older perhaps, than Gotham itself. Where the walls are overrun by kudzu vines, the fat purple clusters of their flowers all but hiding the weathered stone.

Except, perhaps, in the East Wing, where even the vines do not grow. The walls remain blackened, the windows cracked and warped. Here, there once lived an heir who thought that he could outlast the curse. Or perhaps he believed that there was no curse at all.

He had held the wedding on the grounds itself—ignoring the way the grass twisted around his bride's ankles like starving rats—and moved her into the East Wing that very night.

One would hope that they were happy in the week before the fire. Where the heat was so intense that it blackened the Manor's stone walls and the smoke that rose from it blotted out the sky.

One would hope they died instantly, suffocated in their sleep before they even knew what would happen.

And yet, Bruce knows they did not. Perhaps it is only his own pessimism. Or perhaps, the Manor wanted him to know.

It was she who died first. Her smooth skin turning cracked and leathery, blisters forming on her skin and bursting like the fat of a pig on a spit.

It was she who died first, and the heir had enough time to run away. To live with the knowledge of what he had done to her.

But he did not.

Instead, he lay down next to his bride and let the fire claim them both.

And Bruce Wayne, heir to Wayne Manor's wealth and tragedy memories, would wake up some nights with the taste of ash in his mouth.

Imagine Wayne Manor as a haunted house, a cursed house. A house that has claimed everyone its heirs have ever loved.

But oh, it is hungry. Its once-thriving grounds have become dry and barren. The grass that had once twined around a doomed bride's ankles have grown yellowed and shriveled.

For while its previous owners have kept it fed with its share of tragedies, Bruce Wayne had starved it.

Bruce Wayne, who as a child would wake up with the taste of ash in his mouth, who once used an upstairs bathroom where the faucet drips water like tears.

Bruce Wayne, who promised himself that he would be the last heir Wayne Manor would ever have.

Now, imagine you. You who have lived in Gotham City, your whole life.

You who would pass by the Wayne Manor on the way to classes or to work, and you would look at its barren gardens and its cracked windows.

And you would feel...something.

A pull perhaps or an ache, one that could only settled by approaching this house, this cursed lot, placing your hands against the wrought iron gate so that you can get a better look.

And you would see its blackened walls and its barren gardens, the grass yellowed and withered and dead.

And you would feel a strange sort of tenderness for a place that looks so unloved.

You feel the cold of iron against your palms, a flash of heat.

And then—

"Ouch."

Somehow, you had cut yourself against the gate. A wide cut, a deep cut, straight against the meat of your palm.

You don't quite know how it happened. And perhaps, it did not matter, because the only thing you can focus on is the pain that throbbed against your skin like a heart.

You curse, try to staunch the flow, and in doing so, you catch a glimpse of a figure.

Perhaps it was the mansion's old butler or perhaps one of its many ghosts. But as he approached, you knew that this could only be one person.

The heir to Wayne Manor was said to be a glib playboy, one who would spend rather spend his family's vast amount of wealth on drugs and women and sex than actually fixing his broken-down home.

And yet, when you meet him on that fateful day, he did not look like the blindingly beautiful man you had seen in the newspapers.

He didn't have a fixed smile that could have meant anything from loathing to adoration, he didn't wear a suit that cost more than your yearly salary.

That day, he looked human. He looked reachable.

Perhaps that was what made you accept the handkerchief he so graciously handed to you. Perhaps that is what makes you smile—a little clumsy, a little lopsided, but a smile all the same—as you say,

"Thanks a ton. See you around, Bruce Wayne."

And when you walk away, you do not look back.

You do not see what Bruce Wayne saw.

You do not see how your blood dries preternaturally fast on the surface of the black gate, as if something was drinking it in.

You do not see the way the grass along the driveway twists around your ankles like a starving rat.

And you definitely do not see the expression on Bruce Wayne's face when he realizes what it all meant.

Imagine Wayne Manor as a haunted house, its great stone walls overgrown by twisting kudzu vines, its once-barren gardens now blooming with life. Galica roses with buds so heavy that their stems drooped, as if begging one to cut them and place them in a bouquet.

Imagine Wayne Manor, which has fed well on centuries' worth of tragedies, as a house starved.

For its latest heir, Bruce Wayne, had vowed never to fall in love.

Had vowed that whatever curse lingered in his family tree like the rot in an oak would die with him.

Imagine your blood drying on a wrought iron gate. And a leaky faucet that drips water like tears for a story that already has an ending.

Imagine a blackened wall, and the story of a man who lay down next to dead bride, to be consumed alive in a fire.

Imagine Wayne Manor, its hallways creaking with the weight of all the tragedy that had befallen the Wayne family tree.

And now imagine: its hunger.

[gojuo]

this show went from aemond killing luke (who took out his eye) to purposely killing his brother, because of some drunken joke.

Aemond embarrassed him at the council by also speaking Valyrian fluently and Egg could barely complete a sentence, they were even!

kill a sibling and and not feeling the slightest bit of guilt He takes aegon's dagger and walks away casually as if it wasn't his full brother dying there) about it is something only the worst of the worst would do such as gregor clegane, euron greyjoy and ramsay bolton. it's sick..nothing like stannis and maekar who killed their brothers but had no happiness about it

even daemon targ didn't dare try to kill viserys wtf

we are doomed. we expected complexity between aegond and we received and we received an attempt at fratricide and regicide 😭

It's just not even remotely an interesting or compelling or sympathetic character arc or motivation to me, sorry. I didn't care for Aemond in the book, I loved him in the show out of spite, now I'm back to not caring about him bc this is just not the type of character whose development, whether it be a progression or a regression, I enjoy following. My bridges are burned 😬

Side note maybe but I've noticed how it's Daemon that's getting the sympathetic portrayal concerning his family over his narrative foil Aemond, which, in my opinion, is another aspect of the Greens Condal is taking away and giving to the Blacks that I've been harping on about in posts and tags everywhere lately.

The greatest of his rivals was Daemon Targaryen, the king’s ambitious, impetuous, moody younger brother.

Fire and Blood, p. 354.

As King Viserys had no living son, Daemon regarded himself as the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and coveted the title Prince of Dragonstone, which His Grace refused to grant him…but by the end of year 105 AC, he was known to his friends as the Prince of the City and to the smallfolk as Lord Flea Bottom. Though the king did not wish Daemon to succeed him, he remained fond of his younger brother, and was quick to forgive his many offenses.

Fire and Blood, p. 355

Thus did matters stand in King’s Landing late in the year 105 AC, when Queen Aemma was brought to bed in Maegor’s Holdfast and died whilst giving birth to the son that Viserys Targaryen had desired for so long. The boy (named Baelon, after the king’s father) survived her only by a day, leaving king and court bereft... save perhaps for Prince Daemon, who was observed in a brothel on the Street of Silk, making drunken japes with his highborn cronies about the “heir for a day.” When word of this got back to the king (legend says that it was the whore sitting in Daemon’s lap who informed on him, but evidence suggests it was actually one of his drinking companions, a captain in the gold cloaks eager for advancement), Viserys became livid. His Grace had finally had a surfeit of his ungrateful brother and his ambitions.

Fire and Blood, p. 359.

Prince Daemon was not amongst them, however. Furious at the king's decree [naming Rhaenyra heir], the prince quit King's Landing, resigning from the City Watch. He went first to Dragonstone, taking his paramour Mysaria with him upon the back of his dragon Caraxes, the lean red beast the smallfolk called the Blood Wyrm. There he remained for half a year, during which time he got Mysaria with child. When he learned that his concubine was pregnant, Prince Daemon presented her with a dragon's egg, but in this he again went too far and woke his brother's wroth. King Viserys commanded him to return the egg, send his whore away, and return to his lawful wife, or else be attained as a traitor. The prince obeyed, though with ill grace, dispatching Mysaria (eggless) back to Lys, whilst he himself flew to Runestone in the Vale and the unwelcome company of his "bronze bitch." But Mysaria lost her child during a storm on the narrow sea. When word reached Prince Daemon he spoke no syllable of grief, but his heart hardened against the king, his brother. Thereafter he spoke of King Viserys only with disdain, and began to brood day and night on the succession.

Fire and Blood, p. 360.

After Mysaria lost her unborn child, Daemon hated Viserys. He had no love for his brother anymore and began his grooming of an 8-year-old Rhaenyra to get closer to what his biggest wish in life was: the Iron Throne.

Notice how this is not him in the show but Aemond now? The bullying + brothel plotline to make him hate Aegon is not there in the book. In contrast, Aegon, Aemond and Daeron together actually hated the Strong bastards and none of them, especially not Aegon, were friends.

The sins of the fathers are oft visited on the sons, wise men have said; and so it is for the sins of mothers as well. The enmity between Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra was passed on to their sons, and the queen’s three boys, the Princes Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron, grew to be bitter rivals of their Velaryon nephews, resentful of them for having stolen what they regarded as their birthright: the Iron Throne itself. Though all six boys attended the same feasts, balls, and revels, and sometimes trained together in the yard under the same master-at-arms and studied under the same maesters, this enforced closeness only served to feed their mutual mislike, rather than binding them together as brothers.

Fire and Blood, p. 377-378.

It was Viserys actually who hurt Aemond over being dragonless, NOT Aegon.

Only the middle son, Prince Aemond, remained dragonless, but His Grace had hopes of rectifying that, and had put forward the notion that perhaps the court might sojourn at Dragonstone after the funeral. A wealth of dragon’s eggs could be found beneath the Dragonmont, and several young hatchlings as well. Prince Aemond could have his choice, “if the lad is bold enough.” Even at ten, Aemond Targaryen did not lack for boldness. The king’s gibe stung, and he resolved not to wait for Dragonstone.

Fire and Blood, p. 380.

Aemond in the book was also never characterized as lusting after the throne like Daemon was. He's always been presented as a staunch supporter of Aegon's birthright.

One-eyed Prince Aemond, nineteen, was found in the armory, donning plate and mail for his morning practice in the castle yard. “Is Aegon king?” he asked Ser Willis Fell, “or must we kneel and kiss the old whore’s cunny?”

Fire and Blood, p. 397.

The greatest danger was deemed to be Storm’s End, for House Baratheon had always been staunch in support of the claims of Princess Rhaenys and her children. Though old Lord Boremund had died, his son Borros was even more belligerent than his father, and the lesser storm lords would surely follow wherever he led. “Then we must see that he leads them to our king,” Queen Alicent declared. Whereupon she sent for her second son. Thus it was not a raven who took flight for Storm’s End that day, but Vhagar, oldest and largest of the dragons of Westeros. On her back rode Prince Aemond Targaryen, with a sapphire in the place of his missing eye. “Your purpose is to win the hand of one of Lord Baratheon’s daughters,” his grandsire Ser Otto told him, before he flew. “Any of the four will do. Woo her and wed her, and Lord Borros will deliver the stormlands for your brother. Fail—” “I will not fail,” Prince Aemond blustered. “Aegon will have Storm’s End, and I will have this girl.”

Fire and Blood, p. 400.

“You must rule the realm now, until your brother is strong enough to take the crown again,” the King’s Hand told Prince Aemond. Nor did Ser Criston need to say it twice, writes Eustace. And so one-eyed Aemond the Kinslayer took up the iron-and-ruby crown of Aegon the Conqueror. “It looks better on me than it ever did on him,” the prince proclaimed. Yet Aemond did not assume the style of king, but named himself only Protector of the Realm and Prince Regent.

Fire and Blood, p. 437.

I know people like using this passage as evidence that Aemond wanted the crown, but this is the only sentence that insinuates such a thought in the entirety of F&B, and it then also gets shots down immediately in the next sentence after. People can yap about how Aemond knows he can’t do or say anything as long as Maelor is alive, but when this one sentence—which gets rebuked pronto anyway—is the only evidence you have for that headcanon vs. Daemon who in the text explicitly and repeatedly is said to want to throne and hate his brother, then it’s just not a supported notion in the text or subtext at all.

That “‘Tis I the younger brother who studies philosophy, history and swords etc. etc.” is also nowhere in the book. This second son complex is just a show invention that used to be Daemon’s in the book now given to Aemond in the show, because of course Condal wants Daemon to be far more sympathetic in the eyes of the audience through exploring his love and guilt towards his brother and Rhaenyra with the Harrenhal hallucinations, rather than Aemond, whose actions snowballed into Blood and Cheese and who has a far better character arc lying in wait if that love and guilt he feels towards his brother post-B&C had actually been his.

Show!Aemond is such a wasted character, really. They had so much potential in him becoming an unhinged, murderous psycho falling into impatiency (reason for leaving KL and Cole unprotected) and mania (reason for carpetbombing the Riverlands) because of the immeasurable guilt he feels for what his actions have caused his family (Kinslaying!! The greatest sin in Westeros!!! Blood and Cheese!! ASOIAF’s most atrocious event that kinda happened because of him a little bit!!!)... And yes, it’s not a justification but it’s a reason for why he would do such monstrous things in the book because that’s just how a young, 19-year-old, emotionally volatile, new-to-the-horrors-of-war Targaryen prince with access to nukes would act like once he’s wholly consumed by the guilt of Blood and Cheese and war and the failure at Rook’s Rest and his brother’s disability therefore he’d become unable to face his family anymore culminating in what’s basically his suicide above the God’s Eye... His obsession with facing Daemon could have been because he feels like he has to redeem himself towards his brother for kinda being the cause of Jaehaerys’ death... but Ryan Condal does not want the viewer’s focus to stay on Blood and Cheese or else that would mean negative feelings towards Daemon and Rhaenyra are validated, and also the Greens can’t love each other and care about each other or how else can Condal portray them as fuckups unworthy of positivity so that the viewer does not get attached to them or root for them? Blood and Cheese and Jaehaerys have practically been forgotten by the Greens and the show by now. Nobody cares anymore! How many times has anyone even said his name? Uggghhhhh.

That love and loyalty the Greens feel for each other was, of course, all propaganda 🙄 Daemon in the book got his somewhat redemption through saving Nettles at the cost of betraying Rhaenyra, so fuck Condal for switching him and Aemond around and fuck Condal for cutting Nettles in order to whitewash Rhaenyra some more. And then stealing the love and loyalty the Greens had to the family and giving it to the Blacks. Ugh.