#but daemons makes that easier I guess

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Threefold cord (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Daemon’s wife is presumed dead. But is she?

A/N: Blue beard, to finish my Halloween celebration because I cannot write on schedule. Also @just-some-random-blogger look! The fic I told you about.

Warnings: Hightower!reader x Daemon. Smut. Alicent, Gwayne and reader as siblings. Death of Rhea Royce. Happy ending!

“ARE YOU TRULY about to wed him?” You set your teacup down on its saucer. When your father had summoned you to the capital, you had known it was important news. But Alicent becoming a Queen? It surpassed everything you had imagined.

Your father wanted to make sure you were there to witness her triumph. Alicent lacked allies in court, beyond the Princess. And that relationship would sour as soon as the other girl heard just who her father was to wed.

Alicent was too naive to see it. Or purposefully blind. She claimed to not know what she had been doing when visiting the King, too. You guessed the thought made it easier to bear for her.

You didn’t blame her. King Viserys was old and beginning to show signs of being sickly. The thought of offering yourself to such a man, twice your age, on your father’s orders, wasn’t pleasant. You would rather pretend you were just being kind.

“It is for the best. Father says that he…” Alicent begins justifying her actions, and you tune out. You know it will just be a repetition of your father’s lectures. Duty. Bearing children. Women knowing their place.

You pitied her, for believing in his bullshit. It wasn’t as if either of you could escape your fate, but you at least tried not to lower yourself into thinking you were a lesser, gentler being, made to be bred. Instead, you enjoyed thinking you were a person. Just as human as any man, just as smart, just as strong. Only one trapped by your status as a noblewoman.

You sip at your tea. You are cautious not to make a sound when doing so, and not take too big of a sip. Anyone who gazes at your courtly smile and comely manners would not guess your innermost thoughts.

Alicent continues her tirade, describing animatedly how much she wants to do her duty and birth children. How she knows her body will not fail her as it did for the late Queen. She has an unfortunate thirst for proving herself, your eldest sister.

“And King Viserys asked me about you, the other day. He would like for you to marry Prince Daemon…”

The tea you are drinking goes down the wrong way. You start coughing, and have to hurriedly set down your teacup as to not burn yourself.

“Excuse me?” You say, once the coughing fit subsides a bit, and you are able to wipe your mouth with a napkin. “I will… What? Does father know of this?”

She looks at you, concerned, but says nothing about it. She pours herself another cup of tea.

“Prince Daemon’s wife has been missing for a while. They think she might have…” Alicent leans in, voice lowering. You are in the Tower of the Hand, surrounded by men loyal to your father, and yet she feels she cannot say it freely. You wonder what has Lady Royce done to scandalize her such. “Ran away. With a lover.”

“You prude!” You laugh. You had thought it much worse. “She wouldn’t be the first woman to do so, don’t be nai…”

“A female one.” Alicent interrupts, setting down her own teacup. The movement is a bit harsh, making the porcelain screech.

You open and close your mouth. You had not known that was even a possibility.

“How does one..?”

“Be as it may…” She raises a hand, halting you. “Father says you shall marry him, if he finds you agreeable.”

There was not much you knew about politics, but you were pretty sure the Prince despised your father and your house by extension. You doubted he would find you agreeable. Your father would doubt it too, but he was too blinded by the hope of getting Runestone.

Lady Royce had no heir. Her castle had gone to Daemon, the King needing little convincing to award it to his beloved brother. Imagining all that bronze in your hands, in House Hightower’s hands, would have him salivating. At getting his enemy away from court? That was only an unexpected bonus. If the man liked you and decided he wanted to play Come-into-my-castle with you, you were sure your father would dance a gig.

You wouldn’t. If it did happen… You shuddered, thinking of the man with the lecherous grin, always whoring. Twice your age, and crass as they came. The only times you had crossed paths, he had been busy ogling Alicent or his niece.

“I am not marrying him.”

Alicent frowns at you. Her eyes turn sad. When she gets contradicted, she looks much like a kicked puppy.

“I have never met him.” You explain, feeling guilty over upsetting her. She is just so much like your father, sometimes. It angers you, even when you know it is not her fault. She doesn’t have the same anger in her veins as you do. All she ever wanted was to please your father.

“He is looking for a wife, and King Viserys thinks it would be marvelous if you married him. I have told him all about you.” Alicent sounds excited about the whole thing, and just… No. You do not want to marry a man twice your age. Gross. Her tone turns softer. “I think it would be nice. To belong to the same House even after marriage. To be never parted from my sister.”

The want in her expression makes you soften. It is not often that Alicent admits to desiring anything, and you do not wish to discourage her.

“I’ll meet him.” You decide. “Just that.”

“Oh, how wonderful!”

And the Seven bless her, she actually seems delighted to hear it.

THE WEDDING IS awfully dull. The Septon drones on and on about the Mother and the Father, and the duties of marriage. Alicent looks stunning in her silk gown, beautiful but modest. It is no use. People already speak of what she has done to trap the King into marriage.

Princess Rhaenyra keeps sending her glares during the feast. Sometimes in anger, sometimes in hurt. She is not quite sure what to feel. You can tell from the way she pauses when looking at Alicent. You pity her too.

Losing a mother is a terrible thing. You can only imagine how much it hurts to see her replaced by a girl your own age.

The Princess is a woman who has everything and yet, it's still a woman. No power to stop her father from bedding her best friend, no power to change anything at all. The realization of her powerlessness is clear in her features.

In contrast, you doubt you have ever seen your father this happy. Ever. He is alight with pride. As if throwing his daughter to an old man is some great accomplishment. He has spared no expense on this wedding, the ceremony and feast lavish in a way that feels almost tasteless.

The pomp and luxuries have you feeling morose. You sip at your hippocras, tucked into a corner of the high table, and try to pretend you are invisible. Gwayne has left you far too soon, off to dance with some ladies.

He has always been the courteous sort, just like you. You enjoy watching him charm the ladies, and enjoy more the fact that he hasn’t tried to drag you to the dance floor.

For that, you are grateful. Some ladies are lively and dance as if gliding through water. You do not. Dancing had not been on the list of abilities you had acquired during your etiquette lessons.

It had always felt like peacocking to you. Showing yourself to others, showing how pretty you smiled, how graceful you were. The attention it brought made you uncomfortable. You much preferred blending in.

“Strange choice of drink you have there.” Prince Daemon says, sitting across from you. “Even stranger that you are still sitting at your sister's wedding.”

“I could say the same.” You reply, colder than you planned to. The hippocras is hitting you already, making your temper shorter. You have little interest in Daemon Targaryen.

There is a secret plan in your head. When you reach thirty, you will claim a sudden awakening of Faith and retire to the comforts of life as a Septa. You have done enough charity to know that Septas don’t do as much as they like people to think. The only thing you will miss will be the alcohol.

“Ah, but I am just sitting now.” He idly reaches for the carafe of hippocras you are monopolizing, and serves himself a goblet. “Is this any good?”

“At least it’s not dornish swill.” Dornish wine has to be the worst thing you have ever tasted, not even fit for pigs. Bitter and watery, the mere thought annoys you.

Prince Daemon barks out a laughter.

“Good Gods, where was Otto hiding you?”

“Probably in the same place as your decency.”

“Thread carefully.” Daemon’s expression turns far colder. His hand tightens around the stem of his goblet. “I might like your cheek, but I am still a prince of the realm.”

“One soon to be displaced.” You toast. A bit of hippocras spills from your goblet. You are far too drunk to care about his thoughts. “Be it by my nephews or your niece.”

His face reddens.

“Bitch.” He spits the word from clenched teeth. You laugh loudly.

“Knave.”

“You are an insolent little thing, aren’t you?” Daemon snarls, leaning over the table as if to throttle you. Drunk as you are, you don’t feel any fear. You have just enough rational thoughts left to believe you will be alright, since even the darkened corner you have chosen to sit in is too public for him to murder you without repercussions.

“I am small but fierce.”

“I can see that. Do all Hightower cunts have teeth?”

You smile at him, lazy and warm from the drinks you have had.

“I don’t know, care to find out?”

And Daemon laughs. He asks you to dance instead. As he twirls you and dips you, you come to find he is not bad company after all. And if you laugh a tad more than necessary, and accept his offer to walk the gardens the next afternoon, no one can blame you.

“IT IS BUT a couple of days.” Daemon says to you, softly. You lay on your stomach, head propped up on your arms. You twist your head just so to force him to see your sad little pout.

His hand comes to rub at your shoulders, as if you were a spooked horse he is trying to soothe. His touch is warm and calming against your bare skin.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

He has soothed you into complacency, this husband of yours. He allows you to indulge in fine wines, and be as frivolous as you wish. The only thing he asks of you is that you are warm and willing when he is. It is no chore.

Long gone is your rage. Now, you exist in a perfect bubble, where no one constricts your freedom. There is no screeching father to tell you that you are a disaster, nor is there a horrified Alicent. Instead, Daemon encourages all your eccentricities, and teaches you some new ones.

“Will you?” You roll on your side, stretching. You have done nothing today, not even dress. Daemon and you have spent the whole morning tangled in each other, warm and naked.

He smiles. That same grin that had once seemed so lecherous to you, now looks inviting.

You bite your lower lip, already anticipating what is to come.

“Minx.” Daemon laughs, before leaning in to press an open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder. The contact of his lips against your skin makes you shiver, a delicate sigh leaving you. “You won’t even notice I am gone.”

“Of course I will.” You whine, as he kisses a path down your spine. “Who will bring me such pleasure?”

A sudden, sharp pain on your arse makes you yelp and sit up. Daemon smirks, and feigns taking another bite out of you.

“You are so spoiled.” He laughs. “Cannot take even a little pain. I’ll leave you some coin, and you can invite your sister to keep you company. How does it sound?”

“Think the King can spare his Queen?” You have not seen your sister since your wedding. The ravens fly fast enough that you know the news already, but you doubt King Viserys will allow her to be out of his sight for long. Not when pregnant.

Daemon nips at your thigh. You jerk, but he coaxes you back into laying on your stomach.

“Before she gets too round to travel, yes. In a few moons, it will have to be us making the trip.”

“Gods, I hate babes.”

“So do I.” He rubs at your inner thigh, slowly prying your legs open. “So? Is my spoiled wife happy?”

“Very.” You rub your face in the pillow, all kittenish. You like being called his. “Do I get the keys of the castle, too?”

Daemon kisses the place where your thigh meets your arse. You can feel his smile against your skin, promising sin.

“Of course. Just don’t go into the room with the red door, alright? I forbid it.”

“You do?” You challenge, thinking it part of the game. So far, you have yet to explore all of Runestone, always too entertained by him to do so. There are a few rooms he is cagey about, but you have always blamed it on Daemon being very private and needing his space. He has never allowed you into his personal library, either. Says you would ruin the books.

You have never minded it. You understand your place here, the dumb young wife. Men never like thinking the woman they are with can be more interesting than them. To think you can also have an interest in books, apart from being frivolous, would be too much for him to handle.

The warning about the red door only registers to you as part of the games you usually play in the bedroom. Something he can punish you about later on, something that might excuse a round of rough lovemaking.

But his expression turns into a frightening mask of utter rage. He pinches you in the thigh, and this time, it really hurts.

“Fuck!” You cry out, fighting his hold. His grip has turned from the sweetest chains into unforgiving iron around your hips. You cannot move. Not even as he slaps your thigh, hard enough to make your eyes water. “Daemon, what the..?”

“I mean it.” He is cruel about it, slapping again the stinging flesh. “I do not want you in there. If you disobey, I’ll know.”

You stare at him, open-mouthed, You cannot comprehend how fast he has flipped, from kind lover to whatever this is. The rogue Prince is mercurial, you think, echoing the letter your father had once written complaining about him, his moods dangerous.

“Fine!” You cry out, desperate to evict this creature that has taken sudden hold of your husband’s body. “Fine! No opening the red door.”

Daemon softens then. His shoulders slump, and his face goes back into a mask of devotion.

“I just don’t want anything to happen to you.” He presses a kiss to your thigh, to the place he slapped. You tense. “It is dangerous for you. Like the Moondoor in The Eyrie.”

Yet, as his touch turns back into loving, you do not forget. There is something about what lies beyond that red door that turns him into a monster. A creature capable of hurting even you.

You intend to find out what it is.

THE FORTNIGHT SPENT with Alicent is by far, the best of your life. Runestone is grand, with intricate tapestries and artwork decorating the walls. Your sister has always loved art, and the time spent surrounded by beautiful things seems to rejuvenate her.

Her pregnancy appears to be easy and without fuzz. There is no nausea preventing her from having as many lemon cakes as you two wish, or from exploring the Vale’s markets, trying on dresses and tasting expensive food.

The money Daemon has left you is enough to fund your shopping sprees. You have so much fun, running in the halls and trying on dresses, it feels as if you are little girls again. The only thing missing from your childhood is Gwayne.

So you send for him.

Despite how much joy your time spent with your sister brings you, you cannot shake the thought about the red door.

It is situated in one of the towers, near the place where Daemon keeps his books. You pass by it daily, for Alicent’s rooms have been placed in the same tower. Housing a Queen is no easy task, much less when she carries the heir to the Iron Throne inside her. She had come with servants and guards, who had to be housed too. There was no space but that tower.

That tower. Each time you pass it, you have to clench your fists hard to stop yourself from reaching towards it. Every time you open a door, your hands linger on the only key you will never use.

What lies behind the red door? What can possibly upset your husband such and change him from a careless hedonist into a violent man?

When no one is near, you kneel by the door and try to look through the keyhole. The lock on the door is old and smells faintly of iron. The only thing you can see looking through the keyhole is rust.

Trying to look under the door gives you the same results. Rust and iron, and a nagging curiosity that will not leave you alone.

You try to forget about it. You owe obedience to your husband, and you remember all too well the tale of the woman who owned a jar that should never be opened. It had been a favorite of your father during your youth.

A wife must never pry. For she might find something she doesn’t like.

Yet, when you think of Daemon grabbing you hard enough to bruise, you realize you already have found something you do not like. It is that thought what helps you make up your mind. One afternoon, when Alicent claims to be too tired to keep you company, you decide to open the door.

Your hands are slick with sweat, and shaking so much it takes you two tries to fit the key into the keyhole. Your heart feels like it will leap out of your chest. Suddenly, you are paralyzed.

You cannot turn the key. Your hands have gone rigid. Your fear overwhelms you. What could possibly be in here, if not a terrible secret?

You turn it. The lock clicks, and the door gives with an ominous creak. You step inside, as careful as you can. The floor is slick and sticky. When you look down, your shoes and the hem of your gown are tinted red.

You scream. You turn towards the walls, only to find more blood. Bloodied rags, stains, a bloodied dagger. You begin to feel lightheaded. When you stumble towards a corner, you see her.

A corpse of a woman, hugging her knees to her chest. Her body is rotting, half of her face gone, but enough of it remaining so you can see that it has frozen in an expression of utter horror, much like your own. She wears a rune covered armor, and has several cuts all over.

This time, you fall down. The keys slip from your grip, and you scream so loud, you are sure you wake the whole castle.

The missing Rhea Royce.

“Good gods!” Alicent cries out, behind you. You stumble to your feet, terrified. She cannot see it. Daemon… Daemon was going to kill you both. “What is this? By the Seven, is that..?”

“He is going to kill me.” You say, wiping the blood clinging to your hands on your dress. You try to clean the keys as well, but the stain won’t come out. No matter how hard you try. “He’ll know.”

“He is not going to, we can go to the King, and I am sure there is…” Alicent sounds horrified. She lingers on the doorstep, already on her nightshirt. Her belly is barely beginning to show.

“Alicent!” You say, sharply. “He’ll know. You have to run, Alicent. He will kill us both.”

“And leave you to die?” Your sister sounds indignant. “I cannot. You cannot…”

You cannot run, you wish to say. You cannot because if you do, Daemon will know even quicker, and chase you both. If you stay, maybe you can fool him. Or at least, give your sister a fighting chance.

“Please!” You cry. “Do it for the babe.”

Alicent’s lips turn white from the force she uses to keep them closed. She looks into your eyes, and hesitates. You fear she might not go through it.

“Go!” You cry, slipping on all the blood.

And Alicent, big brown eyes wide, hikes up her skirts and runs.

DAEMON NOTICES AS soon as he asks for the keys. You have never been a good liar, and the blood still stains them. When handing them over, you shake.

His smile drops. He no longer is the happy husband, but the creature that had frightened you the other night. The creature that had killed Rhea Royce, and took her lands.

“You couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” He grabs you by the neck, snarling.“I told you to leave it alone.”

Your pulse begins to race. You cannot speak, and you can only take shallow breaths. Your panic must show on your face because Daemon smiles at you, coldly. He squeezes a tad harder, enough to cut off your breath.

You gasp. It comes out more like a choked hiccup.

“Look at what you are making me do.” When you are starting to feel lightheaded, breath coming out in desperate wheezes, Daemon gives you a shove. “I never wanted to do this. This is all your fault.”

“You don’t have to kill me.” You plead, voice shaking. “I’ll keep your secret.”

Daemon looks at you, and laughs.

“I assure you, I have not gotten away with it this long because I believe every pretty thing telling me they will keep their mouths shut.”

Your eyes widen. The phrasing is strange. Every pretty thing…

“There had been others?” Daemon scoffs at your question, but doesn’t answer. You look into his eyes, and try pleading once more. At this point, tears are streaming down your cheeks. You are sure you make a very pathetic sight. “Just… Don’t kill me.”

“Good Gods. Are all Hightowers this dumb or is it you and Aliwhore?” Daemon grasps your face, roughly. You cannot believe your ears. Where is all this hatred coming from? It seems like the man you loved, the one that had courted you for endless summer days, is gone. All that is left is his profound hatred for you and your family. Had he only pretended not to hate you, and was showing his true colors now? “At least die with some dignity, you pathetic cunt.”

Dignity. Dignity could buy you time. You need it, to think of a way to survive.

“Allow me to pray, then. To make my peace with my death.”

Prayer wasn’t your strong forte. But you guessed you could possibly buy an hour with it. You had never been as devout as your siblings, but you could pretend well enough to fill the time as you tried to make your own miracle happen.

Daemon studies your expression closely. He tilts your head up and down, and then gives you a patronizing little pat on the cheek.

“Fine.” He spits out. “Pray. Only a few minutes, not a second more.”

You walk past him, intent on going back to the tower where a statue of the Mother stands. You watch his face carefully when you pass by him, worried he is only toying with you and has no true intention of allowing you to pray in solitude. But he doesn’t stop you.

You make your way to the highest tower, kneel by the feet of the statue and weep. Your weakness only lasts you a moment because when you lift your gaze, you catch sight of a green standard approaching the gates.

Could that be..?

“Are you done?” Daemon asks, from behind the closed door. You can hear the drag of steel against steel, and picture him in your mind’s eye. Taking Dark Sister out of her sheath, face full of bloodlust.

“Just a minute more.” You beg, watching the rider stop at the gates and being allowed in by the guards. “Don’t kill me, please! Not yet!” You cry out, as loud as you can, hoping your voice carries.

Daemon bursts in, Dark Sister held by his side. His smile is cold, his face the image of calm. One would never guess he is about to kill someone by watching his expression. You notice the dagger he carries at his hip, but do not dare to try to take it. Not when Dark Sister’s reach is much longer.

“Oh, spare me the hysterics. More prayer will not spare you.” He lunges at you, and you evade him, but there are only so many places one can run to in a small room. Daemon catches you by wrapping your braid in his hand, giving you a harsh tug that makes you tumble down. You scream.

“Shut up. Seven Hells, quiet.” Daemon places the sword at your throat. “You will…”

The door is thrown open by a kick, the loud bang startling him and making his grip falter.

“She will do nothing.” Gwayne says, firmly. You can see Alicent standing behind him, wrenching her hands together. You have never been more grateful to see them. “Or I’ll gut you like a fish.”

“Oh?” Daemon shoves you. You do not fight his push, laying limply on the floor. He turns towards Gwayne, sword no longer focused on you. “You think you can beat me, boy?”

Gwayne cannot. He had lost to him in a tourney not even six months before. You do not hesitate. You grab the dagger at Daemon’s hip and stab him in the stomach, hard. And you do it again, and again, until your hands and face are covered in blood, and Daemon does no longer move.

You look up at your siblings, then. Alicent’s face is horrified, but when she senses your eyes on her, she smooths down her expression. Gwayne watches with vague interest. At some point, he seems to have taken Dark Sister from Daemon’s hand because he now holds it.

The three of you stare at each other. The blood on your hands is rapidly cooling and turning sticky. You wipe your hands on your dress.

You had thought you would feel something if you killed another person. Instead, you only feel numb. Empty. Daemon is gone, and so are his things. His kisses, his threats, the monster that lurked beneath.

It’s Alcent who first speaks, face pale. “The red room. We need to get to work.”

By the end of it, it is as if he never came home at all. The three of you hug, on the brink of tears. Another string tied you now, beyond the sibling bond. The man you had murdered, and the duty to forget him.

[therogueflame]

Below the Surface

Hi my little cherubs,

here is a piece based on this request. ik i said i'd make it POC focused, but that got really hard really fast and i found it easier to make it ambiguous. and i tried to make it visceral but i feel like..I FEEL LIKE THIS IS BAD IM SORRY pls dont be mad. i literally wrote this in one day if you hate it ill cry. bye love you.

📖 masterlist

🖊 ao3

🗒 wip list

🔥 discord server

Summary: In the warmth of a bath drawn by your own hands, he lets you touch what the world was never meant to see. Beneath scar and silence, something softer begins to surface.

WC: 5.8k

Warnings: 18+, angst, smuff, sex (p in v), fem!reader, scars, comfort, hurt i guess, idk what else

Daemon Targaryen x Fem!Reader

You draw the bath yourself. No servants. No one to bear witness. Just your hands on the brass tap, the weight of the basin warming slowly beneath your palms as steam begins to rise. The scent moves first — rich and heady, thick with crushed clove and sandalwood, something floral underneath that never quite settles. You tilt a vial of oil into the surface, watch it spiral and shimmer before vanishing into the heat. It clings to your skin. It soaks into your sleeves. It fills the room until the walls themselves feel steeped in it.

The fire crackles in the hearth, steady and low. Shadows stretch across the stone like they’ve been waiting too. You sit for a while beside the tub, one hand resting on the edge, the other trailing through the surface. The water is scalding. You don’t pull away.

You leave the door unlatched.

He doesn’t come right away. He never does. You don’t call for him. You don’t go looking. He’s still coming down from whatever place he’s been, the battlefield or something worse. The kind of place that leaves blood crusted in the creases of his hands and silence thick on his tongue. You imagine the weight of it on his shoulders as he moves through the halls. Imagine the stiffness in his fingers, the sharp edge of whatever’s still clinging to him. It always lingers. You don’t try to chase it away.

You just wait.

When the door finally shifts open, it doesn’t creak. It doesn’t slam. Just the soft sound of it catching the latch before falling back into place again. You don’t turn to greet him. You don’t rise. You can feel him behind you anyway. The drag of his gaze across your shoulders, the pause in his breath, the way the air seems to bend slightly around him.

You rise slowly. He hasn’t said a word. He never has to.

He’s still wearing his armor. Dark and dusted with ash, one shoulder dented, the hem of his cloak frayed and clinging with dried mud. There’s something on his jaw — maybe blood, maybe just dirt — and a shadow beneath his left eye that hadn’t been there before. He holds himself like he’s still bracing for something. Like he hasn’t decided if it’s over yet.

You move toward him and begin with the clasp at his collar. Your fingers find the cool metal and linger. He doesn’t flinch, but you feel the twitch of restraint in his posture, the way his jaw ticks when you press a little closer. You unfasten the first buckle. Then the next. The cloak slips from his shoulders and falls behind him, pooling silently at his feet.

You work your way down.

Leather, chain, the plates of his breastplate. It’s all familiar now, this ritual, this undressing. Not a task. Not a duty. A reverence. You unlace, unfasten, peel the layers away like sheaths of armor carved into flesh. Beneath the steel, his tunic is damp with sweat. The cloth clings to his skin, and when you tug it free, it catches along a scabbed-over cut beneath his ribs. He exhales, sharp and quiet. You don’t apologize. You touch it with your fingers, tracing the edge where healing has already begun. He does not look away.

His hands stay at his sides.

You reach for his belt and work it loose, then push the fabric of his trousers down over his hips. He steps out of them without a word. The scar on his thigh is still pink from whatever nearly split him open weeks ago. You run your knuckles along it and feel him shift, just slightly. His breathing changes. But he still doesn’t speak.

There’s nothing left between you now.

You stand back just enough to see him fully, lit by firelight and the flickering glow of candle stubs burning low in the corners. His body is all muscle and ruin. Every line of him shaped by survival. Scars like constellations across his chest, his shoulders, the sharp ridge of his stomach. You know them. You’ve counted them. You’ve kissed them all. Still, you look at him like it’s the first time.

And he lets you.

He watches you with that look — the one that says he’d let you take a blade to him if you asked, the one that says he’d still reach for you with blood on his hands. There’s something in his eyes that doesn’t soften, not really, but you don’t need softness. You need this. You need him like this. Bare. Waiting. Still breathing.

The water waits too.

You lift your hand and hold it out for his. He doesn’t take it right away. Not because he doubts. Because the gesture is too quiet. Too tender. Because it’s always easier for him to kill a man than to be held by someone who sees through every bone-deep wound.

But then his hand finds yours. Rough, warm, calloused from blade and bridle.

You lead him into the steam.

He follows you, silent as a shadow, heavy as the weight he never puts down. You lead him in slowly, one step at a time, until the heat laps at his thighs and he sinks lower, knees bending as he braces one hand against the edge of the tub. His breath stutters when it hits the surface. You don't let go.

When he finally settles, chest rising above the waterline, arms loose at his sides, you kneel beside him. His eyes are closed. The tension has not left him.

In this light, you can see everything.

The burn scars cover his entire right shoulder, thick and brutal and deep. Twisting bands of healed flesh stretch from the ridge of his collarbone down across his pectoral and back along the blade of his shoulder. The skin is ridged and warped, no longer smooth, no longer even. It speaks of fire — not flame from a torch or battlefield blaze, but dragonfire. Pure, ancient, merciless. You can almost feel the heat of it still lingering in the way he carries that shoulder slightly lower, how he favors his left side even in rest. The pain never really left. It just became familiar.

You don’t look away.

Your hand reaches for him again, and this time it lands directly on the edge of the burn. His skin is tough there, uneven, but still warm beneath your touch. You smooth your palm over it with care, as if your hands could ease something even time hasn’t soothed. His breath catches. His eyes stay shut.

There are other scars too. A narrow one just beneath his ribs, pale and thin, from a blade you never saw. Another on the inside of his left forearm, sloppily stitched. One above his knee. One along the curve of his hip that vanishes into the water. Ghosts of battles. Warnings etched into flesh. You’ve seen them before, but never all at once like this. Never with so much quiet between you.

“You don’t have to look at them,” he says, low and quiet, like he’s offering you a way out. Like he expects you to take it.

“I want to.”

You say it simply. You mean it.

You run your fingers down his chest, letting your knuckles drag softly over the old wound near his heart, then up along his collarbone until your palm fits again over the ruined shoulder. You stay there. His chest rises, uneven. He’s waiting for you to flinch. You don’t.

Instead, you lean forward and kiss the very edge of the burn.

He doesn’t move.

Your lips press gently to the seam where fire met flesh, then the curve just below it. You kiss along the rough texture, across the skin that puckers and pulls in strange directions, and then over the bone beneath where it starts to smooth again. It’s not soft. It was never meant to be. You kiss it anyway.

Your mouth lingers longer than it should, but you don’t apologize. His hands are gripping the porcelain edge. You glance down and see the whiteness of his knuckles.

You pull back just enough to look at him again. He’s watching you now, jaw tight, but his eyes have lost their usual sharpness. There’s something vulnerable there. Something open. Something almost afraid.

You pick up the cloth beside the tub and soak it in the water, wringing it out slowly until it drips between your fingers. Then you bring it to his chest and begin to wash him. You start at the center, moving in small, circular motions, letting the heat soak into his skin. Then upward, toward his shoulder.

You do not avoid the scar.

When the cloth reaches the burn, you go slower. He sucks in a breath through his teeth but doesn’t stop you. You wipe gently along the ridges, careful not to drag too hard. The water beads over the rough surface and rolls down his side.

You move in silence, washing each part of him with the same steady care. Across his throat. Down the slope of his ribs. Along the length of his arms. Every mark you find, you tend to. Every old wound is a story you don’t ask him to tell. You already know enough.

He breathes deeper now. Slower. His body has begun to settle. Not relaxed, not fully, but something close. Something like surrender.

You dip the cloth again and bring it to the side of his neck, your free hand resting lightly on his jaw. His eyes flutter closed. You’re close enough to feel his breath against your wrist.

You move slowly, your hands steady, your breath calm even as your heart begins to press harder behind your ribs. The cloth slips from your fingers and sinks into the water, forgotten. You reach instead for the small vial beside the basin, uncork it with a quiet twist, and let a few drops of oil fall into your palm. The scent rises instantly — something dark, resinous, touched with smoke. You warm it between your hands, then slide them over his shoulders.

He tenses beneath you. Not with resistance. Just instinct. Just the old memory of pain and what came after.

You smooth the oil into his skin.

The burn scar on his right side is thick beneath your touch. The flesh rises in ridges and dips, uneven and rough, but warm now from the bath. You start there. You don’t rush. You spread your palms wide and press into the edges of it, coaxing the oil across the twisted surface. The heat of the water and the heat of your hands work in tandem. You feel the slight tremor that goes through him. His eyes stay closed. He doesn’t speak.

You trail lower, across his shoulder blades, then down along his spine. His skin is damp and slick beneath your palms, but still coarse in places, the marks of healed-over lashes or blades or burns you’ve never asked about. Some wounds don’t come with stories. They don’t need to. You’ve learned them by feel. You’ve memorized the terrain of him with your hands in silence.

You rinse your hands and move back up, this time to his chest. You sit on the edge of the tub now, half-kneeling beside him as he leans back against the curved wall. His neck is tilted toward you, throat exposed, jaw tight. You pour more oil into your hands and work it into his skin — over his collarbones, the slope of his chest, the scattered scars that mark the space beneath his ribs. Your thumbs press gently into the space above his sternum. He exhales through his nose. It sounds like surrender.

You lean down and kiss the scar closest to his heart.

Not with hunger. Not with pity. Just presence.

The skin there is thin and pale, almost white. You kiss it once, then again, slower the second time. Then you drag your mouth a little lower and breathe into the place where the scar curves toward his ribs. The water sloshes softly around him when he shifts.

You feel his hand rise beneath the surface and brush lightly against your thigh. Not a grip. Not a request. Just contact. Just proof that he is still here.

Your mouth moves to the old wound at his side, the one you know came from someone who meant to kill him. You kiss it, then speak into it.

“This one saved your life.”

Your voice is barely there, more breath than sound, but you know he hears you. His hand tightens slightly, then loosens again. You look up at him and his eyes are open now, heavy-lidded, watching you like you’re doing something sacrilegious and holy all at once.

You reach for the cloth again and dip it in the water, then lift his arm with care and begin to clean it. His bicep, his forearm, the space just beneath his elbow where the skin is softer. You move to the other side and do the same. You soap your hands and return to his back, working the lather into his shoulders with gentle pressure, then rinsing it with fresh water from a waiting pitcher. The sound of it pours soft between you, trailing down his spine and into the bath.

When you’re finished there, you slide into the tub behind him.

You pull him back into you slowly, his shoulders fitting against your chest, his head resting beneath your chin. His body is heavy with heat now. Not limp, but loose. Not completely at peace, but close enough to pass for it. You let your hands glide over his chest again, lathering soap into his skin, careful not to move too fast, careful not to break the spell.

You press another kiss to his temple, then to his jaw. Then lower, to the burn at his shoulder. This one you linger on the longest.

“You came back to me.”

You say it into the scar. Into the silence. Into the water that holds you both.

The bath has gone quieter somehow, though nothing has changed. The fire still crackles in the hearth, the water still laps gently against the sides of the tub with each shift of your bodies. But the silence feels different now. It feels heavy. Thick with all the things he has not said, all the weight he refuses to set down. You can feel it in the way he breathes — shallow, steady, careful. Like he’s afraid of making a sound that might undo him.

Your hands are still moving across his chest, slow and deliberate. You’ve washed every scar, kissed each one like a vow. You’ve spoken softly, not for comfort, but for truth. You’ve asked for nothing in return. You’ve let him be held.

You feel his body tighten.

Not in tension. In restraint. In the kind of quiet bracing that comes before something breaks.

Your fingers slide down, one last pass over the ragged burn that scars his shoulder, and this time his breath catches. It doesn’t fully release. It stays trapped there, just behind his teeth, and you feel it tremble through him like a low shudder.

Then his hand finds yours beneath the water.

It’s sudden, not rough, but urgent. His fingers close over yours and hold. Too tightly. The pressure is unmistakable. You pause.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t look at you. He just grips your hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the surface, like if he lets go he might drown. And maybe he would. Maybe this is what drowning feels like to him. Not war. Not fire. Not blood.

This.

Being seen.

He doesn’t know how to do this. He knows how to fight. How to burn. How to fuck. But this is something else entirely. There is no armor for this. No sword to swing. There is just your hand in his and the steam rising around you and the unbearable stillness of being touched with reverence instead of want.

You let him hold on.

You do not pull away. You don’t even move. You let the moment stretch until the tightness in his grip softens, just barely. Until his thumb brushes over the back of your hand like he means to memorize it. Like he’s sorry for the pressure, but can’t stop.

You can feel it in him. The way everything in him coils tight to resist the thing rising to the surface. You can feel the ache of it in his bones, the rawness in the way his jaw stays clenched, the faintest tremor in his exhale when your other hand moves to rest over his heart.

Still, he says nothing.

But something in him changes.

Not all at once. Just a flicker. A tilt of his head against your shoulder, the weight of it heavier than before. The slow release of breath that leaves him like he’s giving something away. The slight turn of his fingers so they fit between yours more easily now, not a grip, not a hold — just contact. Just trust.

You glance down at him and his eyes are closed again, but not the way they were before. Not guarded. Not braced. Just closed.

You stay where you are.

You don’t speak. You don’t try to ease it or label it. You just let him feel it, whatever it is. The ache, the quiet, the grief he never let anyone see, the fear stitched into his bones that he would never be more than the worst things he’s done. You let him have it. You let him fall apart in the smallest way a man like him ever could.

He is still Daemon.

He is still danger and fire and chaos wrapped in silk and blood.

But right now, in your arms, in the water, in this silence that holds the shape of something sacred, he is just a man.

You don’t know how long you sit like that, the water cooling slightly around you, his weight settled into your chest like a second heartbeat. The scent of oil still clings to your skin, warm and spiced and heavy. Your hands have stopped moving but remain on him, one still resting over his heart, the other cradled gently between his fingers beneath the surface. Neither of you speaks. There is no need.

The silence is thick, but not heavy anymore. Just full.

Then slowly, he lifts your hand from where it rests against his ribs. He brings it to his mouth, kisses the inside of your wrist, then your palm. It’s the smallest thing, but it undoes you.

He turns.

He shifts in the water and faces you for the first time, knees brushing yours. He doesn’t speak, but you can see it in his face — the permission, the question, the hope he hasn’t dared name. His hands rise to your waist, tentative, like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s asking.

And you move with him.

You reach for his face, fingers curling along the rough stubble at his jaw, and lean in until your lips find his. It’s not rushed. It’s not hungry. It’s slow, steady, certain. The kind of kiss that doesn’t demand anything. The kind that simply says I’m here. He kisses you back like he means to stay. Like he’s already staying. Like there is nothing left in the world but this moment and the shape of you in front of him.

The water shifts around you when you rise slightly, adjusting your position, and he follows your movement without hesitation. His hands find your hips and hold you there, not tightly, just present. His mouth moves to your jaw, then your neck, not rushed, not desperate — just reverent. Your shift is soaked, translucent and useless, clinging to your skin in a way that makes him pause. You feel his breath catch. His eyes sweep down over you like he’s seeing something sacred.

You reach for the hem and lift it slowly over your head. It lands somewhere behind you with a soft sound, forgotten the moment it’s gone. You are bare before him now, firelight catching the water on your skin, steam curling around your shoulders. You don’t cover yourself. You don’t move to hide. You just look at him. Let him see you. All of you.

And he does.

He watches you like you are something he never thought he’d be allowed to have. Like he still doesn’t believe you’re real. He doesn’t reach for you right away. He just looks. His eyes are darker now, the line of his mouth softened, parted slightly as if he’s still holding something back.

You step into his lap, straddling him slowly, one knee at a time, and he receives you like he’s been waiting forever. His hands come back to your hips, his touch steady this time. His eyes lift to yours and stay there. You settle against him and press your forehead to his.

The kiss that follows is deeper. More certain. Still gentle, but full of heat that’s been waiting beneath the surface. You feel it in the way his fingers slide up your spine. You feel it in the way he breathes you in like he needs to memorize you. You let your hands find his shoulders, the curve of his neck, the back of his head. His body is solid beneath you, heat and muscle and memory.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand rising to cup your cheek, thumb tracing the line of your jaw with unexpected tenderness. In his eyes, you see a question—not of desire, but of worth. Even now, he wonders if he deserves this. If he deserves you.

You answer without words, pressing into his touch, closing the space between you once more. This time when your lips meet his, something shifts. The careful restraint that's held him together begins to unravel. His arms encircle you completely, pulling you flush against him, water lapping at the edges of the tub as your bodies align.

The heat builds between you, slow and inevitable. His hands map your skin with reverence, following the curve of your waist, the arch of your spine, the hollow at the base of your throat. He touches you like he's memorizing you, like each inch of your flesh is sacred. Every touch is deliberate, patient, a quiet worship in the language only your bodies speak.

You feel him harden against you, his desire unmistakable now beneath the water. But there's no rush in his movements, no demand in his touch. His lips trace the curve of your shoulder, then the hollow of your throat, lingering at the pulse point where your heartbeat quickens against his mouth. Your fingers thread through his hair, still damp, curling slightly at the ends where it's grown longer than he usually permits.

"I saw it," he says suddenly, the words so quiet you almost miss them. His voice is rough, raw with something he's been holding back. "When I was out there. In the darkness. I saw this."

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still cradling his face. The vulnerability in his expression nearly breaks you. You understand what he means without asking. Out there, in whatever battlefield or nightmare he's returned from, when death was close and darkness closer—he saw this moment. This tub. This room. Your hands on his skin. The quiet between you. It was the thing he held onto. The thing that brought him back.

You press your palm to his chest, right over his heart, and feel it beating strong and sure beneath your touch.

"I'm here," you whisper, the words barely audible above the gentle lapping of water. "I'm always here."

He catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it again, then pulls you closer until there's no space left between you. The water rises around your bodies as you shift against him. His mouth finds yours again, hungrier now but still achingly tender. You feel the restraint in him breaking, not all at once but in small, deliberate surrenders.

When he lifts you slightly, adjusting your weight against him, the motion sends a ripple through the water that echoes the shudder passing through your body. His hands slide beneath your thighs, supporting you as you rise above him, poised at the edge of something inevitable. Your eyes meet his in the firelight, and for once, there is no shadow there, no darkness lurking. Just hunger and reverence and something deeper that neither of you has dared to name.

You sink down onto him slowly, taking him into your body with a soft gasp that he catches with his mouth. The fullness of him inside you draws a tremor from deep within. His hands tighten on your hips, not guiding, just steadying, as if he fears you might disappear if he doesn't hold on.

For a moment, neither of you moves. You stay joined, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, as the world narrows to nothing but sensation and shared breath. Then, with deliberate slowness, you begin to move.

The water ripples around you, lapping gently against the sides of the tub as you rise and fall. Each movement is unhurried, almost reverent. His hands slide up your back, one cradling your spine, the other tangling in your hair. His mouth traces the column of your throat, then returns to your lips with renewed hunger.

You move together like this is a prayer, like this is absolution. For all the blood on his hands, for all the fire in his past, for all the darkness that still clings to him when he returns—here, in this moment, he is clean. He is whole. He is yours.

His breathing grows ragged against your skin. You feel the tension building in his muscles, the way his fingers press more firmly into your flesh, the slight tremble that runs through him as he fights to maintain control. You can feel him holding back, even now, afraid to let go completely. Afraid of what might happen if he surrenders entirely to this moment, to you, to the vulnerability that terrifies him more than any battlefield.

You cup his face between your palms, bring his gaze to yours. In the flickering light, his eyes are almost black, pupils blown wide with desire, but there's something else there—a question, an uncertainty. You answer it with a roll of your hips that draws a low sound from his throat, something between a groan and a plea.

"Let go," you whisper against his mouth. Not a command. A permission.

His hands tighten on your waist, and for a moment, you think he might refuse. Then something breaks in him—not with violence, but with relief. His arms encircle you completely, and he buries his face against your throat as he thrusts upward with new urgency. The water sloshes around you, spilling over the edges of the tub as the rhythm between you deepens. His breath comes hot against your skin, punctuated by sounds he never makes outside this room—soft, broken groans that vibrate through your body.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, one palm pressed against the burn scar, claiming even the parts of him he considers ruined. His mouth finds yours again, and this time the kiss is raw, unguarded. He tastes of salt and smoke and something uniquely him. You drink him in, feeling the tremors building in your own body as he shifts the angle of his hips, hitting something deep inside that makes your vision blur.

You cry out, a soft, broken sound that echoes in the chamber as pleasure crashes through you in waves. He holds you tighter, his rhythm faltering as your body tightens around him. You feel the exact moment he surrenders—his shoulders tensing, his breath catching, his hands gripping you like you're the only solid thing in a world gone liquid. He breathes your name against your skin like a confession, like something sacred he's been holding back.

The aftermath finds you still entwined, water cooling around your bodies, his forehead pressed to your shoulder. His breathing gradually slows, matching yours until you can't tell where your exhale ends and his begins. Neither of you speaks. Neither of you needs to.

When he finally lifts his head to look at you, there's something in his eyes you've never seen before—not vulnerability, exactly, but openness. The walls haven't fallen completely, but a window has been opened. Just enough to let you in. Just enough to let him breathe.

You brush the damp hair from his forehead, a simple gesture that feels more intimate than what your bodies just shared. His eyes flutter closed briefly at your touch, then open again with a clarity that wasn't there before. The water ripples around you when he shifts, pulling you closer, his arms encircling your waist as if he can't bear the thought of letting go just yet.

"The water's getting cold," you murmur, though neither of you moves to leave.

His thumb traces the curve of your cheek, follows the line of your jaw. "I don't feel it."

His voice is still rough, but there's something else in it now. Something softer. Something like peace.

You lean forward and rest your forehead against his, your fingers tracing idle patterns across his shoulders. The scent of the oils has settled into your skin, marking you both with the same earthy fragrance. It mingles with the smell of him—smoke and iron and something uniquely his own that you've come to recognize even in darkness.

"We should move to the bed," you say, though you make no effort to rise.

He nods, his hands still wandering along your spine as if he can't quite stop touching you. When he finally moves, it's with reluctance. He helps you stand, water cascading from your bodies as you rise from the cooling bath. The air feels sharp against your damp skin, but before you can shiver, he's wrapping a heavy linen around your shoulders, his own still draped loosely around his hips. His movements are unhurried, deliberate, as he guides you toward the bed across the chamber.

The sheets are cool against your heated skin. He settles beside you, one arm sliding beneath your head, the other coming to rest at your waist. His body is a line of warmth against yours, solid and present. The fire still burns low in the hearth, casting long shadows that dance across his features. In this light, with the water still beading on his skin, he looks almost peaceful—the hard edges of him temporarily softened.

You trace the scar near his heart with your fingertip, feeling the slight ridge of healed flesh beneath your touch. He watches you without speaking, his eyes half-lidded but alert. You've seen him like this only a handful of times—the warrior at rest, the dragon momentarily tamed. Not conquered,never broken, but willing to lay down his blade for just this one night.

His hand catches yours, brings it to his lips. He kisses each fingertip with deliberate care, then your palm, then the inside of your wrist where your pulse still thrums quick and steady. You feel the rasp of his stubble against your skin, the warmth of his breath, the slight press of teeth that sends a shiver down your spine despite the lingering heat from the bath.

"Sleep," you murmur, though you know he rarely does. Not deeply. Not without dreams that leave him gasping in the darkness, reaching for weapons that aren't there.

He shakes his head slightly, eyes still fixed on yours. "Not yet."

There's something in his voice—not desire, though that's there too, banked like coals beneath ash. It's something else. Something almost like fear, as if sleep might steal this moment from him. As if whatever peace he's found in your arms might vanish with the dawn.

You understand without words. You've learned to read him in the spaces between what he says, in the things his body tells you when his voice cannot. You shift closer, your leg sliding between his, your head finding the hollow of his shoulder where it fits perfectly. His arm tightens around you, his hand splaying across your back, spanning the width of your spine.

"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper against his skin.

His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek. You feel the slight catch in his breath, the way his fingers flex against your back. He doesn't answer, but his body relaxes by degrees, tension seeping out of him like water through stone.

The fire pops, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Outside, the wind has picked up,whistling through the eaves like a distant wail. The sound makes him tense briefly, some old instinct still alert for danger, before he settles again beneath your touch.

You lie together in the growing quiet, your bodies cooling, breath syncing until you can't tell where yours ends and his begins. His fingers trace idle patterns across your shoulder, following no particular design, just touching for the sake of contact. It's these moments—not the passion, not the fire—that reveal the most about him. The way he holds you when no one is watching. The way his guard lowers inch by inch until something almost vulnerable peeks through.

You feel the exact moment he finally surrenders to sleep. His breathing deepens, his hand goes slack against your skin, and the tension that never fully leaves his body ebbs like a tide pulling away from shore. In this unguarded state, he looks almost peaceful—the furrow between his brows smoothed, the hard line of his mouth softened. You've rarely seen him like this, vulnerable in a way he would never allow himself to be if conscious.

You stay awake a while longer, watching the play of firelight across his features, memorizing the moment because you know how fleeting it is. How rare. Your fingers trace the edge of the burn scar on his shoulder, feeling the uneven texture beneath your touch. Even in sleep, he stirs slightly at the contact, though he doesn't wake.

The night deepens around you. The fire burns lower, casting the room in amber shadows. Outside, the wind has died down, leaving only the occasional whisper against the stones. It's in this perfect stillness that you feel the weight of what's happened between you tonight—not just the physical joining, but something deeper. Something unnamed that flowed between you like the water in the bath, washing away the barriers he's spent a lifetime building.

You don't name it. You don't need to. It exists in the space between heartbeats, in the way his body curves protectively around yours even in sleep, in the slight furrow that appears between his brows when you shift away briefly to pull the covers higher.

His hand finds yours in his sleep, fingers brushing blindly across the sheets until they close around yours. Even in rest, he reaches for you. Even without thought, some part of him remembers you're there. The knowing settles deep in your chest, warm and heavy and impossibly tender. You hold on.

[syndrossi]

so, if the twins had been entirely identical with the silver hair and purple eyes, what would the dynamic be then?

how would daemon learn to identify them over time?

at one point, does he just instinctively know who’s who?

(funny or tragic enough the broken arm actually worked in identifying Jon at the beginning)

who would the twins play tricks on the most with their identical looks?

is aemond even angrier at the prospect of them being identical?

who’s better at playing the other and yes it’s Rhaegar, i know this, but does Jon ever get any good at it?

would otto even bother to learn who’s who?

do the twins and the cargyll twins laugh and chat about their similarities? do the cargylls give them tips on how to fight together as a duo against a foe that they may not know?

anything else i might’ve missed?

The funny thing is that I feel like Jon would still act in some ways as though he had his old coloring. And get super taken aback when people (like Crayne) are creepy over his hair too.

Would the twins have been treated alike at the Gates of the Moon if they both looked like Daemon? Quite possibly, especially if they were identical! There's no Royce/Redfort-esque coloring to favor.

I think their mannerisms separate them enough that Daemon could figure it out pretty quickly, broken arm or not, and I feel like Jon would still favor shorter hair, especially if people continue to be weird about it. Jon with Baelon hair would be adorable and even more of a mindfuck for Viserys!

The twins would troll the Kingsguard/Princesguard the most, I would guess, though it's very fun to mess with Laenor, so he would be up there. I feel like they'd give it a real try (aka play the game on hard mode) with Daemon to see if they could ever fool him, but Daemon knows how to find their tells, though he doesn't like doing it. (Basically, if he acts a very particular way around Rhaegar, the kid freezes for a second.)

You're right that Rhaegar is naturally the better imposter, but Jon can fake being him for short periods. Like, if you try to make him sing, the game is immediately up, but both of them do that quiet observation thing. Where Jon really struggles is with people he doesn't like; it just...always manages to come through. Jon could not fool Otto or Cole to save his life.

(So I guess the answer is yes, Otto does bother! It's impossible to miss that one of them is always staring at him with an expression ranging from hostility to at least mild disapproval, while the other is a damned cypher.)

For people who don't know the twins super well, it's much easier to succeed at pretending to be the other.

Aemond is very bummed that they're identical because it means Jon definitively looks more like Rhaegar. (Whereas in Resonant, Jon's "impure" coloring is a point in Aemond's favor.)

Now that I think about it, I feel like Jon would be more inclined to accept a Targaryen name from the get-go, since he looks so different (from his POV) to before. Like. It doesn't matter how much he still feels like a wolf, he's very visibly a dragon.

Definitely even more bonding with the Cargyll twins who can tell at twenty paces which twin is which, no speech needed, with 90% accuracy.

[descendant-of-truth]

So, these two pages from chapter 88 have been causing a lot of confusion due to inconsistent translations, and I've decided to set the record straight as best I can with the knowledge at my disposal.

Starting with the first page, this is where Mitsuki says that he and Eida are similar. In the next panel, he says: 「どうしてカワキを好きなのか。。。その理由が自分で分からない」

This is the first point where fan translations and the official VIZ translation differ. Fans generally seemed to agree that he's saying he doesn't understand why Eida loves Kawaki, while the official version has him say that he doesn't understand why he himself loves Kawaki.

And unfortunately, both of those are understandable translations. The first part of the sentence contains no indication of whether he's talking about himself or Eida; the most literal translation I can do is "Why is Kawaki loved... that reason, [I/you] don't understand."

The reason it's "I/you" is because he uses the word 自分 (jibun), which depending on context, can be equivalent to either "my" or "your." It's not really the same deal as 僕 (boku), Mitsuki's primary first-person indicator, which makes it extremely annoying to translate.

So, which is it? Well, as vague as it is, my best guess is actually based on the dialogue of the second page.

Thankfully, this one is much easier to answer. In the largest panel, Eida says: 「あたし達。。。超恋バナしてるね」

The conversation around this line seemed to be, "she clearly said they're talking about romantic love!" "No, she's just using a slang term akin to 'girl talk,' so she only means that they're bonding!" And guess what? They're both right!

I consulted a friend of mine who speaks Japanese natively on Eida's word choice, and he said that while "girl talk" is closer on the basis of it being a casual/slang term, it's gender-neutral and is more about people "talking about their love."

In other words, "we're both chatting about love" or "we're having a love talk" would probably be the most accurate ways to translate it.

At this point, I want to bring attention to Daemon and Mitsuki's reactions to what Eida just said:

Daemon is flabbergasted, only able to say "Huh...?" while Mitsuki blushes for a second, then turns away and says "Well... I guess it didn't matter."

What exactly would Daemon be surprised about, if not the implication that Mitsuki loves someone who isn't Eida (and a guy, no less)? Why would he be showing that surprise now, instead of when Mitsuki allegedly announced that he loved Kawaki a few pages ago?

Likewise, while Mitsuki blushing around Eida isn't unusual, he actually spent the vast majority of this conversation remarkably composed. He only blushed for a single panel when he first noticed Eida was in the area, so having it come back after he's basically called out for being in love (real love, as it was already established that they both knew his feelings for Eida are fabricated) is a very deliberate choice.

While Mitsuki doesn't always emote very much, we can assume he was taken a little off-guard here - and again, if he was already confident enough in his love for Kawaki, why this reaction? Why all the talk before now about how he wasn't sure he'd know what romance felt like without Eida's ability?

The only conclusion I can make is that, in the first page, he's not saying "I don't know why I love Kawaki" like in the VIZ translation. It's much more likely that he's saying "I don't know why you love Kawaki." That's the only way that Mitsuki's feelings for Kawaki can be treated as a reveal, to both Daemon and himself.

And given that his love for Kawaki stems from his love for Boruto, due to the memory swap... yeah, if his side of Mitsuboru wasn't canon before, I think it's safe to say that it is now. Now excuse me while I go be extremely sane and normal about this information

[gwenllian-in-the-abbey]

What do you think of book&show!Rhaenyra as characters? And who do you like more?

Hi anon! I've been turning this one over in my mind since you sent it, because I wanted to give it some thought (and anyone who is sick of reading show critical stuff, just skip this one. I don't hate the show, I just think it's interesting and fun to dig a bit deeper). What it comes down to for me is that while book!Rhaenyra is fun, I wish the show had been braver with their depiction of Rhaenyra.

While book!Rhaenyra's motivations are not particularly complex, I feel like I understand her better than show!Rhaenyra. She hasn't heard a prophesy, nor does she feel any real responsibility toward the kingdom to make her second guess the war; her father had made her heir and that was that. Anyone who disagrees can go ahead and die. Her motivations are not particularly noble or self-sacrificing. If anything, it's the opposite. Book!Rhaenyra loves the finer things in life, she's headstrong, and a bit of a mean girl. She goes after what she wants unapologetically, lies through her teeth and never backs down. Book!Rhaenyra never weighs the consequences of her actions, she is vengeful and reactive. She is given terms which would allow her to keep Dragonstone in perpetuity, and unlike her show counterpart, she doesn't even consider them. She says no outright, even before Luke is killed, and replies to tell Aegon that, "I shall have my crown or I shall have his head." And while surely she values the lives of her sons, you get the sense that she never even considers the danger this war puts them in because losing isn't even an option for her. She's going to win because of course she is. And as a reader, you never question her motivations really because, whether you agree with her or not, it is easy to understand that she is fueled by a self-righteous conviction that she will be taking what she feels belongs to her, and woe be to anyone who gets in her way.

Show!Rhaenyra, on the other hand, is more thoughtful. We see this when she's crying at half-dead Viserys' bedside telling him that being heir is a burden, and we see it when she truly considers Otto's peace offer, when she tears up to see the page that Alicent saved from their girlhood. We see it in how she talks to her sons and in the way she apologizes to Alicent at the dinner table. She seems to have some concept of what is at stake, and understands that the throne is a tremendous burden and responsibility, and that the lives of her people are in her hands, and moreover that she does have the option of backing down. When she considers the peace offer, she very clearly states that the prophesy means that she has a responsibility to keep the realm stable, and maybe it is not the best thing for the realm is to throw it into civil war in order to sit the throne at all costs. But all of this, the added sense of awareness of the enormity of the the responsibility and the desire to do right by the realm, while they make her an easier person to support, also makes a lot of her actions that much harder to understand.

One of my main nitpicks with the show as a whole is that the actions of the book characters do not always fit the personalities of the show characters, and so the characterization seems inconsistent. Rhaenyra is aware of the gravity of her position, she learns about the prophesy and the threat to the realm, and then proceeds to have three bastard children (and this is a problem, because it jeopardizes her position. If she gets caught or Corlys/Laenor change their minds and disavow those kids, it's over for her). We have things like Rhaenyra asking for Aemond to be "sharply questioned," which comes from the book, when the episode before she was offering up a dragon and a Jace/Helaena engagement (a show invention, and even though it's not a great deal for the greens if you give it some thought, it reads to the audience as a peace offering). Or you have her telling Daemon she needs his help to fight the greens, and there's this whole conversation about making their enemies believe they're the kind of people who will kill to protect Rhaenyra's claim, but then in episode 8 they have this attempt at reconciliation between Alicent and Rhaenyra and in episode 10 Rhaenyra is going on about how Daemon has "gone to madness, gone to his war." She's seriously entertaining Otto's peace offer (which never happened in the book) while sending her sons off to muster support.

F&B has pretty thin characterization, but what is there comes mostly from the characters' actions and their dialogue. To create a consistent character, the writers needed to start there and ask, what kind of person would say these things and do these things, rather than taking the character they conceived, and trying to shoehorn canon events into that characterization. And the thing is, the show could have created a more fleshed out version of book!Rhaenyra and still made her sympathetic. Take Shiv Roy from Succession, for instance. Shiv is someone who is a victim of misogyny, but also undeniably not the best choice for CEO (neither, of course, are any of her brothers). She's overprivileged and not nearly as experienced or as smart as she thinks she is, she gets in her own way, and in trying to be "one of the boys," she consistently overshoots and alienates actual allies. But she's also a victim of misogyny-- she is expected to provide a woman's touch to delicate matters, but is expected to be as ruthless and cutthroat as the men. Her fuckup brothers are given endless second chances, but Shiv has no such leeway. The specter of motherhood hangs over her constantly-- once she becomes a mother, she will be cast out from the world of men, an asterisk beside her name. And show!Rhaenyra does lean into this a bit (think of Rhaenyra's boobs leaking in the small council, her being stuck giving birth at the moment when leadership is needed in episode 10), but it doesn't commit to the darker side of this. It is not brave enough to make Rhaenyra a bad person as well as a victim.

The thing about Succession is that the show never asked us to view Shiv as good, or as a better choice than her brothers. It didn't even ask us to find her particularly sympathetic, although I certainly do find Shiv sympathetic in some ways. She has a genuine love for her family that makes the moments when she betrays them even more bittersweet, and we can understand her as a pretty bad person while still understanding the ways in which patriarchy screwed her over. In fact, in some ways it was refreshing to see that a woman could be privileged, ruthless and occasionally cruel and still get fucked over (this article is a good breakdown of Shiv-- now imagine a Rhaenyra in this mold!). But central to the difference between HotD and Succession is that Succession doesn't ask us to view the "throne" as a force of good, nor the position as a force of change. The CEO position in Succession is pretty explicitly toxic. Roman refers to the company itself explicitly as a cage. The audience is meant to understand that the person who "wins" is going to be more miserable and more morally compromised as a result. And the Iron Throne is similar. It's a throne made of literal swords! The closer you get to it, the more cursed and compromised you become. But so far, HotD not only insists on casting Rhaenyra as a protagonist, with the addition of the prophesy and the vision of the white hart, winning the throne becomes something she must do for the greater good, her claim something she has been righteously chosen to uphold. And if winning the throne is righteous, then the throne itself must be righteous too. And that's a framing that I don't think can hold up through the Dance, but I fear that the show may have backed itself into a corner by casting Rhaenyra as the correct choice, which inherently frames the throne as something she is right to fight for, no matter the cost to the people, her family, or herself.

[ryn-halo26]

Welcome to the Sovereign Fan Club! [NB4A]

Why did I make this. Here's a script for Ryn, my silly president of the sovereign fan club. Tagging @puffin-smoke bc you made me make this /s Also tagging @literallyangelshaw @lancerthatisntfree @themonotonysyndrome @localpigeon22 bcI can :D also as a thanks for helping me

Newbie! Glad you could make it! Piko signed you into the club right?

[yes]

Great, hopefully she wasn't too much for you. Now, there's a lot going on here. As Piko's already told you, we have trivia, tierlists, brackets, etcetera. But all those require knowledge of the sovereigns themselves, since this is a fan club. Got it?

[Yes]

Nice. Ramble time, you wanna take a seat? Not literally though, I paid for those couches. Want a drink before we start? I've got Milo, Ice lemon tea, pepsi, 100 plus, Fanta, Root beer, mountain dew, yakult—

[Water]

J-just water? Uhm, don't think I keep any in the fridge, bottled water tastes like shit most of the time..

[Anything is fine then]

Anything? Sure, I can get you some iced tea too. Any brand preferences? Pokka? Seasons? Sovereigns forbid Lipton?

[I don't know any those brands]

Y-you don't.. you don't know those brands? Gee, guess you'll be getting a taste of perfection today then.

{Ryn goes to the "kitchen" area and opens the fridge. They come back with 2 bottles of Pokka ice lemon tea}

Here, don't drink it too quickly, you'll get sick.

{Ryn opens their bottle and takes a sip}

Alright, now for the yapping. Hope you're prepared, Newbie.

So, fucking forever ago, there were these beings called "Sovereigns", also referred to as Sky Gods and Conductors, these beings were the ultimate ruler of their branch of magic.

There were 19 of them. In alphabetical order, A'Ahnen, A'Xerahn, D'Deridahn, E'Laetum, Fel'Ees, G'Girehk, Jad'Zia, Kir'Sha, L'Rhenn, Min'Ara, N'Dellex, Oto'Enid, P'Taxeck, Rak'Xit, S'Thenhin, Tal'Ris, Use'Dia, Wen'Alak, and Z'Tinqin.

Yes, I seriously memorised the alphabetical order of their names. I'm the club president for a reason.

So, these sovereigns, they exist, then one day, no idea when, E'Laetum, sovereign of Empathy, he's important I promise, makes the first daemon. And by that, the first empathy daemon, Polaris.

[Like the north star?]

Exactly! Which is why the star in our plane is so important! I think.

Anyway, E'Laetum made Polaris to be child-like because he wanted someone to guide and take care of.

But majority of the other sovereigns, at least the ones that made daemons, which is still most of them, wanted something to serve them instead of caring for them. Most of the sovereigns weren't very good.

[Why make a fan club for them then?]

Why not? It's fun. Don't get me off topic, someone else already bothered me about the existence of this club.

Anyways, the next demon made is Vega, made by D'Deridahn, sovereign of Gravity. D'Deridahn copied E'Laetum's uh... Blueprint? Of a daemon and like, twisted it to be the complete 180. I've met Vega before actually, scared the shit outta me. Fun fact, because of what D'Deridahn did, E'Laetum has a sort of grudge against Vega, which I find both stupid and hilarious.

[Wait why? Why hate the creation and not the creation?]

How am I supposed to know? I'm no sovereign. Maybe it's because it's easier to dislike the smaller being than someone on equal footing.

So, since D'Deridahn made that new blueprint of demons, majority followed suit.

[which sovereigns made which demons?]

Excellent question! It'd technically be easier to list the sovereigns that didn't make demons, which would be Oto'Enid, sovereign of Transmutation, and G'Girehk, sovereign of Telepathy.

[Only 2?]

Yeah, only 2 didn't bother. Actually, funny side story, G'Girehk and Wen'Alak, sovereign of Psychokinesis, are, in understandable terms, married. So the demons Wen'Alak made were kinda shared with G'Girehk. Cool fact, right?

[yeah, I guess]

You guess? It's an awesome fact! Those demons actually had 2 parents!

Anyway! To answer your question, the types of demons that exist are Empathy, Sadism, Serenity, Misery, Strife, Shock, Fear, Elation, Desire, and Inchoate Demons. Actually, at the start, they were all called Daemons with an A, only after shit happens do they actually get rid of the A, except for Empathy and Serenity daemons, I'll get into that later.

So, to state before everything else, demons only gained their current separations based on the emotion they can feed on, which is similar to the magic of the sovereign that made them, who they got sustanance prior to everything happening. Got it?

[Yup]

Good. Okay, so, Empathy daemons were made by E'Laetum. Serenity daemons by Min'Ara, sovereign of Serenity. Sadism demons were made by D'Deridahn and Jad'Zia, sovereign of Stealth. Misery demons were made by Kir'Sha, sovereign of water, and P'Taxeck, sovereign of earth— you don't have to memorise this, I have it written down somewhere

[But you memorised this?]

I'm the club president! It's my job to know this!

Anyway, Strife demons were made by Tal'Ris, sovereign of fire, and S'Thenhin, sovereign of air. Shock demons were made by Z'Tinqin, sovereign of electricity, and Wen'Alak. Fear demons were made by N'Dellex, sovereign of dreams, and L'Rhenn, sovereign of warding. Elation demons were made by Use'Dia, sovereign of magneto, and A'Ahnen, sovereign of sonal. Desire demons were made by A'Xerahn, sovereign of desire, and Fel'Ees, sovereign of illusions. And finally, Inchoate demons, they were made by Rak'Xit, the Inchoate sovereign.

That wasn't too much to take in, was it?

[it was a lot]

Ah... My bad. That's concerning considering that's only the basic information...

[How much is there?]

Oh, there is so much, that only covers the basic information, you're gonna be here for a while.

[It's fine, I don't have any classes for the rest of the day]

You're free the rest of the day? Nice. Would hate to make you late for any classes, Newbie, especially for a first year. Would not look good for you.

So, after a while of the sovereigns' less than stellar, pun intended, treatment, the demons revolted. Alexa, play revolting children from Matilda the musical. I don't actually have an Alexa here.

[I understood that reference]

You did!!? Yes!! Finally, someone gets it!

Back to the track, so they revolted, and then Rak'Xit found a way to Terra, y'know, out plane. And most of the sovereigns went sayonara and dipped.

[Pfft, you sure you aren't a comedian?]

Being funny just comes from the trauma, don't worry

[Trauma?]

Well, you can't possibly expect someone who made a fan club dedicated to the sovereigns to not be a bitch with a backstory.

[Fair]

So, the thing is, since the sovereigns left for Troy, the daemons in Aria were kinda just left there to starve, but death wasn't actually a thing prior to them leaving. So, they were kinda fading away from existence but didn't know they were starving, or dying for that matter, they just started feeling really weak, and poof, gone.

[Yikes..]

Yikes indeed.

Should I end it there? Or do you want me to keep yapping? Because there is a lot more to talk about.

[I'm good, already gave me so much information]

Alright. Have a good day. See you around, Newbie. Hope you had fun~

[lokisprettygirl]

Close Ties (Daemon Targaryen x Female Reader) (Modern AU) (Non canon) (18+)

Read Chapter 11 // Series Masterlist

Chapter 12

Summary : You share an uncomfortable conversation with your real uncle.

Warning: 18+, smut, dad's best friend trope, canon (we don't know her..don't like don't read), feeling of hopelessness, uncle Daemon kink (you don't have to squint), familial uncle niece sort of relationship but he's not really her uncle, there will be more smut later, masturbation, significant age gap but reader is in her mid twenties, mention of infidelity, divorce, smoking and alcohol drinking, physical violence implied

You had no idea how quickly you had moved from the bed, but the next thing you knew, you were falling off it. Unfortunately, you couldn't even crawl under the bed since it was a platform bed. You stayed still, holding your breath and praying that whoever had walked into your room would not come all the way to the other side of the king-sized bed.

However, when you heard your father's voice calling out for Daemon, you felt your heart sink into your stomach. Suddenly, you just wanted to die, and you didn't know how you were going to explain your presence in Daemon's room if you were to get caught.

Daemon approached your dad with a calm demeanor, trying to maintain the illusion that nothing was out of the ordinary.

"Mate, what's up?" Daemon asked calmly,

"Nothing, I just wanted to talk." Daemon didn't miss a beat and quickly motioned for him to take a seat on the bed, likely knowing that it would be easier to conceal your presence that way.

“Are you feeling alright?” Daemon asked as he managed to keep his voice still,

“Yeahh..just drunk I guess”

As Daemon sat down next to your dad, he let out a deep sigh, knowing that you were listening in on their conversation and that there were things you didn't know about your own family. This wasn't how he had intended for you to find out those secrets.

“Let me take you to your room, you need to sleep” Daemon told him but you heard your father sighing in response,

“It's good to have you back monny.. sometimes I wonder if you have for–” your dad spoke but Daemon immediately interrupted him mid speech

“It's in the past, I came back because I wanted to move on from that hurt and I need you to do the same bud”

“It's not easy.. to forget what happened”

As you heard your dad's saddened voice the curiosity you had regarding their situation peaked as well.

“I see..but perhaps we can discuss this tomorrow when you're not inebriated”

Daemon didn't want to make your father feel as if he was being ignored, especially considering his current situation but he also didn't want him to spill secrets in his drunken state that Daemon knew your father wanted to keep away from you for now. Also the truth about what had happened was something he never ever wanted to share with you. He knew it would change things between both the families and ruin it all over again.

He was taken aback as your dad suddenly hugged him tightly,

“It's good to have a friend I can trust around me”

Daemon's eyes teared up at his words, no it wasn't easy to forget what had happened between them but he knew he had to move on from that pain, initially he only decided to return just for the sake of his old friend and his own selfish reasons because he really needed to get away from the USA but now he had you to take care of as well and you were slowly becoming his topmost priority. Perhaps that is what your father wanted him to do as well but he wanted Daemon to take care of you like a daughter and not as a lover.

“How's my pumpkin doing at work?”

You heard your dad asking about you and bit on your tongue in nervousness,

“She's a good girl, business is in her genes, she'd do just fine”

And you blushed. Deeply.

“Not without you Daemon, you'll need to be there for her–”

“Let's just get you to bed ..missus must be worried” Daemon cut him off immediately again and you wondered what it was that Daemon was so worried about being said “I swear I'll find you first thing in the morning”

As the sound of your dad and Daemon's footsteps faded away, you slowly raised your head and peeked to make sure that they were truly gone. Once you confirmed that they had left, you got up from the floor.

When Daemon came back he glared at you as he was hoping you'd make use of the opportunity and flee to your room,

“Why didn't you lock the fucking door?” His voice was harsh but as he found you pacing back and forth in worry he calmed down a bit and softened his tone “What is it pixie?”

“What's going on between you and dad?”

You asked him so he tilted his head and scoffed,

“What do you mean?”

“That conversation was weird and cryptic as fuck” he tilted his head forward and stared at you as you said that.

“Told you a million times to not swear in front of me”

He raised his voice a little so you glared at him with your arms crossed,

“I'm not a fucking child Daemon”

“Well you're not old enough to get involved in our matters either”

“Fineeee” you stormed past him because you didn't want to argue with him. This is not how you wanted your night to go, you just wanted to cuddle him and make him feel better. You couldn't really sleep at night because you kept repeating their conversation in your head and the way Daemon had reacted had made you upset. You weren't expecting him to tell you everything that went down between him and your father but now you felt as if something else was going on as well and the thought was enough to keep you anxious.

You knew they were hiding something from you..

As you walked down the stairs the next morning, you were greeted by an empty dining room, except for Daemon who sat at the table and stared at you. His gaze was intense, but you refused to acknowledge it. You weren't going to speak to him until he apologized,

“No good morning..nothing? Where are your manners Pixie pie” he asked you as he fluffed the newspaper he was holding. You didn't say anything so he smiled and got up from his chair to sit next to you. There was nobody around you two except the few staff members that were busy doing their job. He looked at you from head to toe, you had a cute dress on with a fresh face and hair neatly tucked into a bun.

Your breath hitched in your chest and butterflies swarmed in your stomach as he grabbed your right hand and placed it on his thigh under the table so nobody could tell that he was holding you,

“I'm so sorry pixie pup” he leaned closer to you, his thumb grazed over the back of your hand and he used his other hand to tuck the loose strands of your hair behind your ear. You finally turned to look at him and as he noticed your teary eyes his brows furrowed. He despised seeing you upset or hurt, really pricked his heart especially when he was the reason.

“It's okay..i forgive you” you mumbled so he smiled and grabbed a piece of fruit to feed you.

“Tell me what I can do to make you feel better, hmm?” He asked as he turned his chair towards you and leaned closer, he was being very brave for someone that was almost caught in his bedroom fondling his supposed niece.

“Be nice to me” you mumbled like a petulant child and he couldn't help but smile even wider.

“Mmhm am I not nice to you babygirl?”

He asked as he briefly rubbed your cheek with the back of his index finger. He was being so soft with you and perhaps it wasn't his intention but you felt really aroused by every little action he did. You had lusted after this man for 14 years and every fiber of your being craved to be touched and caressed by him. You had a feeling he led the power to make you cum just with his words and gentle caresses.

“Last night you were mean to me”

“I was pissed that you weren't cautious enough sweetheart. Do you realize what might have occurred if we had been caught?"

“I understand the consequences and I'm sorry..i'll be more careful the next time” you said to him, your tone was polite.

“Mmhm you look so beautiful like this you know that?”

“I am not..shushh” your face flushed at the compliment, he was able to feel the warmth radiating from your face as he brushed his finger over your cheek again.

“You so are my love and my palms are itching to hold on to those soft curves of yours again”

“Shut upppp” he smiled as he could see that his teasing was getting to you.

“Shut me up then” he challenged you.

You looked around as he said that

“Are you trying to get caught or something?”

“No shame in wanting to kiss my girl in front of the world”

The mischievous smirk on his face was an indication that he was messing with you but his words indeed made you want to kiss him, you cleared your throat and looked at his work attire.

“Why are you all dressed up..it's Sunday”

“I got responsibilities babygirl”

“Well you should take a day off once in a while” he shook his head as you suggested.

“No that would drive me bonkers”

“Fine..I'll see you in the evening then..drive safely”

You mumbled under your breath so he smiled and kissed your temple quickly before he got up and walked all the way to the other side to grab his briefcase, all while keeping his eyes on you. On the way out he bumped right into Trisha so he quickly apologized to her and she just giggled in response.

She was smiling as she walked up to the dining table and sat in front of you.

“What are you giggling for?” You asked her so she chuckled, you both were not close with each other but there was no animosity either, she was your cousin and you didn't despise her or anything well not yet at least.

“Nothing it's just.. what's the deal with Daemon..he's no longer with his wife right?”

Well you really didn't want to despise her.

“He's like four years younger than uncle you know” you chuckled and the smile faded which you felt a bit guilty for but it was necessary. You can't have another Cassandra in your life.

“Yeah but have you seen my dad? He looks his age..Daemon on the other hand” she fanned herself and you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

“Doesn't matter..they hate each other, remember?”

“No that's not exactly right..uhhh well my dad is not fond of daemon that's true”

Well at least yours is.

“And why is it so?” you asked her curiously, Daemon often told you that harmless questions like that never hurt except if it was Daemon who was being asked such questions. God you should have kissed him before he left.

“He thinks Daemon has returned to steal again” she said as she munched on her pancake. You didn't understand what she meant by again but you weren't interested either.

“Well my father knows what he's doing, he trusts Daemon and so do i”

“Mmmm he sure is a gentleman” she smiled so you smiled in response to not giving away your feelings for Daemon or the annoyance you felt towards Trisha.

Daemon was a young chick magnet it seems, he kept attracting younger females around him.

Your parents were out of town for a day so that left you with your uncle and his family. The good thing was you were living in a mansion and you could just avoid them if you wanted to.

Your legs were flailing up and down as you laid down on your front on the bed and decided to text Daemon to irk him a little,

You giggled as you fixed your dress back up and you were going to respond as well but you heard the door knob twisting. Maybe now that you had people around in the house you really needed to lock the door.

You quickly sat up, hoping it was either Trisha or Sadie your other cousin but instead found your uncle standing there with a smile on his face. You felt your heart race as you realized your dress had ridden up to your thighs, exposing you more than you intended. You quickly adjusted your dress and tried to compose yourself, feeling a mix of embarrassment and annoyance at the awkward moment.

“Uncle?” You mumbled awkwardly so he stepped inside and closed the door. Okay now you felt weird, you had never really interacted much with him for him to just barge into your room like that.

“Darling I thought I'd catch up with you” he said as he walked towards you and sat down next to you. Now you knew you were into Uncle Daemon but that had more to do with Daemon himself then him being your uncle. Sitting next to your own uncle and feeling his eyes on you made you feel disgusted,

“Sure ..how are you doing?”

You asked him to cut the tension so he looked at you and smiled,

“it's been rough these past few years, not all of us got your dad's money” you chuckled as he said that to hide your irritation.

“Well he certainly works hard for that money”

“Yeah you can say so, I heard you joined the business too”

“I am just an intern for now”

“Interning under whom exactly?”

You knew that he knew so it bothered you greatly that he was asking you such an absurd question.

“Uncle Daemon”

“Hmmm” he let out a sigh of disappointment as you said that.

“Ummm where is aunt Polly?” you asked him so he turned his head to look at you.

“She went shopping with kids, it's just you and me” your smile vanished instantly as he said that.

“Ohhh they didn't ask me to go with them”

“They figured you'd not need anything”

Wow

“Okay then.. uncle”

He got up as you said that and you sighed in relief but then he turned to you.

“You have grown into a beautiful woman y/n..I'm sure your father is very proud of you” he smiled as he caressed your head.

“Well thank you and I hope so”

As he finally left you had a moment to actually process what had just happened and then you texted Daemon again.

You noticed that he saw the message but didn't respond. You had all the time in the world so you called Rhaenyra and had a day out with her.

In the evening when you returned Daemon was in the living room working on his laptop, your uncle was sitting on the couch in front of him. Trisha and Sadie were there too and aunt Polly was preparing tea for everyone.

You had called your mum to ask about the trip, your parents didn't even tell you before taking off these days and it was starting to get to you especially since that weird conversation last night.

You sat down next to Trisha and all of them looked at Jackson, your chauffeur as he entered the front door with some of your shopping bags.

“You should have come with us” Sadie said to you so you smiled,

“Well you guys didn't ask me to come”

There was a weird energy in the room, as the tea was prepared you grabbed one and passed it to Daemon since he was closer to you, not to come off as suspicious you grabbed another one and gave it to Sadie.

Nobody was talking to one another, everyone was busy on their phones and after a while you watched Daemon stand up to go upstairs.

“Thanks for the warm cup of tea Polly..appreciate that” he mumbled as he smiled before he turned around to leave and as soon as he was gone you saw Polly roll her eyes.

“He acts as if it's his own house” Polly said and your uncle hummed in agreement.

“Well..he is family” you chimed in and suddenly all eyes were on you.

“No hon we are family..besides don't forget what he had done to your dad”

Your eyes flickered as she said that,

“What do you mean? What has he done?”

You asked her and your uncle chuckled in response.

“Ohh sweetie she doesn't know..don't get her involved in this”

“No please do..what had he done?” You asked a bit more sternly this time and you heard Polly grimacing again.

“He stole millions from your dad before he fled with his wife..I don't know how or why he'd trust this snake again “

You heard her words but you didn't want to believe it, was that the reason Daemon left? Did he steal from your father's company? It couldn't be because they weren't even working together back then, you remembered the last trip your family had been on with Daemon and Stella, that trip was to celebrate their business partnership but it never went official. So How could he steal from your dad?

You got up and went upstairs to go to your room, Daemon always refused to tell you the truth about what had gone down between him and your father, he always said that it was between him and his friend and your dad never said anything either so it didn't make any sense to you that your uncle and his family knew even shit about the incident.

Later that night, you heard a knock on your door and you knew it was Daemon because nobody else would see you at such late hours unless your uncle wanted to be a creep again, as Daemon entered he immediately locked the door by twisting the knob and then cupped your cheeks to kiss you.

He smelled fresh and fruity like he had just showered, his hair was dripping, the white t-shirt he had on was clinging to his thick body for dear life, he pulled away for a moment to breathe in deeply and then he kissed you again as if he was starving for your touch.

You didn't mind it either, your hands wrapped around his waist as you pulled him closer to you, he only stepped away from your face when he was completely out of breath.

“Mmmm missed me uncle?” you whispered softly as your hand trailed from his waist to his torso and as you reached the bulge in his pants he didn't press you hand right away, you watched his face contort in pleasure as you rubbed your hand against his clothed cock and you knew that he was so fucking blessed in that department.

Before things could heat up more he grabbed your hand and placed them behind your back before he leaned down to kiss you one more time.

“What did your uncle do hmm?” He asked you and it briefly made you snap out of the state of arousal.

“Well i was on the bed, texting you and my door was unlocked, he didn't even knock he just barged in and sat down on my bed to have a conversation with me and he said that i had grown into a beautiful woman or something” you told him in one breath and his jaw clenched immediately, you didn't want to jump to conclusions here because your uncle had never behaved this way with you.

“That's one more reason for you to keep your door locked, you hear me?”

“Mmm yess.. don't get upset” you curled your arms around him and his body went from rigid to relaxed almost instantly.

“Not upset, I just don't have any faith in that man”

“He's my uncle ..I'm sure he won't do anything to me..he knows better than that. Besides I'm more frustrated about what he and aunt Polly had said after you left”

His brows raised in curiosity as you said that so he asked you what they had said about him and as he learned the truth he wasn't surprised at all. Your uncle was never fond of him and he didn't feel any different.

“Do you believe what they said? Think I could do that?” He asked you, there was a smirk on his face, sometimes you really struggled to tell whether he was serious or not because there was always this smirk on his face.

“No” you mumbled a simple answer so he smiled “What really happened though? Will you ever tell me?”

“No ..so stop asking me love”

“Mmm okay”

He picked you up in his arms and made you sit down on the bed. After what you had told him about your interaction with your uncle, a part of him felt disgusted, he'd never ever think that way about his own niece but then did he have any right to judge after what was going on between you two? All he knew was that he had to protect you from these people and he had to make sure they'd be gone soon.

“Now about that stunt you pulled with the picture while I was in a meeting” he mumbled as he stared at you intently.

“Mmmm sorry not sorry” you smirked,

“Oh you will be sorry”

You bit on your lips as he said that.

“Stay still, don't move, don't touch, keep your eyes on mine alright?” He said firmly so you nodded, he took his t-shirt off at first and a part of him felt utterly conscious but he ignored that voice in his head. He wasn't fat, not by any means, he was just thicker than before but you seemed to like that alot as compared to Stella.

A smile graced his features as he looked at your face, you were struggling to keep your eyes from wandering but you wanted to be his good girl and follow his command, he lowered down his pants and you couldn't help but gulp, your mouth opened as his thick muscular thighs came in your peripheral vision. He was naked, all naked, for you but you weren't allowed to look at him anywhere but his eyes. He was such a tease, he placed one of his knees right next to your body as he grabbed his cock in his fist.

“Daemon–” you whispered his name but he cut you off

“shhhh be a good girl..this is not for your pleasure, it's your punishment”

“Mmmm I'm sorry”

“Quiet now” his voice came out all breathy as he stroked himself back n forth slowly, his cock was right in front of your face, you could smell his musk and you could hear the sound as he pleasured himself, his moans then filled the room and you had to be patient because he had asked you to, he asked you to take this like the good girl so you were going to do exactly that.

He brought this other hand forward and pushed your hair behind your shoulders so he could get a view of your cleavage in your sultry little nightwear. His fingers trailed up and he grabbed the back of your neck with his forefingers while his thumb brushed over your lips, without a warning he slipped his digit inside your mouth and your lips immediately latched onto him to suck him in.

“Mmmm you beautiful thing ..I'm going to fucking destroy you..you'd never be the same again” his words made you moan loudly but it came out all muffled since your mouth was filled with his thumb, you wished it was his cock instead but you'd take whatever he was giving you, he took his finger out of your mouth and his hand trailed down to cup your breasts, as he gave it a squeeze you couldn't help but moan loudly..

“Uncle please” he let out a small growl as you played with his kink, he was supposed to be your uncle but there he was, all naked in your room, jerking himself off right in front of your face.

“What are you begging for, baby girl?”

“Let me see please, I just want to see and touch ..just once..let me touch you please” you whined and begged him and it made him smile. He took your hand in his hand and you gasped as he placed it right on his hard cock, he was warm and veiny and oh so thick. He also kept himself neatly trimmed and you had never been the type of girl to find a man's cock attractive but goddamn you wanted to hide your face between his legs and pleasure him until he'd be all spent .

As soon as he felt your hand stroking him he knew he won't last for long, he was trying to hold on for as long as he could but you weren't making it easier for him by being so fucking submissive.

“Will you cum on me please?” You asked him and he placed his hand on yours to fasten your movement.

“Where do you want it sweetheart, that pretty little face or your tits?”

You had to squeeze your thighs at his deep rumbling voice and obscene words.

“My face uncle ..need it on my face please” you whined in desperation so he chuckled

“Titties it is then love since you have been nothing but a bad bad girl all day long”

Well this really was a win-win situation for you.

You gasped as his cum splattered over the exposed skin of your chest, it got over the fabric as well but your mind was only able to feel the warmth of it and the way he was groaning and moaning continuously as he rode his high.

You had never allowed a man to do this to you before and you knew you never would allow any other man to treat you this way. He was it for you. He was the end.

You couldn't keep your eyes off him, he was beautiful all the time but in all his orgasmic glory he actually looked unreal, his distinct features always were attractive to you but witnessing him amidst the euphoria was nothing short of addictive, you knew you'd beg him to let you watch him like this again.

He picked you up soon after and took you to the bathroom to make you sit on the sink space.

“Sit here like a good girl, yes?”

He told you so nodded, while he took a quick shower all you could do was stare at him from the glass door and as per his command you just sat there soaking with his cum drying on your skin. You felt so dirty but not in a bad way.

When he came out he wrapped a towel around his waist which made you feel a tinge of disappointment, he then reached closer to you and used a damped warm washcloth to clean your chest as well as your nightwear, his lips formed an o as he focused on the task so you leaned into him and kissed him softly, he was so gorgeous and he was all yours, you needed a moment and plenty of kisses to believe that.

Wrapping your legs around his waist he pulled you closer to him and you immediately pressed your head between the crook of his neck to suck on the soft pale skin. His lips latched onto your shoulder as he trailed soft little kisses.

None of you really said anything, words fell short of the intimacy you had just shared with him and you wished things could have just stayed ever so heavenly but you knew it wasn't possible.

You closed your eyes and ignored the hurdles standing between you two but you knew one of these days you'd have to open them and face the reality, you knew you'd have to wake up from this dream and it was about to hit you sooner than you had hoped for.

👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

Taglist

@serving-targaryen-realness @annoyingsweetsstranger @anukulee @mcufan72 @insertsomethingsillyhereple-blog @silentf @ajthefujoshi @stupidthoughtsinwriting @ammo23 @shuichiakainx @daddylokisqueen @ipostwhtifeel @anehkael @madlyinlovewmattmurd0ck @dixie-elocin @urmomsgirlfriend1

[selfproclaimedunicorn]

OC Tag Game

was tagged by @star-art-diaries, @rainwingmarvel7, & @mermaidslabyrinth! l;aksdjfadf thanks for the tag guys

Gonna do this with Ella

1.- What is something that your OC would never purchase for themselves, but would be (secretly?) delighted to receive as a gift?

Jewelry. Which, like, really weird thing to say considering she's nobility, but it is what it is I guess. She likes jewelry (mostly rings or earrings), but she's just never really gonna think to buy any for herself, she's got other priorities. Loves getting it though, it means the other person knows her well enough to be able to take a stab at something she'd wear. Also it's more sentimental if it was a gift, & she's incredibly sappy about those sorts of things.

2.- Is your OC ticklish? Has anyone ever dared to find out?

Not really. I feel like her kids have probably tried to find this out & then been disappointed when not a whole lot came of it

3.- How easy does your OC find it to apologize?

It's not hard per se, she just has to calm down first...which is definitely easier said then done. Once she's simmered down though, she can apologize pretty easily.

4.- When did your OC first see a dead body? If they have not seen one yet, how might they react to doing so?

Technially the first time Ella saw a dead body was when she was at Grandpa Baelon's funeral, but she was 2 so she doesn't really remember it. The first dead body she remembers was when Grandpa Yorbert died when she was 6. (And yes, there was Jaehaerys between them, but after she gets older she doesn't really remember it well & I don't think would count him)

She didn't take it incredibly well because sure, Grandpa Baelon (not remembered) & Great Grandpa Jae (kind of remembered), but she wasn't really close to either of them. She was a toddler when Baelon died & Jaehaerys just kinda thought his twin grandkids were a novelty to show the dragons to (because what was the point of twins if Daemon bargained away the crown's say in their marriage for the ability to fuck off forever?), she was close with Yorbert though. So not only was this the grandpa who told her stories & sneaked her snacks from the kitchens & gave her hugs & loved her, this was also Baby's First Sentient Experience With Mortality. Babygirl was heartbroken & crying for a week.

5.- Does your OC have any recurring dreams? Have they ever told anyone else about them?

Ella has pretty stock-and-standard dreams that she simply does not remember. Her older daughter on the other hand...

6.- Is your OC stingy with their money (or other resources)? Or are they something of a spendthrift?

Ella got the usual Young Noblewoman Training on being able to run a holding's accounts, so she knows how to responsibly handle money & is pretty good at it if you ask her to do that sort of thing. However, she does not think about it the vast majority of the time simply because she does not have to. She's not only noble, but from one of the richest families in The Vale, her brother & his wife handle Runestone's budget, & she's married to a second son. She has the luxury of having a "how much could one banana cost? Ten dollars?" mindset. She's not blowing her whole stipend at once, but she's also not actively thinking about money.

7.- Does your OC have a sweet tooth? Or do they prefer to avoid sweets and sugary treats?

Ella absolutely adores sweets, & the fact she still has teeth in her head is because this is a fantasy setting where I don't have to think about the effects of sugar on her teeth.

8.- Is your OC easily provoked by insults or mockery?

Yes.

9.- Where is somewhere your OC has visited that they never want to visit again?

Prince Reggio's manse in Pentos. She'll go to Pentos again, but she is not going to that guy's house again. Her dad is there.

10.- Is your OC ever somewhat flirtatious?

"Somewhat." This girl was openly flirting with & making eyes at Harwin Strong for a good two days before immediately moving on to man-handling the guy she just got betrothed to & meeting him in the middle with his blatant innuendos. She was hooking up with her man before their wedding & 6 years later they are still making thinly veiled sex references at each other in public. She is the slut she accuses her cousin of being (not that Nyra isn't, pseudo-medieval-setting societal norms considered, but Ella's got that Targ in her so she is a hypocrite with negative self-awareness--also Ella's being slutty with her husband so it's totally different!)

IDK who to tag, because I think most everyone I would think to tag has been already, so if you haven't & want to just piggyback off of mine, lol

[nicksolemnlyswears]

HOTD S2 EP3 THOUGHTS

SPOILERS AHEAD

Where do i fucking start? So much happened Im still reeling

Im laughing cause we were all expecting to see more of the Blackwoods at the beginning and we just got the trailer scene. So that left me cackling. Granted it was quickly wiped away by the massacre scene.

I truly love how Criston Cole is utterly clueless and regretting every decision he’s made. He’s way in too deep and everyone knows it.

Let’s give a big shout out to Rhaenys who keeps speaking the truth and honestly being a great Hand to Rhaenyra even if she doesn’t hold that title. She’s the OG

Was expecting more of Daemon and bloodshed and dragonfire but my dude was simply in a fever dream of sorts? maybe he did get poisoned or something? Maybe the dark haired lady is a witch? So many questions and not enough answers

Talking about that scene I was so happy to see Millie back if only for a scene. It was such a nice surprise! I thought it was Aemma when he entered the room.

There’s the bit of Aegon saying he can be feared and baby boy just wants to prove himself. I can’t blame him literally no one sees him capable. They only use him.

It was so hilarious when the white cloaks where talking about one of the younger ones having never bed a woman and he was like 🤔 didn’t you swore celibacy. It seemed very innocent at the moment but that clearly went to hell later.

Fuck Larys Strong is all I gotta say. One manipulative motherfucker. Not even his house wants him.

I lowkey really like Mysaria. She’s an interesting character.

Rhaena baby I know you want a role in war but literally get that ticket out of the bloodshed and thank me later.

Rhaenyra is such a good mom protecting her children from the ugliness of war.

Were those Daenerys eggs? 👀 I really want there to be a cameo about them.

Jacaerys is so impatient. I can feel him shaking. He wants to fight he wants a purpose but he respects his mama at least.

Jacaerys hugging Joffrey? My heart ached.

Can’t fucking believe Criston Cole took the time to get a fucking haircut. Looks so stupid on him too. Good for me though it’s easier to hate him.

…does Alicents brother seem fruity to you? or just me? 👀👀 Guess it runs in the family

A dragonseed at last? But where’s the blonde hair? I thought the blonde was like a dominant gene? The dude was so invested in his family history. Bless his heart. Looks like he supports the Blacks so I’m all for that.

Okay the brothel scene. I got pikachu’d like three times. First, when he opens the first curtain and there’s a woman giving it her all. She was gagged (almost literally). Second, AEGON FINDING AEMON. I was so shook I really didn’t think it could get worse from there. But then Aemond stands and it’s like shocked pikachu x3. Respectfully Aemond looking good.

Aemond really put that mask on so fast. He was like “eh fuck her see if i care” baby boy…you care very much.

Moving on! Baela! How the fuck can she see anything from so high up! My miopía could never!

Alicent and her fucking candles. She needs a lighter.

I’ve been pikachued once more! I can’t believe Rhaenyra went through with the plan! It’s so odd seeing them together once more!

Our mothers are together once more!!! I had to laugh they were so awkward at first. Rhaenyra didn’t know what to do with herself. She even admits knowing she went about it all wrong. Peak Comedy.

You guys don’t know the joy I felt when Alicent realized it’s about Aegon the Conqueror and not her son. OMG.

At the same time I wa so sad for Rhaenyra cause for a moment she really though Viserys had changed his mind but suck on that Alicent.

She went to being a bitch so quickly. God I hate her. Rhaenyra is trying to make peace and she refuses. Fuck her. Can’t stand her. Even knowing Viserys never meant for Aegon to be king.

Overall, another great episode although I expected more from Daemon.

[darklinaforever]

It's curious that you don't defend her about being a bad mother and a bad wife...it's something, seeing as you think that everyone in that series owes her something. And it's normal that you don't know Sweetestpoocorn, she writes Rhaenyra having Daemon as her husband from the beginning and having Aegon and Viserys as her first children, a fic only taking the canon as a reference and without contamination of the "good moments" of the couple from the show, clearly something you wouldn't enjoy. And by the way a little exaggerated with the show Rhaenyra, little more and she suffered more than Christ on the cross,during her marriage to Laenor...when she literally had what she wanted,a cover to sleep with whoever she wanted. And comparing the impact that the marriage with Laenor had on Rhaenyra with the one it had on this lady seems like an insult to the canonical Rhaenyra that you say you love, but hey, continue enjoying whatever you like. I'm just saying that when you have problems with everyone, maybe the problem is you, you always want to be right and when they don't give it to you you block people, I guess that's easier than assuming that not everyone is going to agree with you.

Well she literally considered accepting Otto's offer of giving her children hostage and she basically just cheated on Daemon.

I don't particularly call that a good mother or a good wife.

Although show Rhaenyra is far from being the worst person in the world on a technical level.

She is also far from being up to par with her book counterpart in terms of writing, coherence and nuance, especially since we moved into adulthood with Emma D'arcy. Be careful, the acting is very good, but the writing is not there at all unlike the young Rhaenyra played by Milly.

The gratuitous attack on the fanfiction aspect makes me laugh. I literally read fanfiction where Daemyra manages to get married first and have their own children, thus straying from the path of HOTD canon and F&B. So what are you talking about to judge without knowing ?

Again, I like some of Daemyra's things in the show but absolutely not all of it.

The thing that makes me love them is above all the chemistry between the actors more than the scenario itself around them.

And believe me that generally there are no Daemyra scenes from the show that join the book when I think of the Fire and Blood version.

Absolutely not.

If not probably the concept of Twin Flames, because I like to attribute this term to most of my favorite ships and Daemyra F&B or HOTD, fits it quite well for me.

I say it myself that these HOTD characters are downright caricatures of their F&B counterparts. You don't teach me anything. Don't act like I'm defending the writing of this show. Because that was never the case. So what are you trying to do here ?

On the other hand, saying that HOTD is a bad show does not mean that we should demonize everything in it either as if there was absolutely nothing positive or... well true ?

To say that Rhaenyra is a bad friend or a bad daughter and that she didn't suffer from the marriage to Laenor because her only goal was to be able to sleep with whoever she wanted, that's bullshit, I'm sorry. A little objectivity, even on something bad, doesn't kill you.

However, all of this does not prevent me from recognizing that this Rhaenyra has nothing to do with the one in the book like the rest of the characters in HOTD and that that displeases me enormously.

Oh and I assure you, I don't have a problem with everyone, far from it.

And yes... I imagine that with your reasoning, the haters who send me gratuitous hatred full of nonsense are not the real problem but me while we're at it.

On the other hand, I have always said that everyone is free to have their opinion in many positions. No point in you also distorting my words and what I do. I never said that my opinion was truthful and superior.

Also, anon, we're on tumblr, it's common to block people with whom you don't share the same opinion, even for those with whom you've never exchanged words. And when we see that the rare debates we have lead to nothing, yes, we generally end up blocking things too. There's nothing evil or surprising about it. If the block button is there it is ready to be used.

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Taoba (Aemond Targaryen x Reader x Daemon Targaryen)

Summary: Daemon and Aemond settle their pending score.

Warnings: Aemond being a BRAT. Daemon being a sugar daddy (I guess?) Violence. Targaryen way of conflict resolution. 

A/N: Final part of the Muña series. This is very unhealthy, but I needed to give it a satisfactory conclusion that felt in character to me, so it stopped using my brain space. 

THERE IS NO Sept in Pentos. At least, not in the part of the city where the manse is located. You do not dare go exploring further than a few timid excursions to the surrounding markets. 

Being out in the open makes you antsy. Your departure from Westeros is still too fresh, you have not yet settled into a life where you are not at war. Searching for a Sept in which to pray properly seems too trivial. 

You still light your candles, one for each person you have lost, plus another one. For yourself. 

Aemond is as unsettled as you are. To him, the loss is greater. He has had to shed his identity, cut his chair and remove the characteristic eye patch and leather clothes for more simple ones. He is now a dragonseed, brought along as a paramour to a happily married couple. 

“What can I say?” Daemon had laughed, when questioned about it by a magister. “I love my wife, and she does love her toys.” 

It had prompted a roar of laughter from his friends. You weren’t too sure you liked being known as a sexual deviant, but you had little choice in the matter. Everyone had to make sacrifices, after all. 

Even Vhagar. She is now known as The Cannibal. The Essoi know so little about dragons that an intimidating name to match the intimidating reptile in their city satisfies them. 

Daemon, in contrast, settles in as if he had never been at war. He has already been in one before, and has lost little. He still has his name, his money, and his marriage. He even has his old pentoshi friends. They had greeted him warmly, clapped him in the back, and it was as if he had never left. 

While Aemond continues to share your bed, Daemon is content to haunt the place. You worry despite yourself when you realize he is not out whoring or drinking as usual. But you are too busy with your inner turmoil to try to fix him too. 

Having run away from the only home you knew leaves you unsure about whom you really are. When the war started, you were different. You would have done anything to protect your people. Now, you were a coward who ran with her tail between her legs at the first hint of trouble. 

It was difficult to feel such a passionate love for them when they had started resisting your orders. As soon as the Blacks gained a bit of terrain, they started questioning your leadership. By the end of it, they were cursing your name.

Running was easier, after that. Playing Daemon’s wife again wasn’t. 

It all comes to a head one evening when you are asked to sweep into that role again. Daemon has insisted on hosting a dinner for some of his friends, and so, you have little choice but to squeeze yourself into a fine gown he commissioned for you. It seems fair that if he is housing you and your lover, you do something for him. 

You plan the night to perfection. It is what you have been raised to do, and you thrive on it. There is such an innate sense of control that comes with choosing a menu, the seating arrangements, the entertainment. You enjoy the task so much, you wish you had put it into practice more in your other life. 

Aemond sulks in a corner the whole evening, even when Daemon has gotten him a matching doublet. He seems to dislike the implication of being a bastard too much to enjoy himself in a company that cares little for his origins. 

“I hate this dress.” He complains, once you have ushered out the last of Daemon’s friends. Aemond toys with the laces on the back of it, making you frown. “Makes you look washed out. Ugly.” 

You flinch. You have never liked discussing your appearance, not after many years of mocking. During a good week, a remark about your looks can set your budding self-esteem back a moon. Hearing Aemond say so during a bad one guts you. 

Aemond was supposed to understand you. To see you. 

“I happen to like it.” You say, picking up the last goblets of wine and setting them into a tray to be taken down to the kitchen. Your household is sparsely staffed, Daemon’s savings not enough to keep it running at full capacity.  You find you don’t really mind. The lack of resources during the war had made you go through much worse, and you find you enjoy the privacy. “I enjoy the fullness of the skirts.” 

You are careful to keep your back turned to the men, but you cannot hide the tenseness of your shoulders, the stiffness of your spine. Perhaps the insult stings more because you do like the dress.  Despite how tight it was, you had felt pretty after putting it on. The seamstress had complimented you, even. 

The style was more form - fitting than what you usually wore, a bit more risky. It had been inspired by what the women here wore, and you knew Daemon wouldn’t let you embarrass him. That fact had prompted your confidence to wear it in the first place. But now, you just feel old and fat. 

A hand presses to your back, warm and gentle. You stiffen more, thinking it’s Aemond’s. 

“You look beautiful in it.” Daemon compliments, softly. And because he cannot resist it, he throws in a dig at Aemond too. “The boy is just bitter because he can’t pay for anything half as fine.” 

“That is not true. I could become a…” Aemond starts, and you groan, pressing your hands to your eyes. You have heard the tale of the sellsword plenty. He is a good swordsman, perhaps good enough to take up that sort of life. But he is out of practice. Most of his battles have been from the dragon, not the horse. Unlike cavalry, dragonback doesn’t provide such experience. 

“If you become a sellsword, you will die. And all I did would be in vain.” Daemon sits down, placing his boots on the table. You shove him. It’s not as if any of them do any cleaning, but Aemond is far neater. You do not clean either, but as the person in charge of the servants, you prefer not to be embarrassed by how piggish they can be.

Daemon has gone through great pains to secure you a home and safety. You try not to feel too indebted to him, considering the horrible years of marriage and shame, but cannot help it. He is finally behaving like you were taught a husband is supposed to behave, and it pleases your stupid brain. 

He provides for you. Pays for your home, dresses, lets you run a household. He protects you. Keeps you safe from the outcome of the war, rescued you from the likely revolt from your tenants. He makes you happy. Daemon pays to keep Aemond safe and healthy, too. 

It messes with your head. You shouldn’t feel grateful, you shouldn’t like him and yet…

Siege mentality. That must be it. Your current situation makes you believe it’s Daemon, Aemond and you against the world. 

Aemond doesn’t seem to share the sentiment. He has been behaving oddly ever since you got here. The first week, he had been on edge, wary Daemon was going to murder him in his sleep. The second one, he had not left your bed. And then he had settled into an odd sort of depression that involved making everyone around him as miserable as possible. 

Aemond was a man born and bred for war. It wasn't unusual that he was struggling with peace. 

“Apologize, Taoba.” Daemon orders. While this is not the first time Aemond lashes out, it is the first time Daemon bothers with demanding an apology. It is also the first time Aemond’s temper has been directed at you. 

“I refuse to apologize for my opinion.” Aemond smirks. He toys with his goblet, before leaning in. You know the look in his face. It’s the one he wears when he plans to deliver the killing blow. “The dress makes you look ugly.” 

You suppose it is better than being outright called ugly. The thought isn’t as comforting as you thought. 

“An opinion no one asked for.” Daemon’s tone is icy. You look at him, begging him to let it go. But Daemon has never listened to you, not in all the years you have been married. He won’t start now. “And a false one. I can’t just voice the opinion that the sky is red. Now, apologize or…”  

“Or?” Aemond challenges. This time, you turn your pleading eyes to him. Out of the two of them, he is slower to enact his revenge ploys, while Daemon chooses to take immediate and decisive action. You hope that means he can be persuaded to postpone the confrontation. 

“Aemond, why don’t we go to bed?” You ask, voice soft and meek. But Aemond’s gaze is fixed on Daemon. 

The older man smirks. He leans back on his chair, forcing it to balance precariously on its hind legs. 

“I’ll make you.” 

It happens faster than you can react. One second they are glaring at each other, the next Aemond has lunged over the table, sending the goblets clattering. He punches Daemon, making him fall off the chair. But before Aemond can get any other punch in, Daemon grabs him by the hair and slams him against the table. You scream. 

“My goblets! The tablecloth!” You realize you sound insane, but you feel it too. Your hands tremble. One would think war has desensitized you to violence, but it is one thing to know a battle is being fought and another to see the man you love get beaten by your husband. 

You make an aborted motion towards them, unsure if trying to get between them is a good idea. You settle for clenching your hands into fists, powerless to stop the situation around you. 

Daemon jerks Aemond upright, holding his hands between his back. 

“Aōla gēlȳni iēnkā, taobus!” You can tell Daemon is mocking him. Familiar as you are with his methods, you step forward, hovering. 

Were Daemon mocking you, this would be the part where you would defend yourself. Aemond, instead, simply smirks. 

“Sa Tida, Kepus.” 

Daemon’s face turns into an expression of absolute, murderous rage. His grip on Aemond tightens. He turns to you, almost in… Disbelief? You aren’t sure. You do not know what they are saying, but it can’t be good. 

Aemond blushes with pleasure. He smiles a cocky grin, and his chest puffs up with arrogant satisfaction. 

It is only at that display that color returns to Daemon’s face. 

“I must admit, you had me fooled.” He releases Aemond, and gives him a shove. “But your games will not unnerve me tonight. Not again. We will settle this.” 

“Daemon…” 

“As much as it pains me, he is right.” Aemond sneers. “There is a debt to be paid, Muña. Do not interfere.” 

He gives you a warning glance, before bowing his head. It’s the last time he looks at you. 

His attention is now focused on Daemon. He looks up at him, body taut with fear. If you didn’t know Aemond that well, you would miss it. But to your well-trained eyes, it’s obvious. He is terrified. 

Aemond ends up lowering his eye again. Daemon’s fierce stare seems to have him unbalanced, unable to hide his emotions as well as he usually does. Knowing Daemon, he must be delighted his intimidation tactics are making him squirm. 

Daemon thrives on fear and humiliation. He has perfected his methods through the years, his reputation as a rogue only aiding him in his task. His eyes are like daggers. Instinctually, you know that is better to stay silent for now. 

Aemond seems to share your thoughts. He averts his eyes, face red with embarrassment. You wonder what has Daemon said to him that he is so out of sorts. 

“You should be kneeling.” Daemon finally says, his eyes on you. For a second, you think the instruction is actually meant for you, but before you can do anything about it, Daemon has turned back to Aemond. He towers over him, somehow, despite being the same height. “You're such a pathetic creature.”  

Daemon steps towards him. Aemond takes a step back, and Daemon smirks. He can probably sense the weakness in the same manner wolves sense fear. 

“Insulting your woman after claiming to be better than I. Hypocrite. But what more could you ask from a Hightower.”  His face tight with anger, Daemon unsheathes his dagger and grabs Aemond's chin, tilting it up. 

Never in a million lives you thought you would see Daemon defending your honor. How life surprises us all. 

You pity Aemond. His skin is turning red where Daemon is grabbing him, and he is breathing hard, eye closed. He seems to be expecting pain, and it fills you with the urge to comfort him. 

Aemond shouldn’t be having to brace himself. This is a storm of your own making. But he has asked you not to interfere, and you do not wish to wound his pride. You stay quiet. 

The dagger Daemon holds is now pressed to Aemond’s throat and this time, it is too much.  You advance on them. 

“Stop it.” 

Daemon ignores you. He leans in, close enough that he could kiss Aemond. His hair tickles Aemond’s face. 

“And you still fucked my wife without my permission.” He snarls. “Open your mouth,”

Aemond swallows. He seems cowed, for the first time in his life. 

“Stop this. Right this second.” You repeat, but neither heed you. Much to your dismay, Aemond makes eye contact with you before opening his mouth. Daemon’s dagger brushes against his lips. He shakes like a frightened bunny, but he still doesn’t attempt to defend himself.

“Open wider.”

Aemond has no choice but to obey.  You are struck by how young he looks, how young he truly is. At least ten years your junior, twenty or so than Daemon. He has been a man for such little time, and yet, has done much more horrible things than most people twice his age. 

The lesser of those sins is bedding a married woman. 

Daemon’s voice is harsh. 

“I said wider!” Aemond opens his mouth wider, obediently. “Now, stick out your tongue.”  

“… Why don’t we all calm down..?” You feel your hands shaking. Daemon is capable of cutting his tongue. You know it. Aemond knows it. And still, he sticks out his tongue like an obedient dog. 

“Your tongue would make a fine gift to my wife. An apology, for all the insults I sent her way.” Daemon smirks. “And a penance, for how you dared treat her, petulant child that you are.” 

Your eyes sting. Something like a sob surges on your chest, but it doesn’t get out, caged between your ribs. It takes residence there, caught. 

It’s unbelievable. Once, you had prided yourself on knowing Daemon. You had been so finely tuned to his moods, out of an urge for survival, that you could tell with just a glance what he was thinking. His anger had always been transparent to you. 

This time, you aren’t sure if he is serious about cutting Aemond’s tongue for the slight, or if it is about the infidelity. 

“I do not want his tongue. Daemon. Stop it.” You beg, stumbling back into your chair. You hold your head between your hands, realizing this is punishment for you too. For daring to be an adulterous wife. 

Aemond’s face is pale. He is trembling slightly, and his tongue is caught between Daemon’s finger. It makes him drool. He attempts to pull back. 

Daemon's eyes flash with anger.  There is a dark satisfaction in his face. 

“Don't move.” Daemon's voice is low and sinister. “Keep it there. Less my pulse falters, and I leave you without a tongue before deciding.” 

“Don't!” You plead. 

Aemond doesn't move, the blade still pressed to his tongue, his mouth open. 

Daemon softens at the obedience. Perhaps because he has always liked control a bit too much. 

“Good boy.” He grins. Aemond sends him a look made of pure hatred, but keeps still. His eye is glued to Daemon’s, set on not backing down. 

If someone doesn’t intervene, something bad is about to happen. And there is no one else here, but you.

You stand up, furious. 

“That is enough! I happen to like his tongue where it is, inside his mouth and unharmed.” 

“You're nothing but a sniveling coward.” Daemon presses the dagger harder into Aemond's tongue, taunting him. “What's the matter? Do you like the taste of the dagger on your tongue? The feel of the metal against your flesh? Sick little boy.”

Daemon laughs. Aemond closes his eye, but both you and Daemon see it. A single tear falls down his face, mouth still wide open, dagger pressed inside. The sight is hauntingly beautiful, like one of the tapestries Daemon used to hang around showcasing Targaryen deviance. 

“Do you like that?” Daemon leans in closer, his lips brushing the shell of his ear. You know through first-hand experience how devastating that feels. Somehow, seeing them together, Daemon holding Aemond almost in a lover’s embrace, makes you throb with shameful arousal. “Being completely helpless and humiliated? It should hurt. It shows you your place. On the ground, at my mercy.” 

Aemond tries to close his mouth, but Daemon's hands keep his face pushed back as he presses the tip of the blade into his tongue. Aemond's face tightens, a look of pain flashing across his eyes, but he can't say anything. The only sound out of his mouth is a painful groan. 

Daemon's expression is cold and hard. 

“It feels good, doesn't it? Just like kissing the cunt of a married woman?"

“Daemon! Enough!” And this time, you finally gather the courage to do what needs to be done. You get between the two of them and shove Daemon out of the way. “That’s enough.” 

Daemon licks his lips. Aemond swallows, a hint of blood in the edge of his mouth. You wonder if he is tasting copper. 

“What a pathetic display of weakness. I've seen a thousand pigs slaughtered with more bravery than you.” Daemon sheathes the dagger. Aemond’s face turns frighteningly angry. Torching the Riverlands kind of angry. 

His breathing is deep and labored, like a hurt animal. You rush to his side and hug him. 

“You are bold to speak of weakness…” Aemond says, with great effort. His body shudders against yours, and it is a testament to how shaken he must be that he doesn’t jerk out of your grip. “When it was your own what led your wife to my bed. Make no mistake, Muña. An old dog cannot learn new tricks.” He then spits blood at Daemon’s face.

Daemon wipes his face with his sleeve, horrifyingly calm. He then looks at both of you, and bursts into genuine laughter. 

“I was wrong, boy. You have balls.” He gives him a hand, helping him to a chair. “We might make a man out of you yet.” 

Aemond accepts his help without fear. You stare. 

“Both of you are unhinged.” 

Daemon turns to you. 

“Oh? Then what would you do in my situation?” 

“Apologize? Agree to move on and let go of the past?” You offer, weakly. 

Daemon scoffs at the suggestion. “Apologize? Apologize! You think that will solve everything?” But he does look over at Aemond, who has now relaxed in his chair, exhausted.  “I suppose I should try to be diplomatic, if only for your sake. Fine. I apologize for calling you terrible things, trying to murder you and to cut out your tongue. How does that sound, Taoba?”

Aemond swallows again. He seems unsure if he should be trusting Daemon’s words. He gives you a look. You shrug. If they want to try normal conflict resolution, you won’t stop them. 

“Thank you. I apologize for fucking her without your permission.” 

Daemon gives him a small smile. Aemond meets his eyes. A strange mixture of emotions seems to pass between them. Daemon looks as if he is seeing Aemond for the first time. There is a new interest in his eyes, one you do not like at all. 

Or perhaps, you like it too much. You can’t decide. 

“Is that all, then? Or do you have more to say, nephew?” He purrs. 

Aemond scratches his nape, embarrassed. He doesn’t seem to know how to react to being flirted with. Because this is what this is. Daemon is looking at him with utter hunger. 

“Nothing.” 

Daemon looks him over, inspecting Aemond like a predator sizing up his prey. 

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” 

Daemon studies him for a moment, not looking convinced.

“Someone looks guilty.” He is like a shark, smelling blood in the water. Aemond looks painfully awkward, nothing like the cocky young man that seduced you moons ago. Deciding to put him out of his misery, you attempt to shift Daemon’s attention to you. 

“I apologize for bedding him.” You offer, in your meekest tone. 

Daemon doesn't acknowledge your apology, his eyes still fixed on Aemond, filled with curiosity. 

“I accept your apology.” Then his eyes harden, his face turns serious. “Now, come here. Both of you.”

Aemond’s eye widens, but obediently gets up and creeps closer.  Daemon reaches a hand towards you. You go easily. 

“That wasn't so hard, was it?” Daemon teases, his eyes never leaving Aemond's face, searching for some hint of weakness.

Aemond nods silently, too intimidated to speak. Daemon grabs him by the back of his neck, firmly. He presses his forehead to his. 

“Aōha ēdruta vāedas. Vezof jin azantys, vestri sȳz. Se ābra dracarys jēdo nūm.” 

Aemond nods, solemnly. As if he were accepting a vow. Then, they both turn towards you. 

“Consider this my repentance.” Daemon says, with a smirk. Aemond looks properly chided. Contrite, even. 

“I apologize for being rude. The dress makes your cleavage look phenomenal. I was just… Jealous, I suppose. I used to protect you and now…” He offers, sounding much like a child who has gotten caught with his hands on the cookie jar. 

“Now you find yourself in the unusual situation of having me as the protector. I have been shielding you from Daemon and Daemon has been…” You realize it as you speak it. Aemond had come to rescue from your solitude, and your evil, up to no good husband. You had been his damsel in distress, until you had stepped into the role of the protector and Daemon into…

“Providing.” The man himself barks out a laugh. “Seven Hells, am I a stand-in for Viserys? I thought I had issues.” 

Aemond blushes. 

“It isn’t like that.” 

But Daemon insists. He takes a lock of your hair and twists it between his fingers.

“Fuck, I married Alicent. Fucking Alicunt.” 

“I am not her!” You protest. 

“You do look like my mother a bit. In the right light.” Aemond concedes, and you don’t know if to laugh or cry. “I… I want to do better. And I…” 

“I want in. In what you two have.” Daemon’s smirk turns more devious, gently tucking the strand of hair he was still holding behind your ear. “Normally, I would threaten you with kicking you out, or hurting your lover over here. But I have been told it is in bad taste to try to force myself into your bed.” 

So he had learned his lesson from the last time. You fight off the pleased smile. 

“So. The choice is yours. My nephew and I reached an agreement already, one that will be void without your consent. Otherwise, we can go as we are.” Daemon finishes his offer, placing his hands behind his back. 

You look between Aemond and him. Aemond seems encouraging. 

“Will you be content to pay for your wife and her lover the rest of our lives? How selfless.” You arch an eyebrow, doubtful. It sounds too unlike him. 

Daemon shrugs.

“What can I say? You inspire selfless devotion.” 

“He is right. You do.” Aemond says, hugging you from behind. You feel him bury his face on your hair, quietly grounding himself. He has had a taxing evening, for sure. 

“What do you think of this?” You ask him, voice low. 

“If he is involved, I would feel more settled. Like it is not charity.” Aemond says, kissing your temple. 

“I see you have learned from whores, haven’t you?” Daemon mocks, creeping closer. “Being my kept man and my kept woman. How lucky it is to be a prince.” 

“Cunt.” You say, giving him a shove. 

“Your cunt.” Daemon smirks. He leers at you. “And what a delicious one you seem to have…” 

You slap a hand over his mouth, embarrassed. Aemond fights with a smile, and it is that which convinces you.

“Fine. You win. And we actually prefer trophy wife and boy toy.”

“Talk for yourself.” Aemond tugs at your hair, and you laugh. 

[one-of-many-journeys]

Day 36

Song's Edge

Finally bought myself something warmer to wear. It’s a little ungainly, heavy when wet through with snow, but worth it. I’ll be able to keep going for longer. Hard to move my fingers as deftly in these gloves, but it’s worse when they’re numb. 

I caught up with Burgrend in his workshop to stock up on supplies, and he told me about three Banuk hunters he’d managed to rope into dealing with him. They’d set out to hunt machine parts to pay off the gear Burgrend supplied them with, but hadn’t returned in days. Burgrend was worried about them—and more importantly his finances. Of course, I’m no debt collector, but given the state of the Thunderjaw heart the group salvaged, split and sparking, it seems like they could use my help. Besides, I’d be interested to meet Banuk hunters who'd dare deal with Burgrend and his foreign goods. 

I headed down the path from the village to meet the Shaman set on improving my spear. He remained evasive, made me speak in whispers, and still wouldn’t explain exactly what he was doing. It didn’t feel right leaving my spear in the hands of a stranger, but I left him to his work, keeping one eye on him, and soon he called me back over in a pointed whisper and handed the spear back. He'd reinforced it with the rail, allowing components to be slid on and secured with ease. Extra weight to adjust the swing, sparkers, tear cores, chill water sacs…It’s impressive, and useful. Definitely worth the trek north.

Journeyed out onto the ice to check out the buried Tallneck. I snuck past the Scrappers and Glinthawks feasting on frozen metal to survey the huge machine. Fortunately my Focus had analysed enough of them out in the wilds to pinpoint what was wrong. Three major pieces were missing, probably torn off by the scavengers. I set upon the machine sites one by one, killing the scavengers and salvaging the parts they stripped from the Tallneck.

Scrappers first, then onto a frozen lake and the blue-lit cave beyond where yet more Scrappers nested, this time guarded by a Scorcher. 

Finally, a trio of Glinthawks on the cliff’s edge, and I had all three parts. I refitted them with a little work and used my override module to jumpstart the Tallneck's power. I honestly didn’t think it would be that simple, but I guess the Tallneck was just overwhelmed in a blizzard one day, collapsed, and couldn’t get up. Then the scavengers came and there was no chance of repair in the thaw. 

The Tallneck came back to life, shaking itself from the ice as if no time had passed since it fell. Shook me off too, so I had to climb up to its head from the ground as usual. I have data spanning the entire Cut now. Should make navigating it a lot easier.

I was close to the western clearing where Burgrend said the hunters were headed. Setting off along the river, I picked up a Strider from a nearby site and rode on.

Soon I came across another of the Daemon’s towers. Or it came across me, more like. A splash of its purple rot targeted my Charger as it rode into its domain, throwing it to the snow, unresponsive. 

I overrode the tower then began picking off the four Shellwalkers keeping guard, gulping down a shock wax potion before facing them. I took down two of them by tearing off their shield generators, then frosting them up to remove their electric claws, but when I was down to the last two one of them cornered me, slashing again and again with waves of shock that immobilised me. The closest shave I’ve had in a while. These Daemonic machines are not to be messed with. I can accept when I’m beat. I got back on my Charger and rode to the nearest camp to rest and patch myself up. At least I took down the tower. 

Riding further west, I found Burgrend’s hunters scoping out an area with a Scorcher, two Longlegs and many, many Scrappers, as usual, with two of the Daemon’s towers forcing them all to its will. The hunters weren’t pleased to see me, especially Tatai, who is either their leader or just their loudest. It was time to speak in deeds once again and lead the hunt.

I overrode the towers, tearing off the Scorcher’s mine launcher while it was shocked down. That evened things a bit, but the three hunters' help was more than welcome. They kept the Scorcher busy while I took the Longlegs, then returned to tie the Scorcher down, riddle it with mines, then frost, then hardpoint arrows. Even Tatai was impressed.

The hunters told me that they’re on the run from Ban-Ur after they questioned the leadership of their Werak’s Chieftain. Now they’re starting their own Werak. Explains why they were desperate enough to trade with Burgrend. They’re heading for the Sundom. I guess it must symbolise the opposite of these harsh lands in their eyes. I gave them some parts I salvaged to pay back their debts, but they had more still to wipe clean. They’re heading to another hunting site to the north. If I’m out that way, I’ll make sure to join them. 

Waning toward evening then. I returned to Song’s Edge and gave Burgrend the news of his newest customers, though they wouldn’t be for long, then settled down in an open tent I’ve practically claimed as my own at this point. Not as warm as the communal tents used by the tribe, but it suits me fine.

[syndrossi]

You might have already answered this back in Resonant, but what was Corwyn's relationship with Jon and Rhaegar like? Were Corwyn and Elys already married when Elys became pregnant with the twins? (Unless they are actually Rhea's) What were his thoughts about it all when he learned they were Daemon Targaryen's sons?

Though we do know that Corwyn, at least cared about the boys since they miss him, plus from what Ser Willam has said about him. No pressure to answer!

The Corwyn and Elys match always comes about because of the twins (regardless of whether they're Elys's or Rhea's for the applicable AU). Corwyn is cousin to the current Lord Redfort, without many means of his own. He has two late-teens sons from his previous marriage who wish to become knights, which is not cheap.

Rhea basically promises to see to his sons' futures in exchange for a hasty marriage to Elys, and agreeing to raise the twins as his own. I'm guessing Rhea sells it to him the same way she does to Allard: they're bastards (something she claims even when they're hers) that Daemon wouldn't want anyway and would be awful to them otherwise, but she wants them to have a good life free of the disgrace of being bastards.

So they probably get married 2ish months into the pregnancy, and since twins tend to come early, the math isn't even too far off, if you ignore Raymar's hair. As for what Corwyn thinks about them being Daemon's...I imagine he has a certain reputation in the Vale, given how much of a brat he could be. Corwyn probably thinks he'd be a better father to them than Daemon, tbh, which makes the decision easier.

He enjoys being a father again, and with the experience of raising his sons years before, is a great dad for the short time he has with them (it helps that the babies are so easy to love). Rhea truly did try to choose a good, honorable man to marry her sister and raise the twins.

To the twins, he was papa. He was the man who held them, and helped them walk, and played chase with them, and taught them to eat, etc. Perhaps he wasn't Elys's dream husband at his age (he would have been twice hers at least), but he was an excellent partner, and she wouldn't have minded another babe or two with him.

(As for the twins themselves, I imagine he bonded a little more with Jon, who is naturally drawn to father figures. While Raymar was definitely a mama's boy...and occasionally unsettling, especially when the dye was at its most faded.)

[leareadsheresy]

Battle for the Abyss

This post contains spoilers for Battle for the Abyss, by Ben Counter, first published as a novel on (as nearly as I can tell) July 29th, 2008, although sources disagree -- some places I've found assert it was published on August 1st, 2008. Something I've found when trying to date specific works in this series, though, is that a lot of places will say "Published on [Month] 1st" when they actually mean "Published in [Month], we don't know which exact day," so as a general rule when I do this dating thing I assume any source that's specific about it being published on an exact date is accurate unless that date is given as the first of the month, in which case I assume that's filler information and only the month is reliable. I guess it makes sense for a book published two days before the end of the month would be attributed to the next month in some databases. Also I kind of don't care if I'm off by a couple of days about a publication date because I'm tumblr liveblogging a series of, at best, high-school-essay-quality book reports about a media tie-in novel series.

So this book is kind of infamous; I've seen it described as The Worst Horus Heresy novel with the possible exception of some of the Salamanders books that come later. Thing is, I don't hate it. To explain why, I will have to go into some of the events of the Horus Heresy that haven't been covered in these novels yet.

According to the pseudo-history of the Horus Heresy, following the Istvaan III Atrocity but before news of it had reached the larger galaxy, Horus issued orders to the Ultramarine Legion to muster at Calth, a planet in the Veridia System within the realm of Ultramar (the Ultramarines' empire-within-an-empire, conquered by their Primarch prior to his discovery by the Emperor of Mankind). An airless world with massive underground cities and an expansive orbital shipyard, Calth served as one of Ultramar's major military bases, and the order was for the Ultramarines to gather there with the Word Bearers Legion to prepare for a campaign against an ork force who were moving in the direction of Veridia. Unknown to the Ultramarines, the muster at Calth was a trap -- the Word Bearers, upon their arrival, immediately attacked the planet, using the slaughter of the gathered Ultramarines and Calth's human population to fuel a ritual that poisoned Veridia's sun, and ultimately this ritual fueled a massive warp-storm, the Ruinstorm, that both interrupted FTL travel between one half of the galaxy and the other and made it much easier for daemons to manifest in realspace in its vicinity, allowing the traitor forces to summon daemonic reinforcements to aid in their war against Imperial loyalists.

(If you've played Space Marine 2, this is what Chairon is talking about when he says he was born on Calth -- the game takes place ten thousand years after the Horus Heresy but many of the first generation of Primaris Space Marines, of which Chairon and Gadriel both are, were taken by Belisarius Cawl as children during the Heresy for experimentation and spent most of the intervening millennia being brought in and out of stasis as Cawl developed the Primaris aguments.)

Calth is important in the annals of the Heresy. Visions of Darkness, an art book (the second of four, compiling card art from the 2003 Horus Heresy collectible card game; the Visions series also served as the outline for the events of the Heresy as a whole), detailed the Word Bearer assault on Calth in 2005, a year before the publication of Horus Rising. (I would have covered the Visions series on this blog except I didn't realize three of the four were published before Horus Rising until after I'd done my entry on False Gods; the fourth was published between those two novels.) Calth is the subject of future novels and in 2015 got its own boxed game, Betrayal at Calth, which contained the first Horus Heresy plastic miniatures -- Mark IV armor, Cataphractii Terminators, two characters, and the first (truly awful; thank God we're rid of it) plastic Contemptor Dreadnought. Betrayal at Calth also had its own ruleset but hardly anybody ever played it; that boxed set was a way to justify pulling money for development of plastic Horus Heresy figures from the self-contained-boxed-games budget and everybody knows it.

What the pseudo-histories of the Horus Heresy don't say is that the attack on Calth was part of an intended two-pronged attack, meant to occur simultaneously with a sneak attack on Maccrage, the adopted homeworld of the Ultramarine Primarch Roboute Guilliman and the Ultramarines' primary recruiting world, while most of the Ultramarine forces were on Calth awaiting Word Bearer rendezvous. The other half of this attack would be carried out by a massive battleship of a new class, the Furious Abyss, commissioned by Kelbor-Hal, Fabricator-General of the Mechanicum of Mars (and secret Horus ally), with the intent to shatter Maccrage's second moon and then use the debris field to bypass Maccrage's orbital defenses to deliver a payload of life-eater virus to the planet directly in a repeat of the Istvaan III Atrocity. This attack, together with the betrayal at Calth, would have knocked the Ultramarines out of the war and prevented them from rallying and rebuilding later, and without the Ultramarines as a rebuilt force later in the war serving as a counter to the traitors, Horus would have been able to commit forces in greater numbers to the Garmon Sector, allowing him to land more forces on Terra much earlier. This likely would have won the traitors the war.

The reason why the pseud-histories of the Heresy doesn't say any of that is the attack by the Furious Abyss failed, because a small group of Astartes from the Ultramarines, Space Wolves, World Eaters, and Thousand Sons legions, none of whom even know that the Heresy was a thing yet, found evidence of the Furious Abyss's weapons test against an Ultramarines battleship and investigated, followed the Abyss's trail, and ultimately destroyed it before it could succeed in its attack on Maccrage, and this battle was so small -- the Furious Abyss itself versus a pursuit force of six much smaller ships -- that it was entirely swallowed up by the chaos of the Heresy's eruption and was ultimately forgotten by later historians.

The early Heresy is so replete with devastating loyalist losses that I kind of love the idea of an early loyalist win, entirely forgotten by later histories, made by a mixed group of members of legions who'd later be on both sides of the conflict, being one of the unknown lynchpins of Horus's ultimate defeat. The Horus Heresy game book series, the Black Books, do not to my knowledge even mention this battle, because their setting sections are written in-character by a post-Heresy historian, and the narrator would have had no way of knowing Calth was intended as part of a two-pronged attack. (Actually I'm not sure it's never mentioned; if I eventually get to the Black Books while doing this readthrough I'll keep an eye out for it.) I just... I love the idea of a small, forgotten event being so important. I think it's genuinely interesting, and this sort of attempt to expand the timeline with new events that make sense (of course the traitors would have had a plan to follow up their Calth attack with an attack on Maccrage to finish the Ultramarines off completely!) is exactly what these Horus Heresy novels ought to have been doing once it became apparent that they sold like gangbusters and were therefore going to be published for a very, very long time. This is, at least in theory, what I am here for. I'm sure not here for Primarch drama! I don't even like the Primarchs! (God, me reading this series is a mistake. Yeah, Lea, read a 64-book-series where you don't care about any of the ostensible main characters; that's a great use of your time.)

Unfortunately, Battle for the Abyss just isn't very good. Fortunately, at least some of the ways it's not very good are themselves of at least some interest.

So. Let's go with a summary.

We open with Kelbor-Hal, Fabricator General of Mars, watching as the Furious Abyss launches from Thule, which we're told has been a moon of Jupiter for six thousand years. Jupiter doesn't have a real moon called Thule but there is an asteroid called 279 Thule, so I think we're meant to assume that this is 279 Thule, having been dragged into orbit of Jupiter six thousand years previously. The ship is described as being impossibly big. Inside, a Word Bearer is giving a speech to a bunch of other Word Bearers about how religion is cool and it's their destiny to overthrow the emperor, and how they'll finally get their revenge on the Ultramarines. (Much like Calth, there is another important pre-established bit of Heresy lore where the Word Bearers insisted on worshipping the Emperor like a god even after he told them not to, because the Word Bearer Primarch, Lorgar, believes firmly that life is only worth living in service to a divine power. The Emperor then sent the Ultramarines to the Word Bearer homeworld to humble them by leveling their biggest temple-city, which Lorgar pretended worked but actually just drove him to hate the Emperor and seek out alternate gods to worship, which lead him to Chaos.) After the ship launches, Thule is rigged to explode so everyone who worked on the Furious Abyss dies, keeping the ship's design secret.

We then cut to some Ultramarines heading towards Vangelis Spaceport (I appreciate the name) on the Fist of Maccrage, but the Furious Abyss comes out of nowhere and attacks it as a weapons test. Judging his ship doomed, the captain of the Fist orders a distress signal sent before they all die.

Then we meet the protagonists. Some Ultramarines on Vangelis Station lead by Captain Cestus are waiting to be picked up by the Fist of Maccrage to be... stationed at Terra, I think? But it's late and they're worried. Cestus meets up with a Space Wolf named Brynngar, who leads a couple of packs of Blood Claws (that's a type of Space Wolf unit in 40k but, importantly, not in 30k; I'll get back to this at the end), in a bar, Brynngar is carousing and fighting and drinking special Space Wolf mead that can get even Space Marines drunk (another 40k thing). Cestus and Brynngar are old battle buddies who saved each others lives a couple of times. Suddenly alarms go off -- there's been an incoming astropathic message, and Cestus thinks it might be from their late ship, so he goes to check it, but it's a bunch of ominous nonsense that kills the astropaths who receive it and then feedback from the astropaths into the station's systems threatens to overload the reactor. Cestus and Brynngar rush off to the reactor room to do an emergency shutdown and in the core of the overloading reactor Cestus gets a psychic vision of Maccrage in flames.

There is some evidence the astropathic message of doom came from the Fist of Maccrage and Cestus decides to investigate, rallying all the other space marines on the station -- his own Ultramarines, the Space Wolves, some World Eaters lead by an captain named Skraal, and a single Thousand Son, Mhotep. They commandeer a warship called the Wrathful and its escorts, captained by the reasonably cool Admiral Kaminska, who's sort of pissed off she's been drafted into this potential fool's errand, and Mhotep brings along his personal ship as well. They encounter... you know, I don't remember, either they find a debris field or an energy signal or something, they find some evidence that the Fist of Maccrage has been destroyed and are able to follow an energy signature to the Furious Abyss, which they hail, it blows up one of their escorts when the escort gets too close and there's a space battle. Our protagonists kind of freak out when they realize that's a ship full of space marines that just attacked other space marines, which isn't supposed to happen, but mainly they're like "Oh, this is a fight? Cool, I know how fights work" and then they fight. One of the Wraithful's escorts is a fighter carrier but the Abyss use a psychic attack to drive all the fighter pilots insane when they get too close, Mhotep's ship gets blown up but he escapes in a "savior pod" (one of the things 30k/40k does is give slightly off-kilter names to SF staples, so escape pods are savior pods, the teleporter room is called the teleportarium, etc) and gets picked up by the Wrathful, etc. All but one of the escorts are destroyed (the survivor is the Fireblade), so the protagonist's fleet is down down from five ships to two, and Abyss escapes.

During the fight, they damage the Abyss so the protagonists know that if they just follow it, it'll have to get repairs somewhere, and they can attack it then. The Abyss heads towards a warp jump point which serves as a known entry point to a stable warp corridor (to my knowledge this is not how warp travel is described as working elsewhere in the setting; there are stable warp corridors, but there's nothing like Babylon 5 style jump points you have to use to enter them), and the protagonists follow but after entering the corridor the Word Bearers use a psychic bomb to collapse the corridor, so the Wrathful and the Fireblade enter the unstable warp. Both protagonist ships are attacked by daemons in the warp; the space marines aboard the Wrathful fight theirs off but the Fireblade takes significant damage, and the Wrathful moves to bring it into a repair bay, but surprise, the whole ship has been compromised by daemons who've fused the souls of the crew into the ship, and the Fireblade has become a sort of giant anglerfish monster thing that attacks the repair bay as it opens. Mhotep, the Thousand Son, senses that something is off and rushes to the repair bay where he uses warp sorcery to fight the Fireblade off, breaking the Edict of Nikea (when the Emperor declared that any Space Marines who were developing psychic powers had to immediately stop using and developing them, which the Thousand Sons are bitter about because they'd made their psychic talents their whole thing). Everyone else in the repair bay dies in this process and Mhotep lies about using a ruptured fuel line to fight off the Fireblade's incursion but Brynngar the Space Wolf doesn't believe him, because Space Wolves, being viking barbarians, hate witches. (Space Wolf rune priests are not witches, as any Space Wolf will tell you.)

The Wrathful continue following the Abyss until it leaves the warp and stops off at a repair station, and Cestus plans a three-pronged attack involving infiltrating groups of space marines to the station and sneaking into the Abyss to sabotage it. The three groups are Ultramarines lead by another named guy who convinces Cestus to stay behind and command the Wrathful, Skraal and his World Eaters, and Brynngar and his space wolves. The World Eaters ruin everything because unlike the other two groups, they can't resist killing innocent station workers along the way to infiltrating the ship ("A bit of killing will sharpen our senses"), and this results in an alarm going up. One touch I sort of like is that at no point later in the book do our protagonists realize this was what gave the attack away; at one point they speculate that the Word Bearers may have had daemons on the Wrathful passing info back to the Abyss and then it just doesn't come up again. The attack fails, most of the infiltrating Ultramarines are killed, the Space Wolves fall back, but the World Eaters and one Ultramarine get in... and are immediately killed because when like twenty space marines try to just rush into a ship filled with hundreds of space marines on high alert, things go badly. Only Skraal survives, fleeing into the depths of the Furious Abyss.

The Furious Abyss takes off, the Wrathful follows, back into the warp with both of them towards Maccrage. On the Furious Abyss, Skraal, sneaking around in air ducts and behind pillars and things, witnesses a ritual where the Word Bearers use the corpse of the dead Ultramarine lieutenant to appease a daemon named Wsoric, while on the Wrathful, Cestus and Brynngar try to get some info out of a captured Word Bearer that Brynngar and his 40k Blood Claws brought back from his failed assault. Asking nicely doesn't work, torture doesn't work, Cestus finally loops Mhotep in to do a psychic probe and Brynngar freaks out about it. They argue, Mhotep tells them to leave so he can do his interrogation without witnesses, demons attack the ship, Mhotep finishes his interrogation and then heads to the spot of the daemon incursion and uses more sorcery to defeat them, which saves a bunch of Ultramarines but drives Mhotep unconscious. Brynngar witnesses this and decides to kill the unconscious Mhotep for witchcraft before he can wake up and share what he got from the Word Bearer, Cestus refuses, they have an honor duel about it. Cestus barely wins and Brynngar abides by the terms of the duel but makes it clear their friendship is over. Mhotep wakes up and tells Cestus the plans for the attack on Maccrage that I went over many many paragraphs ago at the start of this blog post. Cestus confines Mhotep to an isolation cell because Brynngar made it clear the next time he sees Mhotep he'll kill him, honor duel or no. Also, Mhotep touches Cestus's head and gives him a vision of the future, and confesses that he'd foreseen farseen foreseen all of this years ago and knew his fate was to die on the Wrathful.

Both ships exit the warp at Maccrage and have another space fight. Secretly, Cestus made a plan with the human crew of the ship -- all the Space Marines would enter shuttles and when the Furious Abyss opens its torpedo tubes to fight, they'd launch the shuttles toward it and enter via the torpedo tubes while the Wrathful and the Furious Abyss slug it out. During that fight, the Wrathful's engines are wrecked and it begins plummeting towards Maccrage's moon. Most of the Space Marines make it into the ship. Their plan is to blow up the torpedos the Abyss was going to use to blow up Maccrage's moon, since they entered via torpedo tubes and are therefore right there on the torpedo deck, but the Word Bearers hit them with a psychic attack. All the Ultramarines but Cestus die and Brynngar goes crazy, hallucinates being a wolf and fighting a bunch of other wolves for pack dominance, and then wakes up realizing he's killed all the Space Wolves he arrived with. He flees into the depths of the ship, has another fight with a named Word Bearer he fought and nearly killed earlier (now half-interred in a dreadnought), but nearly loses and is saved by Skraal, who has spent the last several weeks sneaking around learning the interior of the ship. Cestus met up with Skraal off-camera while Brynngar was fighting the dreadnought and he shares his new plan: Attack the plasma reactor at the center of the ship and cause a cascading failure that will blow the whole thing up. Brynngar is like "How do you know the interior of the ship well enough to be confident that will work, Cestus? Is it Mhotep's witchery? I hate witches; I'll help you with your witch's plan, but after that you and I are quits" and Cestus is sad but agrees to those terms.

Back on the Wrathful, Admiral Kaminska does one of those scenes you get in space navy science fiction where she orders all the crew into the savior pods but her bridge crew all refuse to go, preferring to die with her, and she's mad about it but also appreciative... and then her second in command doubles over like she's being played by John Hurt in Alien, and the daemon Wsoric bursts out of her and then kills Kaminska and the rest of the bridge crew, also emanating a chill aura that kills everyone on the ship... except Mhotep, who leaves his cell and heads to the bridge. They fight, Wsoric taunts Mhotep about corrupting Brynngar and using his hatred of witchcraft to turn him against them, and tempts Mhotep with escape and hints at the Thousand Sons siding with Horus, Mhotep resists temptation and stuffs a grenade in Wsoric's chest during a moment of daemonic instability (daemons don't hold together well in realspace). Wsoric blows up and Mhotep lies down on the deck plating just in time for the Wrathful to impact the surface of Maccrage's moon and be destroyed. Mhotep dies triumphant.

Brynngar, Skraal, and Cestus get to the plasma reactor, pursued by Word Bearers, and once there, Skraal charges the Word Bearers to give Cestus and Brynngar some time. He makes it to the head Word Bearer guy and injures him before being killed. Cestus's plan is to sacrifice himself by jumping into the plasma reactor with a bunch of grenades but Brynngar says nope and does it instead, implicitly apologizing for being so hostile earlier. Brynngar jumps into the plasma reactor with a bomb strapped to his chest and dies triumphant. With the ship about to explode, the head Word Bearer runs off to escape, Cestus follows him, they have a duel, and Cestus is wounded but cuts off the Word Bearer's head. He then succumbs to wounds the Word Bearer inflicted on him during the duel and dies triumphant as the Furious Abyss explodes. The end.

It would be theoretically possible to write a good book based on the above outline. I don't think there is intrinsically anything wrong with the idea of a full-length, 416 page novel that is just one extended battle-chase-battle-chase-battle. Fury Road was great.

Battle for the Abyss doesn't manage it. The prose is workmanlike and the characterization is flat. Everyone is a stereotype and plot points keep relying on things working in noncanon ways, like the warp jump point thing. Not only is everyone a stereotype, everyone is a 40k stereotype, most notably the drunken Space Wolf. There is a whole subplot I didn't go into above where the narrative keeps cutting back to the Word Bearers as they speak exposition to each other and they're all plotting against each other for status, like a group of Decepticons comprised entirely of copies of Starscream. (And not the cool version of that from Transformers Animated.)

That said... I still think the characterization is better than in False Gods. Everyone is a flat stereotype but almost nobody is ever holding the idiot ball. (Exception: Whoever designed Vangelis Station so that bad astropathic feedback, something that people in 30k already consider extremely dangerous, can trivially jump to the power grid and overload the reactor. Like, come on, guys, the Emperor considers psychic stuff so dangerous he's busy forcefully reorganizing every human civilization in the galaxy to weaken it; don't plug it directly into the mains. More to the point, if your story outline requires a crisis where your space station is going to blow up so the heroes can save it, please have the crisis unfold in a way that doesn't leave me wondering why the space station was designed so as to be improbably, plot-conveniently vulnerable.) In False Gods everyone made infuriatingly stupid decisions and failed to see through laughably obvious manipulation constantly for the sake of clumsily driving the central tragedy through; here, people make reasonable decisions and are just sort of boring about it. There is a type of reader who considers the latter worse but I'm not him.

Furthermore... when this book was written, what 30k Space Wolves were like hadn't been established yet. Horus Rising has mention of Devastator Squads, which are a 40k generic space marine thing that aren't in 30k, so I can't be super mad about this book giving the Space Wolves a couple of Blood Claws squads, a 40k Space Wolf thing that aren't in 30k. Later writers would develop 30k setting elements in new directions, and I can criticize Ben Counter for failing to see he had an opportunity to do that here (maybe if he'd done something more interesting with Brynngar it'd have stuck and we'd have gotten an entirely different version of 30k Space Wolves than we did, because later writers might have followed his lead), but I can't criticize him for failing to guess what later writers would eventually do with them.

Ultimately it's bolter porn. It's just okay bolter porn; it's not even especially bad bolter porn, and it's about what is at least in theory an interesting forgotten early loyalist victory. Next to the violence False Gods did to the plot setup and characterization in Horus Rising, it looks okay.

I can't recommend reading it, though. There are better ways to spend your time.

[fromtheboundlesssea]

HotD Season 2 Episode 5 Live Watch Thoughts

The scenic shots are nice at least.

I think it would have been interesting if Corlys and Rhaenys had left each other on a bad foot, arguing about succession.

Although seeing Corlys’ heartbreak is beautiful to see.

It’s the war, why do they keep putting Rhaenyra in red as opposed to black?

Are they going to even mention that this dragon killed multiple smallfolk? At all?

Apparently not. *sigh* No instead they are going to be ticked about it. *SIGH*

Ah, Hugh.

“It’s just meat” are they going to eat the dragons when the Dragonpit is stormed?

Alicent!!! Look more sad!!! OR ANGRY

And it’s interesting seeing Aemond finally wearing a more distinguished green.

Helaena!

You know what, it would have been interesting to see Helaena ask Aegon not to go last episode.

Ou would think Valyrian armor would be more dragonfire proof. Surely Visenya safely like frying Aegon on occasion, even jokingly.

And GOOD LORD. Props to the people who did the burn effects on Aegon.

AEMOND I WILL PUNCH YOU

How about the Queen rules in his stead as her mother did when your father was in bed!?

THEY KILLED SUNFYRE?!?!?!?!?!? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?!?!?

Rhaenyra!!!! YOU WERE AWAY FOR DAYS WHILE YOUR PEOPLE WERE LOSING!!!! OF COURSE THEY DO NOT TRUST YOU!!!!

Is Rhaenyra reacting to Aegon dying? I can’t tell?

“What would you have me do?” How about don’t leave for a stupid mission and actually try discussing fighting strategy because YOU ARE AT WAR!

Aw, Baela.

Are we going to have Jace comfort her?!

JACE IS LEAVING!!!!! Not even offering words of comfort?

Man, Jace’s actor looks a lot like Ewan now that I am looking more closely.

So Jace and Baela acting on their own because Rhaenyra isn’t doing anything. Sounds about right.

It is interesting that the Greens, by and large, are not using dragons to demand people to bend the knee in the way Daemon does.

“I did not think they would be so easier to die” it’s because they believe in their cause and you seemingly ordered the murder of a CHILD.

“There are things the crown are not meant to be seen to do.” AND THAT WORKED SO WELL FOR YOU LAST TIME DAEMON!

Oooo! Jeyne Arryn!

And I can see Lady Jeyne being displeased with how Rhaenyra stiffed her a dragon.

They are actually speaking to you Rhaenyra. You just don’t listen and you act against their suggestions.

And Rhaenyra, they did the exact same thing in your father’s council. He was not a fighter either.

“The path I walk have never been walked.” The Dornish would like a word with you.

And will they have the smallfolk turn against her once she takes King’s Landing?

This season is rather boring, and part of the reason for that is because you can tell the writers do not understand Westerosi or Medieval politics. So it feels like they are waffling around.

And of course we will get familial connections in the Blacks, but not the Greens.

“She disliked me” BECAUSE SHE THOUGHT YOU KILLED HER SON!

WHO IS THAT BLONDE LADY?

HIS MOTHER?!?!?!?!?!? I BEG YOUR F-ING PARDON?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

WHY NOT MAKE IT AEMMA?!?!?! THAT WOULD HAVE MADE IT LESS ICKY AT LEAST!

I do wonder if the bats are meant to represent House Whent.

Lord Strong asking for payment 👀

“You should address me as my king.” 👀

WHAT ARE THE MARBLES FOR?!

Aemond, you could at least PRETEND

Aemond being the reason Jaehaerys is dead and now being the one to gravely wound Aegon makes it seem like he’s doing it on purpose.

*sigh*

Olivia’s trembling anger!!!! She’s amazing.

I don’t understand why Hugh is given so much screen time. It could be spent elsewhere.

“The king has lied” the king is currently recovering from being burned.

And “you would have me turn beggar” AT LEAST YOUR KID WILL BE FED.

And the stupid dog.

Need Olivia and Fabian act together in something better.

The unevenness of the hand chain is annoying me.

I’m guessing this is the episode where Alicent and Helaena will be held back.

Ah, Jace learning from his stepdad and threatening with a dragon.

The Freys are consistent at least.

And Jace, you don’t have the authority.

Jace has single-handedly done more for the Black cause than Daemon and Rhaenyra combined.

What’s the screaming?

And why is Daemon working?

Daemon, you have dirtied your hands enough.

Could you imagine if Alys Rivers ever met Viserys. Imagine the dreams that man would have.

“Crimes against the innocent”

The people will suffer under you, Daemon.

Ooooo Daemon referring to himself as “Viserys’ first true heir.”

Mommy issues!Daemon

So we are finally going to see Corlys interact with one of his trueborn granddaughters.

Why did Rhaenyra not name a Hand yet????

Did Baela say in defense of Rhaenys’ king or kin?

OH? Corlys willing to pass Driftmakr to Baela?

I keep checking how much time I have left in the episode. I wish that this was better written. Tywin (hate him) would have been running circles around these people. As would Varys and Baelish and Cersei. Imagine Olenna. Man.

I don’t like Daemon or him and Rhaenyra, but I hate how much this feud is taking up so much time.

I want Daemon to see Rhea.

Daemon keeps messing up for Rhaenyra.

Laena!

“Dragon or no, we shall not raise our banners for a tyrant.” YAS RIVERLAND QUEEN

Why are the Goldcloaks still in charge of anything considering Blood?

Ah Dyanna. I was wondering how you were going to come up.

Ooooo the Helaena and Aemond confrontation? I really hope there is no Helaemond. It just doesn’t work.

“Was it worth the price?”

I was hoping that scene would be longer. *sigh*

“Mommy.” 😭😭😭😭

Every day I am glad that they let Jace’s hair have its natural curls.

Rhaenyra really is turning into her father, looking to books and prophecies.

Viserys didn’t fight either, Rhaenyra.

The writing for Rhaenyra is so abysmal. If she hadn’t done to stupidly see Alicent, her advisors would probably feel better about her and she could actually do things.

Oh, so you actually care about Rhaena? You should show it.

Oh? Jace is going to give the idea of Dragonseed?

Let me guess, next episode will be called “Dragonseed”

Do you think Condal & Co understand how bad their writing is so bad that fans want D&D back?

Promo Thoughts

Meh.

[haleigh-sloth]

Hi, I hope you're doing well.

Do you have any new series that you're hoping to start after mha ends?

HI! I am doing good thank you for the well wishes.

And YES!

I'm really looking forward to catching up on some I've started and taken a break from. I'm actually currently reading several series right now, just all but one of them (not including BNHA) is on hold.

I need to catch up on Blue Exorcist and Black Butler. I think those will be 2 of my priorities. I would really like to catch up and then watch the new anime seasons that have come out for them that are continuing the original story from the manga. Just so happens that lucky me, they both got new seasons continuing their stories like right at the same time.

I also need to catch up on D.Gray-Man, but honestly I need to re-read it (again) before I play catch up. Given the slow pace it releases at, this isn't a priority atm but I will do it eventually. I've been following the manga since I was 15 years old so I WILL be doing it justice by making sure I fully understand everything going on when I read the chapters.

I'm a volume-only reader of Durarara and still have one volume that is currently out in english to read before I'm as caught up as I possibly can be, but also this comes out at a slower pace so it's not a high priority right now.

I did start Daemons of the Shadow Realm (Arakawa's new series) and made it to chapter 8 some time last year, but then life got in the way and I couldn't focus on it. I've been collecting the volumes so I can read the physical copies as they release as much as I can before reading it online. This one is a priority as I've been super excited about it ever since I heard it was going to exist. So this will come sooner rather than later.

I also started Choujin X WAAAAYYYY back when it first released but for the same reasons as always life was just too busy and BNHA took up too much brain space. I've heard it's really good, and would like to start it over and continue reading it as it releases, so I'm looking forward to that. Not a priority so it might be a while, but I will be reading this one also.

I have had a tab open to Delicious Dungeon open for months. Since it's actually completed, I'd really like to knock that one out soon. So priority-wise, this may come before all of the others on this list.

I'm also currently reading, and fully caught up on Oshi no Ko, which is now probably my favorite ongoing series out of all of the ones I'm invested in right now. The only series that isn't on hold. Despite BNHA taking up so much brain space, this manga managed to keep its spot in my brain. I super love it, and it's in its final arc. So I'm really excited to see that one through to the end.

Non-manga things, I'm in love with Hazbin Hotel. Even though it'll be a bit before we get the next content release, this one still lives rent free in my brain so.

But yeah, I've actually been anticipating BNHA ending for some time now because of all these other things I want to read but just...couldn't. Lol. Now I'll be able to. And it'll help me cope with the ending of BNHA better I think, and help me shift into the mindset of "these people aren't real I can do with them what I want". Because for most series I actually have a way easier time with that, but for BNHA I was just way to invested in canon making me happy. The only other series I have the same intensity for right now is Hazbin, with one particular character also (guess who). So we'll see how that goes, though I trust the creator of that series significantly more....lol. But I'd like to be able to detach and have fun from now on rather than...dwell. Idk.

But yeah anyway I'm super excited for all the things listed above!