#the dragon king had a moment of reflection of the things he had that he destroyed through his greed for power

[alltingfinns]

Had a nap earlier today and I am starting to think I would get a lot more rest from sleeping if my brain didn't think every other dream needed 57 layers of worldbuilding. Had a fantasy dream where I was a prince/knight/general who fought with a sword and had a princess/priestess love interest. The part where I was also a woman in masculine attire didn't reduce the fantasy stereotypes. However, the alien invasion disrupting the ongoing war with the dragon king did a little bit. Even if the aliens referred to their own subsets (a genetically coded class system where larger size meant higher up the hierarchy) by goblins and ogres for some fantasy flavor, I guess. There was a whole lot of intrigue and infiltrating the aliens and finding defectors. And apparently my character learned how to fake being dead from a tough upbringing involving fights for inheritance. Humans were equal with the smallest aliens, both in the hierarchy and size. (During parts of the dream my pov was a midsize alien helping my original character.)

[heliosunny]

Your writing for Phainon is soon good 💖 How about something with a Dragon-shifter!Reader who kidnaps Prince!Phainon as dragons do - maybe to get a nice ransom from the royal family - the only problem is that he ain't interested in getting rescued. And may have just slaughtered the knights sent to free him and slay the dragon himself.

Yandere!Phainon x Dragon-shifter!Reader

The sky was dark by the time you reached the ruins of the castle, the stone walls jagged and broken from age, yet still standing against the weight of time. It was a place long forgotten, nestled deep within the mountains, far beyond the reach of any kingdom, perfect for keeping a prince.

“You’re a bold one, I’ll give you that.”

Prince Phainon mused, his voice calm despite the chains coiling around his wrists. His silver-white hair was tousled from the rough flight, his blue eyes gleaming in the dim torchlight.

“Most would hesitate before daring to steal a royal away.”

You ignored him, dragging him forward. You had to admit, his lack of fear was… annoying. Maybe even unsettling. He hadn’t even screamed when you plucked him from his fancy palace, claws closing around him like a vice. He merely stared, as if daring you to drop him.

"Don’t waste your breath" you muttered, shoving open the rusted iron doors. Dust rose from the disturbance, swirling in the air. "You’re not here for conversation."

Phainon chuckled, unfazed. "No? Then why am I here, oh mighty beast?"

You tossed him forward. He landed on his knees with a grunt, but when he lifted his gaze, there was something dangerously amused about the way he looked at you.

"Ransom" you finally said. "Your kingdom will pay handsomely to get their precious prince back."

His laughter filled the place.

Your brow twitched. "What’s so funny?"

Phainon grinned up at you, shoulders shaking. "Oh, you poor, clueless thing. You really think they’ll come for me?" He leaned back, tilting his head. "Let me spare you the disappointment, they won’t. Not before they send someone to kill you first."

You narrowed your eyes. That was expected, of course. Kings rarely sent gold before swords. But it didn’t matter. You could handle any knight they threw your way.

"Then I’ll just have to deal with them." you said.

Phainon hummed, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze. He tilted his head, his smirk never faltering.

"You truly have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?"

You ignored him. The sooner you got him locked away, the sooner you could rest. The flight back had taken a toll, not that you’d ever admit it. Transforming, carrying a fully grown man in your claws, keeping to the shadows to avoid unnecessary fights… It was exhausting. And the moment you’d dumped Phainon inside the ruined halls of your abandoned castle, all you could think about was tending to your aching limbs.

Chains had been enough to keep him in place, or so you assumed. You doubted he’d escape, and even if he did, where would he go? You were deep in the mountains, miles away from the nearest civilization.

And so, you left him to his own devices, disappearing into one of the castle’s still-standing chambers. A cracked mirror leaned against the wall, reflecting your disheveled form. You frowned, brushing dirt from your arms before pouring water into a rusted basin, splashing it against your face.

Just a quick rinse. Then, rest.

You didn’t notice the absence of chains.

Didn’t hear the soft, amused laughter echoing down the halls.

Didn’t realize your supposed prisoner had already slipped away.

Phainon rolled his shoulders as he strode through the forest, fingers brushing over the hilt of the sword he had so generously reclaimed from the ruins. His smirk widened. Really, he should be thanking you. It had been far too long since he had been truly entertained.

Ahead, the sound of armored footsteps drew his attention. He didn’t slow his pace, letting the knights spot him first. Their reactions were immediate- relief, determination, wariness.

"Your Highness!" One of them, a captain by the look of his insignia, rushed forward. "You’re safe! We came as soon as we heard-"

"Safe?" Phainon interrupted smoothly, tilting his head. "Was I ever in danger?"

The knights exchanged glances. "The beast-"

"Was nothing more than a misguided fool" he finished, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve. "I was just about to return, after dealing with my own business of course. No need for all this… concern."

The captain hesitated. "We can’t allow that, Your Highness. We must escort you—"

A sigh. Phainon turned his gaze to the trees, as if contemplating. "Ah, what a shame" he murmured. "I told you I would return."

He moved before they could react.

Steel flashed. Blood spattered against bark. The knights barely had time to scream before his blade cut through them like a whisper. Limbs crumpled, bodies fell. Their eyes, wide with shock, stared at him even in death.

Phainon exhaled, stepping over the corpses without a second thought.

"Now, then" he murmured, wiping his blade clean. "Where were we?"

With a smirk, he turned back toward the castle.

His little dragon was waiting.

Phainon pushed open the heavy wooden door, the creak echoing through the abandoned chamber. His eyes flicked over the dimly lit space, stone walls worn by time, a tattered bed of old furs, and there, lying in the center, a figure.

Not a dragon.

A human.

His brows lifted slightly, the only sign of his surprise. The realization came quickly, his captor was no ordinary beast. The dragon and this person were one and the same.

Leaning against the doorway, he observed you. Your breath was steady, though he noted the faint twitch of your fingers. He could slit your throat now, end this little game before it spiraled further.

But where would the fun be in that?

He stepped closer.

The moment his foot scuffed against the stone, your eyes snapped open.

Your instincts took over before reason could settle in, because your captive was free, because he had a sword again, because he stood over you with an unreadable smirk.

You moved in a flash.

Your hands shot out, grabbing at his limbs, forcing them down. Chains slithered from beneath the bedding, precautions you had set up, ones that now snapped into place with ease. His wrists slammed against the cold floor, and with a sharp twist, you locked his legs as well.

You pressed a knee against his chest, breathing heavy. "How did you escape?"

Phainon merely chuckled, entirely too amused despite his current position. "You should be asking yourself.. how did you fall for it?"

You narrowed your eyes.

His strength was not that of an ordinary man, you realized that when he shifted slightly beneath you, and your balance nearly tipped. He was holding back.

"You really are something else" he mused, tilting his head, the flickering firelight casting shadows over his sharp features. His blue eyes dragged over you, lingering, intrigued. "What should I call you? Or do you prefer ‘beast’?"

You didn’t answer.

His smirk widened. "You’re quite breathtaking up close, you know."

You scowled. "Spare me your empty words."

He laughed. "Oh, but I never lie." He shifted slightly, testing the chains, his muscles tensing beneath you. "And I never let myself be bound for long."

You barely had time to react before he tore free, a sheer burst of strength shattering his restraints like they were nothing. You leaped back, but not fast enough, his hands shot out, grabbing your wrist, flipping you before you could reach for another weapon.

The cold edge of his sword pressed against your throat.

For the first time, you truly looked at him, not as a mere human, but something far more dangerous.

His grip was firm, yet his touch was almost playful. His smirk was unreadable, a dangerous mix of amusement and something else entirely.

"You were saying?" he murmured.

Your lips curled, sharp canines glinting. "You assume too much."

Before his blade could descend, your form shifted- partly.

Your tail, thick with scales, shot forward, blocking the strike with an echoing clang. Sparks flew as his sword clashed against it, the force sending a tremor through the room.

Phainon’s smirk faltered for only a second before morphing into something else- pure, unfiltered intrigue.

"...Oh" he breathed, almost in awe. "Now this is getting interesting."

Phainon barely had time to act before you twisted, your tail sweeping low and knocking him off balance. His sword arm jerked, and you seized the opportunity, shifting back into your human form just enough to move swiftly, you grabbed his wrist, spun behind him, and yanked it up toward his back.

"Persistent" he said, amusement still lacing his voice, even as you forced him down.

"Annoying." you countered, your grip like iron as you shoved him to the cold stone floor.

The chains were still broken, so you resorted to something sturdier. From the corner, you grabbed thick, enchanted rope- strong enough to hold even creatures of great power. You looped it around his wrists, pulling them behind his back, then secured his legs in a way that left minimal room for struggle.

Despite being effectively restrained again, Phainon’s smirk remained, sharp and taunting. "You do like tying me up, don’t you? Should I be flattered or concerned?"

You yanked the rope tighter. "Be quiet."

A chuckle. "As you wish, my dear captor."

With a roll of your eyes, you stepped back, observing your handiwork. He was bound tightly this time, no easy way out, not unless he wanted to snap his own limbs.

But before you could relish your victory, he sighed dramatically.

"At least let me bathe before you keep me here like some caged beast" he drawled, his expression the perfect mixture of false suffering and noble exasperation. "I reek of blood. Is this any way to treat a prince?"

You scoffed. "You are a beast."

"And yet, I still deserve some dignity" he quipped, tilting his head. "Unless you enjoy the scent of dried blood and sweat?"

Your nose wrinkled. You didn’t.

Annoyance prickled at you, but you relented. He was still tied up. What harm could a bath do?

"Fine" you muttered.

Before he could gloat, you grabbed the ropes binding his limbs, dragged him up, and hauled him across the room.

Phainon let out a surprised grunt as you tugged him along. "Ah—so forceful. If you wanted to drag me somewhere private, you could’ve asked."

You ignored him.

The abandoned castle still had an intact bathhouse, a large pool of water fed by an underground spring. With one final tug, you yanked him forward and—

SPLASH!

You threw him in.

Phainon resurfaced with a sharp inhale, his silver hair now plastered to his face, water dripping down his broad shoulders. He blinked once. Twice. Then, he tilted his head up at you, his smirk both impressed and incredulous.

"You know" he mused, "when I asked for a bath, I expected something a little more… dignified."

You crossed your arms. "Be grateful I didn’t throw you off a cliff instead."

"Ah, but would you really? You seem far too attached already."

You grabbed a bucket and unceremoniously dumped more water over his head.

"Pfah!" He sputtered, shaking his head like a wet dog before blinking up at you again, lips curling into something downright mischievous. "If you wanted to get my clothes off, you could've just said so."

Your face twitched.

You promptly turned and walked out, leaving him tied up in the bath to deal with himself.

"Wait—! You’re just leaving me here?"

"You'll figure it out."

His laughter echoed behind you. "I like you more and more, little dragon."

The morning greeted you with an unfamiliar sound—soft, deep, and far too close. A hum. A HUM?

It took a moment for your groggy mind to register it. A gentle, unhurried melody, smooth as silk, drifting through the cool air of your chamber. You stirred, cracking one eye open, only to groan and bury your face into the pillow.

Phainon.

The silver-haired prince, your supposed prisoner, sat beside your bed, his arms resting casually on the frame as he leaned forward, watching you with the ease of a man who belonged there. He was freshly bathed from last night, his damp silver locks tousled slightly, his tunic loose at the collar. But what was most irritating was the absolute serenity in his expression as he continued to hum.

It wasn’t even an unpleasant sound. If anything, it was oddly calming.

"Shut up" you muttered, dragging the blanket over your head.

Phainon merely chuckled, his voice still low with sleep. "Good morning to you too, little dragon."

"Not a morning person?"

You groaned louder, pressing your hands over your ears.

His humming didn’t stop. If anything, it turned into an actual song, low, lyrical words spilling effortlessly from his lips.

You flung a pillow at him.

He caught it easily, smirking. "Tsk, so violent. I’m just trying to lighten the mood."

"You shouldn’t be here." You finally sat up, glaring. "How are you here?"

Phainon tilted his head, eyes glinting with amusement. "You tied me up, threw me into a bath, and then left me. Did you really think that would keep me contained?"

Your frown deepened. He was strong, you knew that, but you had used enchanted rope this time. He shouldn’t have been able to slip free so easily.

As if reading your thoughts, Phainon propped his chin on one hand, smirking. "I’ll let you in on a secret," he murmured, voice dipping. "I’ve never been trapped. I just enjoy watching you try."

You hated how easily his words sent a flicker of unease down your spine.

But before you could reply, the distant sound of armor clanking and hurried footsteps caught your attention.

Phainon let out a sigh, stretching leisurely, as if the mere idea of more interruptions exhausted him. "Ah. Took them long enough."

You shot up, shoving him aside. "Stay here."

You didn’t wait for his response. Rushing down the stone corridors, you made your way to the castle’s entrance. The knights were already spilling into the ruins, swords drawn, scanning the area. Their captain, a broad-shouldered man with a scar across his cheek—stepped forward.

"You there!" he barked. "We received word that Prince Phainon was taken by a dragon. Where is he?"

You hesitated. Your first instinct was to tell them you were the dragon, but something in your gut warned you against it. You had no love for humans, but you weren’t bloodthirsty either. You had taken Phainon for ransom, not war.

But before you could decide how to respond— Phainon let out a chuckle.

He stepped out from behind you, his gaze sweeping over the assembled knights like a wolf among sheep. His sword was already in his hand.

The captain’s face twisted in relief. "Your Highness! We came to rescue you—"

"Rescue me?" Phainon repeated, voice laced with mockery. "From what, exactly?"

The knights stiffened. "From the dragon—!"

Phainon then moved.

Steel sliced through the air, swift and merciless. Blood sprayed across the stone.

Silence.

Then, chaos.

The remaining knights recoiled in horror, some shouting, some scrambling to draw their weapons. But it was already too late.

You could only watch.

Your breath hitched as the last knight staggered back, his sword shaking in his grasp. "Y-Your Highness, what—?"

Phainon drove his blade clean through the man’s chest.

A ragged gasp. A final shudder. Then, nothing.

As the last body collapsed, Phainon exhaled, flicking blood from his blade. His posture remained relaxed, unaffected, as if he had merely completed a morning exercise.

Then, slowly, he turned to you.

His smirk was still there, unchanged, unwavering. But his eyes…

Cold. Sharp. Unrelenting.

He murmured, voice smooth as silk. "Where were we?"

Your breath came in ragged bursts. The scent of blood—fresh, thick, suffocating, filled the abandoned halls. Around you, bodies lay strewn, once armored knights reduced to mere corpses. And at the center of it all stood him.

Phainon, the prince you had kidnapped, the human you thought was nothing more than an arrogant, troublesome captive. Now, standing before you, bathed in crimson, he was something else entirely.

"You…" Your voice was hoarse, almost unrecognizable. "What have you done?"

Phainon tilted his head, flicking stray droplets of blood from his blade. "What needed to be done" he said simply, as if that explained everything.

Your claws curled. You could feel the shift pulling at your skin, your instincts screaming at you to fight. "They came to help you."

He chuckled. "Did they?" His piercing blue eyes met yours, unblinking. "Or did they come to drag me back to a place I had no intention of returning to?"

You gritted your teeth. "You killed your own men!"

"And yet, here I stand." He took a step toward you, slow and deliberate. "And you, little dragon, haven’t run. Haven’t struck me down. Why is that?"

Your pulse pounded in your ears. You had so many reasons. The problem was, you couldn’t pick one.

Because you were stunned. Because your mind still reeled from what you had just witnessed.

"You’re a monster" you snarled.

Phainon exhaled, his smirk softening, something almost fond flickering across his blood-smeared features. "I never claimed to be a hero."

That was it. That was the moment your restraint snapped.

You lunged.

Your tail lashed out, striking toward him like a whip, but he was fast. He sidestepped, blade flicking up just in time to meet your claws. Sparks flew as steel met scale.

"That’s more like it" he purred.

You growled, twisting, your tail sweeping at his legs. He jumped back, but you were already on him again, clawed hands gripping his tunic, shoving him hard against the stone wall.

"You think this is amusing?" you hissed, your breath hot against his face.

Phainon smiled.

"You’re magnificent when you’re angry" he murmured.

Your grip tightened. "I should rip you apart."

His smirk didn’t waver. "But you won’t."

Damn him for being right.

You hated that you hesitated. You hated that your instincts, your dragon instincts, were at war with something else entirely.

"You’ve fascinated me from the moment you took me" he confessed. "At first, I thought it was amusement. Curiosity." He tilted his head, the sharp edges of his expression easing just slightly. "But it’s more than that, isn’t it?"

"You could have killed me" he continued, as if weaving the truth between you both. "Yet you didn’t." His eyes traced your face, your form, like he was memorizing every detail. "And I could have killed you. Yet I won’t."

Your chest heaved. "Why?"

His fingers brushed your wrist, so gently, so deliberately.

"Because I don’t want to." His smile turned wicked. "Because I want you."

Your world tilted.

Your claws flexed, your mind screaming at you to reject it. To deny him. But Phainon only looked at you like he had already won. And you hated that you didn’t know if he was wrong.

You were still seething when Phainon led you toward the kingdom’s gates.

You should have run. You should have killed him.

But instead, you were here, walking beside the man who should have been your prisoner, yet somehow, you felt like the one who had been captured.

The city was alive with murmurs the moment the two of you entered. The scent of blood still clung to Phainon’s clothes, a stark contrast to his relaxed demeanor. People gasped, whispered, stepped aside as he walked through the streets with you in tow.

But it was nothing compared to the reaction inside the royal palace.

The moment the throne room doors burst open, the king and queen, seated on their ornate thrones, turned with sharp, wide-eyed disbelief.

"Phainon?" the king's voice was filled with stunned relief. "You're alive?"

The queen clutched her chest. "The knights said.." She hesitated, gaze flickering toward you. "Who is this?"

You barely had time to part your lips before Phainon slung an arm around your shoulders and pulled you against him.

His next words sent a ripple of shock through the room.

"This?" His smirk was downright predatory. "This one belongs to me now."

The king's expression darkened. "Phainon!"

"You sent knights to retrieve me," he interrupted smoothly. "And they failed. Miserably." He glanced down at you, as if you were some prize he had won rather than a kidnapper-turned-reluctant-companion. "So I took something better in return."

Your lips parted in disbelief. "Excuse me?"

His grip tightened ever so slightly. "Careful, little dragon," he murmured against your ear, low enough that only you could hear. "You wouldn’t want them thinking you’re protesting too much, now would you?"

Your body tensed. He was toying with you. In front of his entire court.

The queen’s hands trembled. "You’re injured—"

"A small price for something so valuable." Phainon mused, tilting his head. "Wouldn’t you agree?"

The nobles in the room exchanged whispers, none daring to speak aloud.

The king exhaled slowly, fingers tightening over the armrest of his throne. "What are you planning, Phainon?"

The prince's smirk widened. "Why, to keep them, of course."

The king finally spoke, his voice cold and measured. "Phainon, do you even understand what you're saying? You cannot simply claim someone as yours—"

"Oh, but I already have." Phainon’s grip on you was firm, his tone laced with amusement. "And I dare anyone to take them from me."

The challenge hung thick in the air, sending another wave of murmurs through the court.

You clenched your fists, resisting the urge to bare your fangs. "I am not some trinket to be owned."

Phainon turned to you, unbothered by your defiance, his lips curling into a lazy smirk. "Of course not." His hand brushed against yours, a deliberate taunt. "You’re something much rarer than that."

You glared at him, heat rising to your cheeks, not from flattery, but from the sheer audacity of this human.

"Fine" you bit out, eyes narrowing. "But don’t think for a second that this means I belong to you. Make sure to keep your promise."

Phainon chuckled, tilting his head as if indulging a joke only he understood. Then, leaning in, he whispered just loud enough for you to hear:

"Oh, little dragon… you just haven't realized it yet."

And with that, the prince turned back to his stunned parents, still grinning like a man who had won everything.

You exhaled slowly. Knowing at least you won't have to live a miserable life anymore.

-----

[next]

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

Bride of the Last Dragon.

Prologue

[ dragon!sylus x f!reader ]

They say a dragon’s fury is born of hunger, but I have seen the truth: rage takes root in the fractures of a heart that once dared to hope. The kingdom calls him a monster, striving to quiet his wrath with tributes of gold and the bodies of trembling brides. I was meant to be the latest sacrifice—just another lamb led to sate a legend. Yet in the mountain’s shadow, I discovered a creature who despises the fear that sustains him, who watches me with eyes older than the sun. We are bound by something deeper than duty, more dangerous than love. And as the world begins to burn, only I can choose what price mercy demands. Some stories are forged in fire; others, in quiet ruin. This is a tale of both. “Where love dares to bloom, destruction follows.”

ABOUT | 2.5k slow burn. doomed yearning. moral ambiguity. impossible choices. ancient grief. quiet moments before the storm. a sword raised in mercy.

TAGS | dark romantasy. monster x maiden. political decay. psychological tension. cursed love. final betrayal. moral ruin. fire and ash.

MUSIC : burn your village // kiki rockwell

NOTE : So—this is my way of thanking you for the support you’ve given me. Here’s the prologue, a taste-test, an amuse-bouche of what awaits us in this tale of ruin. I hope it lives up to your expectations, at least a little.

Look out for Chapter One—if all goes well, it might be up before the fourteenth of July.

Also: the next chapter of the isekai project will drop next week, as well as a new installment of TMTDU! I’m heading to a festival tomorrow, so things might be a bit chaotic, but I’m excited to share more soon.

Thank you, as always, for reading. ♡

INDEX : prologue ✧ one ✧ two ✧

Prologue

ONCE, IN AN AGE...

...of storms and ruin, when dragons carved their fury across the heavens and kings wept prayers into cold, indifferent winds, a kingdom waited in breathless silence for the sun to rise.

It never did.

On the third dawnless morning, the keep at the heart of the realm loomed as a jagged silhouette against skies black as a bruise. Spires that once gleamed with gilded weathercocks now jutted like broken spears. Ash fell in soft, ceaseless flurries, clinging to the tattered banners drooping from scorched ramparts. Smoke curled from the smoldering wreckage of village after village beyond the keep’s gates, drifting across frozen fields strewn with charred bones and shattered plows.

The air hung heavy with the scent of burnt iron and old blood.

Inside the keep, silence reigned thicker than any dirge. Echoes of grief slithered between columns of cracked marble, brushing against soot-blackened tapestries that whispered stories of glories long surrendered. The few remaining knights, gaunt and wild-eyed, stood watch in the shadows, their armor dulled to a lifeless gray.

At the heart of this ruin, upon a dais fractured by claw marks deeper than any blade could cut, slumped the man who had once been called king. His crown lay crooked upon sweat-slick hair, its golden band bent and blackened. His eyes, ringed with sleepless nights, darted to the darkened windows at every rumble of distant thunder beyond the keep’s shattered ramparts.

He had spent the last hours choking out frantic prayers, his words rasping like brittle parchment before dissolving into the stale, choking air. Yet no gods answered. Only silence—and the hollow echo of his own heartbeat.

They said the dragon’s wings could blot out the moon. That his eyes burned with the glow of molten stone, reflecting every coward’s plea in cruel, unflinching light. They said he came not for conquest, but for punishment. And now the king’s mind recoiled at every rustle of the wind, every shiver of dying torchlight, certain that the last dragon watched from beyond the horizon, savoring the taste of his fear.

In that hollow throne room, among relics of a glory devoured by flame, the king understood what every man who had survived the endless night now knew:

The dragon was coming.

And there would be no dawn until his hunger was sated.

A door groaned open at the far edge of the throne room, the sound slicing the hush like a blade through silk. A procession of nobles entered beneath the dim, guttering torches—men and women once resplendent in silks, now cloaked in heavy furs darkened by ash and reeking of fear. They gathered in a loose crescent around the dais, the air between them shimmering with unspoken accusations.

A gaunt duke, a livid scar splitting his lip, was the first to break the silence.

“You said the pact was old superstition,” he spat, words honed sharp as a spearhead. “You told us the dragon was dead.”

A baroness swathed in a gown that smelled faintly of burnt lavender lifted her chin, her voice brittle as frost.

“You assured us your armies could hold him at bay.” Her jeweled fingers trembled against the iron pommel of a dagger hidden in her sleeve.

A lord in a wine-stained collar let out a hollow laugh, brittle as shattered glass.

“The beast cares nothing for your excuses,” he sneered. “He wants blood. He wants proof you remember how to kneel.”

Their words tumbled over each other, a rising storm of blame and terror. Accusations twisted into threats; old grievances bloomed like festering wounds. Voices cracked, swore, broke into ragged sobs. Centuries of gilded civility, painstakingly cultivated in court, dissolved in a single heartbeat beneath the dragon’s looming shadow.

Then a woman in a tattered sapphire cloak stepped forward, her face pale as moonlight. In her arms, she carried a bundle swaddled in gray linen—a child’s blanket.

“The villagers speak of wings like thunder,” she murmured, voice barely more than a ghost of sound. “They say the dragon’s roar shakes the mountains. That he comes not for war, but for the justice we denied him.”

Her words settled over the assembly like a funeral shroud.

The king struggled to stand, his hand clenched around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles blanched. His knees buckled. He tried to speak—tried to shape words of courage or command—but only a hoarse rasp tumbled from his lips.

A breathless hush swept the hall.

From the shadows stepped the old priest, his robes reeking of candle smoke and damp stone. His eyes glistened with something darker than despair as he lifted a trembling hand toward the king. His voice, low and sepulchral, rolled through the hall like thunder across a graveyard.

“The pact was forged for nights such as these,” he intoned. “And the pact must be honored.”

A single word rose among the gathered nobles, hushed yet deafening in its finality:

“Bride.”

Eyes turned to the king. Some glittered with cold vindication, others swam with tears. Murmurs of prayers, curses, and half-remembered prophecies rippled through the hall like a fevered chant. A mother’s quiet, broken sob carried across the stone, raw enough to split hearts.

A cold gust slipped through the cracks of the shattered windows, snuffing half the torches in an instant. Darkness pooled at the edges of the chamber, creeping inward like a tide of dread. The flames that survived spat and danced wildly, throwing monstrous shadows of the courtiers across cracked walls—shadows that writhed like ghosts of the innocent.

And in the hush that followed, the king bowed his head over the empty cradle beside his throne. The cradle’s pale wood was scorched at the corners, its bedding stained by a single drop of ash-darkened blood. His breath stuttered once, twice, as the first syllables of surrender began to shape themselves on his tongue.

A thunderous beat reverberated overhead—a single, titanic pulse of power that rattled ancient beams and sent clouds of dust spiraling from the rafters. The remaining torches guttered in unison, flames bowing low as if in trembling supplication.

Another wingbeat rolled across the keep, closer this time, shaking the stone floor beneath the nobles’ boots. A thin, keening whine rose from the wind pressing against the shattered windows, carrying with it the scent of lightning and scorched stone.

Then silence—so sudden, so absolute, it rang louder than any roar.

From the darkness beyond the gaping arch of the ruined doors, he stepped into the throne room: the last dragon, cloaked in the guise of a man, yet unmistakably inhuman.

His hair fell in pale, silver strands around obsidian horns that swept back like crowns of ruin. Crimson fissures pulsed across the planes of his chest, each heartbeat igniting molten light beneath skin marred by old fury. His eyes burned the color of fresh blood—two fathomless pools of patient, simmering hatred.

A hush strangled every voice in the hall. Even the weeping mother fell silent, her breath caught on terror’s blade.

At the threshold, the dragon paused. His crimson gaze swept the room, lingering on each quivering figure as if weighing the worth of every soul. His lips curled—not with rage, but with slow, deliberate amusement.

“Ah,” he drawled, his voice a rich, resonant timbre, every syllable threaded with something ancient and merciless. “So this is the court of kings. I expected… more splendor. But perhaps I should not have placed faith in the architects of ash.”

He stepped forward, each movement unhurried and deliberate, savoring how the nobles shrank from his approach. His claws clicked softly against the stone—a subtle, dreadful percussion.

“Tell me,” he continued, his voice curling like smoke, “how many titles did you invent for yourselves while you cowered here? How many prayers did you whisper to gods too tired to listen?”

No one answered. The king’s throat worked soundlessly, mouth parted around words that would not come.

The dragon’s gaze found him—pinned him like a spear of crimson fire. His smile sharpened, eyes glinting with a predator’s mirth.

“Little Lord of Cinders,” he mused, head tilting with sinuous curiosity, “did you truly think hiding in your broken tower would save you?”

The mocking title slid into the silence like poison into wine, staining every ear with humiliation. Murmurs spread through the nobles like ripples across stagnant water.

The last dragon began a slow, deliberate circuit around the dais, boots stirring shallow pools of sooty water. His gaze drifted over each courtier, unblinking, unhurried.

“You were so quick to raise banners,” he murmured, voice soft as falling snow. “So swift to swear oaths you never meant to keep.” His crimson stare pinned the baroness, the scarred duke, the old priest—one by one, each caught in his patient, scorching regard. “Did you think your lies were clever enough to blind the eyes that first watched dawn rise over these mountains?”

A sudden crack of lightning split the sky beyond the keep, illuminating him in stark, terrible relief—horns, molten scars, blood-red eyes—no longer man, but the storm’s own favored child.

As thunder rolled in the lightning’s wake, the last dragon turned to face the king once more.

“I have come to collect what was promised,” he said, his words cold and irrevocable. “Or shall your kingdom pay the price for your cowardice?”

The hall held its breath. Beyond the broken walls, the wind howled like the mourning of the dead.

The king’s lips parted at last, but whatever plea he might have mustered died beneath the weight of those crimson eyes. He sank to his knees—not in grace, but in hollow collapse. His crown slipped from his brow, ringing once against the stone before rolling to the foot of the dais like a discarded trinket.

The last dragon did not glance at it. His gaze remained fixed on the king—sharp, unblinking, almost amused.

“See how they fall,” he murmured, low and almost to himself. “Kings, lords, men who named themselves rulers of the earth. All on their knees, as they were always meant to be.”

The nobles held their tongues. One man’s hand drifted to his sword, only to fall away beneath the dragon’s silent regard. A mother clutched her child tighter, as though the infant might shield her from the ancient fury before them.

The dragon’s attention shifted to her, and for a breath the hall stood frozen. Then his mouth curved—not in rage, but in something colder.

“Ah. The mothers,” he said softly, voice steeped in pity turned bitter. “You I almost grieve for. You clutch what you should have shielded with honesty and courage. And now, you clutch too late.” His gaze swept the gathered courtiers, lingering on faces gaunt with hunger and hollowed by dread. “You built your kingdoms upon treachery and greed, and now you weep when the world remembers.”

He strode forward, each step slow and deliberate, boots striking the stone with the weight of inevitability. He stopped before the dais, looking down at the kneeling king.

“I will not take a babe from its cradle,” he said, his voice carrying the quiet certainty of a storm long since resolved. “I am not as you are.”

The words fell like stones into a silent well. “Your daughter shall be mine when she reaches her twentieth year. And the daughters who follow. Every firstborn lady of royal blood. This is the price of the peace you squandered.”

A sharp inhalation rippled through the hall. The king bowed lower, his forehead brushing the cold, unyielding stone.

“Do you not speak, Little Lord of Cinders?” the dragon asked, head tilting as though to better catch some feeble reply. His smile deepened, cruel and amused. “Ah, but what is left to say? You would sell anything—your gold, your daughters, your gods—for a few more years cowering behind your shattered walls.”

A baron tried to form words, some protest half-born, but the dragon’s eyes cut to him, and his voice withered before it touched air.

“You will deliver your daughters to me, as promised,” the dragon continued, his tone softening to the razor’s edge of mockery. “And in return, I will not reduce this wretched keep to ash. I will not scatter your bones to the winds tonight. Consider it… generosity.”

Outside, the wind rose in a low, mournful wail.

“And when she comes to me,” the last dragon said, his gaze drifting to the empty cradle beside the throne, “I will give her what your kind never could: truth. No lies. No hollow banners. No oaths waiting to be broken.”

He stepped back, the storm’s breath at his heels.

“Remember this night. Remember the price of your greed. And pray, Little Lord, that twenty years will be enough to teach your kind humility.”

Without waiting for reply, he turned, his form swallowed whole by the dark beyond the ruined doors.

The storm swept after him, as if called to heel, and the breathless quiet that followed rang louder than thunder.

The nobles remained frozen, each afraid that the slightest movement might summon the dragon’s return. Only the wind, threading through shattered windows and crumbling stones, dared disturb the suffocating stillness. The king did not rise. His crown lay forgotten at his feet, and his gaze stayed fixed upon the empty cradle beside him, its pale wood etched forever in shadow.

No word was spoken. No prayer uttered. Not even the priest’s voice rose to bless what remained.

Outside the keep, the storm unfurled its fury across the desolate land. Lightning stitched jagged scars across the sky. Winds swept ash and sorrow alike, scattering them over fields where nothing would ever grow again.

And in the years that followed, the pact endured.

The firstborn daughter of royal blood, at the dawn of her twentieth year, was delivered to the mountain. A bride in name, a sacrifice in truth. No crown upon her head. No banner at her back. Only a lone rider, and the cold, unyielding road stretching from palace gates to the dragon’s dark domain.

Then another. And another still.

Through seasons of peace hard-won and peace squandered, the price was paid. Through kings who knelt and kings who raged, queens who wept and queens who did not, the price was paid.

One hundred and nine daughters. One hundred and nine brides. One hundred and nine sacrifices offered beneath storm-torn skies.

And with each, the kingdom’s hope dwindled further.

It is said that with every bride claimed, the dragon’s mountain grew taller, its shadow longer, until it loomed over the realm like a judgment no soul could escape.

It is said the songs changed too—that mothers no longer sang of bright futures and golden kings, but of storms and sorrow, of daughters cloaked in white and led into the dark.

And it is said—though none now dare whisper it aloud—that the pact’s end would come not with banners or armies, but with a blade, and a hand that trembled as it struck.

So the tale begins, as all such tales do: with a promise made in fear, and a debt that must, at last, be paid.

to be continued...

INDEX : prologue ✧ one ✧ two ✧

♡ brides of the last dragon : @blessdunrest @otome-house @kestrelmando @cms399 @cutestnursingstudent @wakeupr41 @orcawholikeskrakans @crimsonlittlecrow

♡ Taglist is open.

If you wish to walk with me through this ruin—if you wish to witness each fragment as it falls—simply reply or send an ask, and I’ll add you to the list.

[ cover template : miisuki on x ]

[pjomakesyourkidsgay]

. . . leo valdez

˖°𓇼 bf!leo absolutely ends up being an accidental romantic. bf!leo who doesn't really care that it's valentines day, specifically, but he just really likes to spend time with you and make you happy. bf!leo who cracks annoying jokes and calls you weird terms of endearment like "cute little chicken mcnugget" and "adorable miniscule metal scrap with eyes" and "special sparky mcdonald's sprite". bf!leo who drags you to a burger king at a ghastly eight in the morning to grab a burger because he was working late the night before. bf!leo who makes an effort to clean out bunker nine so that you can spend the day there comfortably. bf!leo who, out of nowhere, takes you out on a ride with festus to get groceries for a spontaneous private camping night. bf!leo who prepares his famous tofu tacos just for you. bf!leo who starts the bonfire but ends up getting his hair on fire. bf!leo who plays just dance with you on a switch he made. he definitely knows all the latest dances. bf!leo who tries to cheat in uno by making a machine but he fails because you can see every little thing he's doing. bf!leo who toasts the marshmallows just perfectly. bf!leo who tells festus to ward off every other camper that tries to get near your date site. bf!leo who makes you little custom gifts made out of the extra parts and pieces of his projects. bf!leo who warms you up at night by cuddling with you. bf!leo who lets you play with his unruly, curly mess of hair. bf!leo who's a total best friend kind of boyfriend. bf!leo who reserves the most emotional part of him for your eyes only because of the immense trust he has for you. bf!leo who can't go a full day without, at some point, holding your hand in his perpetually warm, calloused ones. bf!leo who falls asleep next to you, his face buried in your stomach as he snores, really loudly...

"bro, pay attention to me."

leo's head whips away from whatever he's tinkering with between his fingers, sending you a carefully practiced look, one eyebrow raised to his hairline. "bro?"

"i'm-"

"well, okay, dude," he shoots back. "what is it you want to tell me, buddy? are you alright, mate? perhaps this chap right o'here wanted a l'il ol' chat? well, buckaroo, did you want attention from your special bruzz?"

"leo!" you shove him by the shoulder, cackling at the offended look on his face (that had melted the moment you started laughing at his antics). if you hadn't called his name he might've named every name in the book of bro code, and you really didn't need that. even festus blew a column of smoke into the latino's face.

"i know we're comfy and all but a random bro? seriously? weren't we just kissing by the fire?"

"that's enough," you interrupt him, a hue of red flushing your features, but if anyone asked you'd swear it was the flame reflecting back on your face. "i'm sorry, my hyper little elf boyfriend. is that better?"

"infinitely so, my blushing fairy maiden of a girlfriend, though we should go easy on the 'little'."

"i'm not blushing!"

"of course not, it must be my eyes playing tricks on me."

you shove him, again, with your foot this time. your socks were matching with his, cute miniscule fire-breathing dragons in yellow and red. "hey, you're gonna make me drop this!"

you halt your attack and scoot on over closer to him, peeking over his shoulder, his dark curls poking your eye. "what's that?"

"woah, there, ms. nosy!" he yelps, tucking the item back into a clasped hand and throwing an arm around your waist, bringing you down. "not yet." he mutters incoherent things, muffled because of his face practically pressing up against your stomach.

you complain immediately in his hold. "you're too hot."

"yeah, i know i'm hot."

"you suck!" you try to wriggle out of his grasp but he pulls you closer, holding onto you as if you were a giant teddy bear. "leo, i'm going to start overheating!"

he looks up at you then, grinning. "then we'll overheat together."

you give his hair a slight (and loving) yank, plastering a serious face on. "bruh."

"that's so not sigma of you," he whines, sitting back up and pulling something out of his pocket. "alright, then, i'll give it to you now."

"are you gonna fight me? get ready to catch these hands, you absolue L rizz."

"i'm supposed to be the brainrot one!"

with a joking eyeroll, he finally opens his hands in the way one would do when proposing. in his palm was a little metal box, about two inches on all sides, tightly closed.

you watch it for a couple of seconds, finally realizing that it wasn't about to do anything. you look at the latino boy questioningly.

"put the pad of your thumb here," he points at the spot, "it has a fingerprint sensor. it opens only to you."

so you do as you're told, and the tiny box opens, transformers-style. a round, rotating platform rises from the middle, showing tiny statues of what could only be you and him mid-wrestle, faces contorted with mirth. your favorite song plays as mini-you-and-leo spin around to the music, a scene of pure love between the two of you captured with the perfect backtrack.

"oh my gods," you gasp out, lips parted. you reach out to push his hands safely out of the way before kissing him. lips on lips, full of passion and obvious gratitude.

you pull away, he's still wonderstruck, you're peppering kisses all over his cute face with a 'thank you' between each one.

"ladies, ladies!" he laughs, closing the music box and placing it gently into your hand. "calm down! take a few deep breaths."

you open the box again immediately after you receive it, singing the lyrics to the song softly until leo kisses your cheek and sings them louder, word for word.

eventually the night dissolves into song, into you and leo's song, and screw it if all the other campers can't sleep.

dividers by: @strangergraphics and @ianrkives

[bearwithegg]

Fight Like a Girl || B. Blackwood ||

I can change it to Davos once we get further confirmation. Ig?? Lmaooo lord help me. I cbf putting this on my main writing account because of how inconsistent I am with writing kjhdfhg

Mulan Inspired scenario. Original House, i just made that shit up bro lesgoooo. I hope my mass effect enjoyers like this <3

Kieran Burton!Benjicot x f!reader.

Warnings: None? Swearing?

Word Count: 2.8k

PART 2

For @spider-stark ( they write the best damn benjicot oneshots go READ RN)

***

“Keep your voice down, Garrus.” You hiss, eyes darting around the makeshift battlements, rows upon rows of tents more dense than the woods surrounding the legion of men, banners separating them only in name. War was here. Yet men were merry, roaring with laughter, cheering and jeering each other on when sparring amongst themselves. You were well in over your head for this.

“Apologies my lad— lord,” Garrus, a tall, gangly gentleman who not only represented your noble house but also remained your closest confidant and sworn protector. From the moment you were plucked out of your mothers womb, he had encompassed your upbringing with a chassis of care and love like a father would a son or a mother would her babes. Though he might’ve been neither, he was the only person you could call home.

Stylguard. Might’ve been home once, when you and your brother ran a muck in the courtyards instead of tending to important studies with the Maester. When the summers meant that hours were wasted making chains of flowers and clovers. Only ghosts remain, painful visages of a different lifetime, warning those who dare contest the cruel threads of fate the war beget.

The false King must die.

You swore this oath, quietly in whispers of red hot anger, no witnesses to hear it except for the phantoms plaguing your mind and the gods of old. A lady alone could not put an end to a war — men however, could.

“There,” Garrus raises an arm, forefinger steady on a muddied pit in the distance. The epicenter of clashing swords and men shouting. “I might suggest watching them first, Little Clover.”

Little Clover. You were neither little nor the girl who picked clovers in the farmlands anymore. A mere remnant of the past, a pet name that forces unwanted memories of before the Dragons had begun their pointless infighting. Hurtful as it may be, it was the best way to keep unnoticed amongst the thousands of men without arousing suspicion of your true identity.

Some of the men barely meet such a description, boys no older than ten and one pick up swords and join in a brutal pastime against men thrice their size. These were no noblemen, not boys who wielded swords long before their voice stopped squeaking, no. These were commonfolk, some under sworn protection from minor houses, but most of these boys and men were farmers. Steele farmers. Blackwood farmers. Tully farmers. Fray farmers. All united for one cause — and not a single one of them were proficient enough with a sword.

“None of these men are fit for war,” you whisper, turning to Garrus, a sullen swept look on his face mirroring your own. It was hypocritical to comment, considering you could count on one hand how many times you had picked up a sword. Though it was not a slight on their ability to go to war, it was the tragic reality that loomed over the realm.

“They fight for what they believe in…” Garrus answers softly, a hand firmly wrapped around the pommel of his sword, as it had always been since the murmurings of war rippled through the Seven Kingdoms. His eyes look ahead at boys throwing their swords away and opting for fists, pools of blue express his kind and somber nature, reflecting his true age, yet the crows feet around them betray such a thing.

War is cruel to those who bear witness.

The dogpile is quickly dispersed, a lithe and commanding presence tears the boys off one another and reprimands them. “Benjicot Blackwood.” Garrus murmurs, eyes casting a weary look down at you, “you’d do well to learn from him. He’s spilt more blood in this war than the dragons.” A jest, you think, but hearing of the Blackwoods fearsome reputation it could quite possibly yield truth.

Benjicot is shouting orders, or perhaps insults, you couldn’t tell —he had mud pressed hard into his tunic no doubt from rigorous sparring in the sludge pit, a stark contrast to the green fields of untouched grasslands the contingent temporarily inhabited. His feet sunk into the ground with each step, the man made bog had been many of the boys’ downfall during sparring and a cause of frustration by the looks they all shared across their faces.

“You there, boy.” He points at you — sword tip singling you out and all.

Eyes wide and body rigid, you felt as though you’d forgotten how to speak or move. Had it not been for Garrus gripping the scruff of your ill-fitted tunic and shoving you forward, you might’ve found yourself at the ire of the boy before you.

Not boy. Man.

Barely so, not even the young were spared from the cruel and aging touch of war.

He regards you carefully, a stormy gaze looking at you from head to toe. Eyes stopping at the sigil adorned on your chest. Even bespeckled with sweat and mud you couldn’t help but think how handsome he looked, though it was far from an appropriate thought. It helped ease the nervousness that rippled through your being as you stood in the centre of a circlet of men.

”Lord Steele found himself sober enough to finally choose a side did he?” Benjicot’s words were severe, a low growl not too dissimilar to that of the black cats and Direwolves of the nearby forests. There was a primal, animalistic quality in his movements, sizing you up like a predator would when deciding if something was prey or not.

You resist the urge to look at Garrus, he could not help you, not now. Instead, with a chin held up you shake your head, nudging it back toward your confidant, “we came alone, Lord Blackwood.”

His eyes flicker behind you and tilts his head to the side, “hm. Idiotic yet admirable of you two. Going against the word of the House that protects you.” There was a glint of something in his eyes, wild, untamed and real compared to many of the other pairs of eyes you had come across in the camp. He swipes the sweat from his upper lip and nods over to the handmade rack of swords, “show us what House Steele defects are made of then.”

This was about to be nothing short of a complete humiliation, you were certain. Yet, with a steady breath and the ignition of hatred bubbling in the back of your mind to remind you of why this path was the one you chose — you pick a short sword, albeit the smallest of the array of the newly smithed weapons.

Despite its small size it was still made from heavy ores, your wrist willing itself to relent to the weight, wanting to bend and twist. Men and boys begin to laugh, your eyes look around and it was a horrifying reflection of your own uselessness, like a childish nightmare coming to fruition. It pissed you off.

The moment you came into this life born without a prick between your legs you had always been seen as inferior, a prize to be sold to the highest bidder. The lament of a woman born in Westeros. Now, you stand on the edge of a cliff looking over an abyss brought on by the war. By two dragons ill-fitted for the power they wield because at the end of all this, the only people who suffer are the people.

You resent being born into a hateful world and you resent that loss is what has driven you to action. Just like you resent being laughed at by a crowd of men who knew next to nothing about the sacrifices you’ve made.

Benjicot Blackwood, does not laugh. He does not jeer nor does he show faint amusement at your inability to hold a mere short sword. He has since stepped aside, beckoning a boy forward who is similar in your stature but definitely not in age — he could barely be ten and four.

He was snickering, and that added more oil on top of the fire that burned your hatred and loathing — you feel yourself recede into that raw emotion. While you may be absolutely abhorrent with any real fighting skills, you had an unbridled rage to let out in recompense for all the wrong done unto you in this world.

And so you charge at him, using momentum to help raise the sword over your head because by gods alone, your strength was practically non-existent. A ferocious yowl barrels from your throat when swords clashed, the sudden stop was disorienting and caused you to stumble back slightly. He swings his sword and you double back again, the mud encasing around your boots willing you to trip, to fall.

You try to swing back but don’t have enough momentum and you feel your wrist bend under the weight of the sword and have to over-correct, stepping to the side so as to not drop the sword. Laughter rumbles through the men once again, some beginning to cheer on the boy in front of you.

Heaving forward again, you go to swing but in a split second you let go of the sword, letting it careen through the air and hitting the boy on the chest. Was it smart to willfully disarm oneself? Perhaps not, but he certainly wasn’t expecting it so you pounce. An all too familiar scene that would have otherwise delighted you if it weren’t on the grounds of war; a hand curls into his muddied blonde locks while the other goes to claw at his face.

Many fights had broken out like this between you and other girls growing up, it seemed only natural to revert back to the ways you knew how to fight. Even if it wasn’t exactly appropriate.

The two of you tumble into the mud together but the element of surprise has long surpassed and he uses simple strength, punching you hard in the gut and knocking you off him. Unsure what to expect next, you lay in the mud, chest heaving hard and conceded defeat — truthfully you had conceded defeat the second you were called out to show off your ‘skill’.

Overcast and dreary weather as it may be, the sun's light still glared through such heavy obscurity, your eyes squinted while trying to figure out if it was easier to sink into the bog beneath you or get up and swallow down what little pride remained. Eclipsing the sun in more ways than one, Benjicot stands over you, expression hardened yet there was an amused glint deep within his dark eyes.

“You fight like a girl,” he outstretched his hand, part of you contemplating hitting it away but he was the only one - aside from Garrus - to not laugh at your ineptitude. A soft groan passes your lips and you begrudgingly take the gesture of kindness, it was more than anyone had given you anyway.

“I am no knight,” you grumble back, once upright, rolling your shoulders back and rubbing the wrist that began to ache from holding a sword. The crowd of men had begun dispersing, you wonder if in your post fight daze if Benjicot had shooed them away.

”Aye, any idiot with two eyes can see that,” he jests, picking up the sword from the mud, “any daft cunt can pick up a sword and swing it around — but you’ve something else… I see it in your eyes, boy.”

At first you think he’s undermining you, but after a moment, it was clear he was paying you a compliment.

He returns the sword amongst the rest, a hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed dagger. Something about his stature, the way he commanded the space he inhabited was so interesting. He was unlike any other Lord you met before, perhaps it could be that he was a warrior first, then Lord second. A sentiment only emboldened since the war began.

“It may be pertinent that we train at night Little Clover, you have much to learn,” Garrus whispers, coming up behind you and putting a hand on your shoulder proudly. He may have watched you get bested without question, and sure, behind the confines of the tent you two shared later he would no doubt say how proud he was, there was not a single thing you could do that he wouldn’t support.

He should have trained you up sooner — be it if the departure from Stylguard wasn’t swift and last moment.

Benjicot approaches the two of you, watching as you whisper conspiratorially. He was as intimidating when he was quiet as he was when wielding a sword. A perceptive gaze looking between Garrus, clad in armour of your house and you, unevenly cut hair and dressed in little more than a squires tunic. He gives a weary look around, many of the men had long left the sludge pit.

”I must thank you, for joining the efforts even if they go against Lord Steele’s,” He says formally.

“No matter, my Lord.” Garrus smiles, a thin and forced one out of mere politeness, “Lord Steele grows weary the longer the war persists, a conflict averse man such as himself cannot continue to lock himself away in the wine cellars while war is brought to his doorstep.”

There was a pause, a silent mediator among the three of you, as much as it would pain you to admit; Garrus holds truth in his words. You love your father you really did but he stopped being a present figure the moment the raven arrived with word of your brother's death.

“Aye, The Greens have done irreparable damage to his family yet he cowers in his fortress.” Benjicot says quietly, mulling over his thoughts. His tongue pokes the inside of the cheek, protruding it out before moistening his lips with a twitch of a smile, barely perceptible, “is that why his daughter fled? To find retribution for the unlawful death of her brother?”

You tense up, swallowing hard and don’t dare look to Garrus lest suspicion is raised. The lump in your throat is hard and stubborn, even as you clear it, part of it remains to jeopardize the weight of your words. “That is.. what many believe to have happened… A few of us stable boys overheard she had plans to flee to Essos.”

Benjicot hums, nodding in response and looks around at the tents, the men, all the heart and blood of war. You follow his gaze carefully, how deeply entrenched in the throes of war the realm had become. In the middle of a field at the edge of the Riverlands of all places.

“This doesn’t look like Essos to me, my Lady.”

Before you had a chance to stumble back, Garrus had put an arm in front of you, an instinct to protect, to guard. Though falters when he hears the young Blackwood laugh.

”Do not think yourself in danger. It is admirable, truly. To go against your fathers wishes, but you cannot simply cut your hair and wear the clothes of a boy and call yourself a warrior.” He chuckled, a deep and soothing sound that made your cheeks burn, though that was partly due to being caught. He was impressed in truth, unable to find what the wild spark in your eyes was initially, though it made sense the moment he saw your delicate unmarred hands. Nails well kept and not a single grain of dirt underneath them.

“I wish to learn, I want to fight.” You step forward, voice pleading because if you didn’t have this then what remained? A hallowed home with vestiges of pain luring anyone stupid enough to hear their call? An empty father, nothing but a shell of what once was a person who mirrored life and happiness? It was fight or die and even death wasn’t as cruel of a fate as returning to nothing, to be nothing.

“And you fight like a girl,” he smiles, not to insult or belittle you, nothing more nefarious than a simple observation. He inches forward, shifting his weight. It shouldn’t have made you as nervous as it did, but he was close enough to crowd your senses with his natural musk. “Many men believe women to be bad luck in times of war, these men are no different.”

Those men were stupid, you think.

“And what say you, Lord Blackwood?” You swallow.

“I say that not many of them have had the pleasure of meeting my Aunt.” He whispered, eyes swirling similarly to the darkened storm stricken skies above. “Women aren’t welcome by some around here, do well to keep discreet. And if you cannot manage that, then be ruthless.”

On his retreat, you feel yourself turn to look at Garrus, who looked caught between a look of utter bemusement yet partially pleased all things considered. He looks down at you and clears his throat, “let us retire for the afternoon, my lad— Little Clover. Trust that the Lordling does not speak to many about your arrival.”

Your eyes remain in the direction Benjicot disappeared in, sighing heavily. Perhaps in a different lifetime he would have been a delightful consort, though for now it is barely a thought, passing through your idle mind as you slowly turn to rest for the day.

[talesofesther]

𝔈𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔞 𝔉𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢

↳ 𝐂𝐡 𝐨𝐧𝐞: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠'𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠

Aemond Targaryen x Reader/fem!OC

Series Summary: You made a promise to Aemond once, when you were young and naive, and the only friend he'd ever known; yet you abandoned him before you could fulfill it. Between broken bonds, a betrothal, and flames that still burn deep within you; this is the story of how you fell apart and found each other again.

A/N: Things will start to get interesting now, let me know your thoughts. <3

Word count: 4,9k

Masterlist | Previous chapter (prologue)

You breathed in deeply, closing your eyes and leaning your head back with both arms open lazily beside your body, wind flowing quickly in between your fingers. The skies were clear, morning sunlight reflecting against ashen blue scales as your dragon's wings stretched to their full size.

Dancing and gliding in between clouds, the sky was yours.

As you opened your eyes, you were greeted with a sight that would always leave you breathless, no matter how many times you'd be privileged to witness it. The lands below seemed small, castles, houses, and fields afar dwarfed by how far up you were flying. You could see beyond walls and mountains, as far as the horizon allowed. The back of your dragon's head stretched forward in a relaxed manner, seemingly taking in the view just as much as you; the patch of fur in between her long grey horns flew and flowed with the strong breeze.

You reached your arm past your saddle, the palm of your hand laying flat against her warm scales in a loving caress. She cooed, a low groan coming from the back of her throat as she turned her head slightly so her deep blue eyes met yours for only a moment. You smiled. Khamira had grown to be just as big as Meleys, she was all raw power and formidable wildness, and yet, ever so gentle in your hands.

It would never cease to amaze you, how a beast as strong and majestic as a dragon—wings and legs supported by pure muscle, teeth and horns as sharp as daggers, and fire as hot as the hells—could at the same time be this graceful, this agile, and elegant.

Her wings swished with precision, creating ripples in the clouds as if painting a canvas; her long tail kept her body straight and balanced; multiple shades of dark and pale blue shone under the sunlight with each movement of her body. She was poetry in motion, carrying you through the morning sky on her back.

The feeling, the pleasure, of riding on dragonback was incomparable; a mixture of being invincible, untouchable, and yet completely at peace.

You leaned forward at last, uttering a soft command for her to pick up speed and the adrenaline was quick to kiss your cheeks in the form of a heavy wind. Your dragon bomb-dived suddenly, bringing her wings close to her body and her muzzle downwards. An ecstatic laugh escaped your lips as you felt the power of her body moving beneath you, taking you through the air.

She only opened her wings again when you were short of hitting the roof of a tall church, returning to a steady height as you flew fast above King's Landing. The dragon addicted to the rush just as much as you.

If people looked up, they would see nothing but a flash of blue, the silhouette of massive wings and a long tail vanishing just as fast as it came.

For the first time in seven years, you were finally heading back to the Red Keep. Vaemond had called into question Luke's legitimacy of birth, as he was to be Driftmark's heir, prompting you and your family to meet him for the discussion in King's Landing. While the rest of your family came by ship, you chose to ride over on dragonback and meet them there. The swaying of a ship on the ocean's water could make you nauseous, but flying in between clouds always cleared your head and filled your lungs with the fresh air of unabashed freedom.

After bidding goodbye to your loyal dragon as she was guided into the Dragonpit to rest, a carriage took you to the main gates of the Keep. The guards welcomed you with salutes and curtsies, something you were yet to get used to, even with being born into the royal family.

You were headed to the doors of the castle when they were pushed open by an older, bald man. He walked up to you and bowed his head. "Welcome home, my lady. Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra are already inside, they've gone to speak with the King."

Greeting him back with a nod, you smiled softly; "Thank you..." You dragged the word, raking your head to remember who exactly this was.

"Caswell, my lady," he kindly finished for you.

"Thank you, Lord Caswell."

The castle itself was still as grand and majestic as you remembered it to be, in some ways it didn't even feel like the last time you were here was so many years ago. The torches flickered softly along the grand hallways, casting a warm, golden glow on the stone walls as you walked aimlessly. Although you already had a designed room for your stay here, you refrained from changing out of your riding clothes, choosing to stay in black breeches and a long overcoat rather than a silken dress.

You eventually got hold of Jace and Luke who were also wandering about the castle and reminiscing on their childhood here. Despite your differences and disagreements during early childhood, you'd grown closer with both boys during your time at Dragonstone. Quickly enough, between dragon rides at sunset and playing together day in and day out, they became almost like brothers to you.

"It's so cool to be back here," Luke spoke, excitedly walking ahead of you and Jace, "I wonder why we haven't visited more."

"You know why, Luke," Jace raised a brow, his voice holding a smidge of warning to it. "It's not like we parted on the best of terms."

Immediately you knew what he was talking about. You recalled it as if it had been yesterday. Laena's funeral, the commotion in the dead of night, the red of blood, stitches piercing the skin of the prince who'd lost an eye. Your heart sped up then, hands feeling clammy and cold at the same time.

Aemond. He'd be here too, surely. It's been far too long since you've seen him, yet not long enough for you to stop counting the years. Part of you wondered if he did so too.

Something like guilt started weighing down on your stomach, because there had been letters exchanged over the years, mostly holding empty promises that you'd see each other again soon. A young hope that was snuffed out as you got older and wiser; it never happened, it was out of your reach. And for many seasons now, there had been no letters at all. You weren't sure who stopped first, there just came a day when you knew not to send another letter his way, because you wouldn't be getting any back either.

"Why don't we check out the training yard?" You suggested with a grin, "To remember the times when I kicked your butts there." With a giggle, you pushed Jace's shoulder halfheartedly.

"Hey, hey, I don't remember any of that," Jace countered, holding back a smile of his own, whilst Luke was already chuckling with a hand over his mouth.

─── ⋄✧⋄ ───

The sound of swords clashing was already loud and sharp as you descended the stairs to the training yard; many people were there, some sparring with each other as others watched and clapped and gossiped.

"Looks smaller than I remembered," Luke commented as he glanced around.

"It looks exactly the same," Jace concluded, skipping the last few steps of the stairs and landing on the gravel grounds of the yard. "Come on, you two."

The older of the brothers ran forth to check a dent in the stone walls, a mark of their old training days here. You, on the other hand, stopped to check out the weapons displayed for choice on the tables; maces, morningstars, swords, and daggers.

A faint smile came to your lips. The smell of smoke and sweat, the clash of metal, the grunts and cheering of the soldiers—it all reminded you of cherished memories. Firstly, of the first lessons your father had ever given you, sword all too big and heavy in your small hands, you were only five, yet he insisted that regardless if you were a boy or girl, you should learn how to fight; you still remember the first time you were finally able to best him in combat, you were ten, it took you five years but you had done it; Daemon smiled the biggest on that day, telling everyone how his daughter was a born fighter. And secondly, came the memory of your sparring sessions with Aemond when you were young, he'd refused to put up a fight in the beginning, afraid he'd hurt you; but he started to give you a fair fight when you'd bested him the second time around; you still remember how he'd run around the castle, searching for you and then holding onto your hand to lead you to the training yard, "You're too slow," he used to say with a smile, "If I don't drag you around we won't be there on time."

Part of you wished those moments were infinite.

By the time your mind returned to the present, Luke and Jace had joined you. Jace began picking up the weapons on the table with an excited grin; yet Luke seemed on edge, glancing around himself and at the piercing gazes on your backs from the people here. You felt it too, the judgment and the whispers.

"What's wrong, Luke?" You asked, one hand reaching up to touch his arm comfortingly.

The boy furrowed his brows in discomfort, head hanging low. "Everyone's staring at us."

A soft grimace passed over your features as you tilted your head at him, eyes glinting with silent understanding. In part, you knew what he was feeling, you'd received your fair share of odd glances when at court as well; you were a royal prince's daughter yet had hair in the shade of the warmest grey that almost resembled brown in certain lights, and eyes as dark as the night sky, so of course, people would talk.

"No one would question me being heir to Driftmark," Luke spoke, his tone a mix of frustrated and defeated as he still avoided your gaze, "If... if I looked more like Ser Laenor Velaryon, than Ser Harwin Strong."

"It doesn't matter what they think," Jace at last spoke up, ducking his head to meet his brother's eyes.

"He's right, Luke," you reassured, "Don't mind them."

A sudden crash of something heavy hitting a wooden shield caught your attention then, and all three of you turned around to watch as a small crowd gathered around two people sparring. Luke and Jace ran toward it to watch, so you followed close behind, squeezing yourself past and between a few people so you didn't have to stand on your tiptoes to catch glimpses of the fight.

One of the two you recognized almost instantly, Ser Criston Cole, you had never particularly been too fond of him. The other, who still had his back to you, you hadn't recognized, even if there was something familiar about the way he moved. His long silver hair bounced over his shoulders as he dodged Cole's attacks quite expertly; his movements swift, calculated, and still somehow elegant. The shield held by the mysterious man broke and he threw it aside without a second thought, going in for another attack. The sword cut through the air, Cole's morningstar slammed into the ground, and finally, the silver-haired man turned in your direction.

A teasing grin and an eyepatch framed the sharp features of the young man, his single bright eye glinting under the hazy sunlight as he held the sword with a firm grip, ready for another attack.

You felt as if all air suddenly left your lungs and refused to come back, your lips hanging open as your gaze was all but locked onto him. Aemond. You'd recognize him anywhere, in any lifetime, you feared. He looked so different yet somehow still the same; his hair was much longer, features older and sharper as he'd grown over the years; his harsh scar, you noticed, was now fully healed, and yet still evident as a reminder of the fateful night he'd claimed Vhagar and lost his eye; but his smile seemed to be the same you were used to, that mischievous tilt of lips he'd wear against his opponents.

A smile of your own began to stretch your lips and you took half a step toward him before stopping yourself, your heart beat painfully against your ribs and in your ears, bringing a nearly nauseous twist to your guts. It felt as if your body had trouble picking an emotion upon seeing Aemond again after all these years.

You'd wished, prayed even, for the day you'd finally be able to meet one of your best friends again; the lonely, outcast boy you had grown so fond of over the course of mere months. The one you had shared most of your afternoons in the Red Keep with, the one who'd steal you away to the library to share tales of the old dragons. Yet seeing him now, after so many seasons of pure silence, you had no idea where you stood with him.

The fight ended with Aemond holding the sharp end of his sword against Cole's neck, staring him down as a dragon would with its prey.

"Well done, my prince," Ser Criston spoke, rather breathless from the exertion, "You'll be winning tourneys in no time."

"I don't give a shit about tourneys," Aemond answered back without pause, his tone filled with finality and eye holding a piercing stare. "My lady," he said then, voice just a tad softer, whether he meant for it or not. Twisting the hilt in his hand, Aemond lowered his sword, his gaze now landing on you. "Have you come to train?"

You were unable to hold back a small gasp as he addressed you so directly. Your whole body tensed up, part of you wanted to answer yet any and all words were completely tangled in your tongue. You could faintly feel Jace's hand on your shoulder yet you barely registered the touch, unable to tear your eyes away from Aemond. And he held your gaze with his unwavering one, almost challenging you to break the connection.

It felt all kinds of wrong, for this to be your reunion and first words to each other after so long, for Aemond's words and gaze to be this... cold. You weren't sure what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn't this.

You were saved by the sudden opening of the heavy doors of the gate behind you. Soldiers marched through with proud strides as they escorted Vaemond Velaryon into the castle.

Even as you turned around to watch their entrance, you could feel how Aemond's gaze didn't leave you even for a moment.

─── ⋄✧⋄ ───

A storm raged outside during your first night back in the Keep, you didn't sleep much, tossing and turning in bed and pacing around the spacious room they'd given you. Part of you almost wanted to step outside into the dark hallways of the castle and head to Aemond's room. It would be improper of you, but that's not why you did not go.

When the morrow came at last with the sun rising on the horizon of King's Landing, it was time to head into the throne room to discuss what you had come here for, the succession of Driftmark.

A small crowd of lords and ladies had already gathered in the large room, with Otto Hightower standing before the grim Iron Throne. The image of the seat of swords, being highlighted by the sunlight coming through the tall windows, would always make a shiver run down your spine.

You walked in with steady steps, sensing a few eyes land on you as you smoothed the fabric of your dress—hardly your preferred choice of attire, but Rhaenyra might just have your head if you showed up in your riding clothes. She, her sons, and your father were already here as well.

Daemon spotted you from the corner of his eyes, he squeezed Rhaenyra's hand once before stepping away from her to walk toward you.

"Father," you spoke in a low voice when he met you halfway. Over his shoulder, you caught sight of Aemond, who stood near the Iron Throne with his family; for a small moment, you held his gaze, even if you couldn't possibly read it.

"I was starting to think you wouldn't show up," Daemon raised his brows at you, a rather amused grin playing on his lips.

"Oh, you know me," you chuckled quietly, shrugging your shoulders as you continued walking to where Rhaenyra waited, "I wouldn't miss court drama for anything."

Daemon snorted, uncaring if his laugh would attract the attention of the nearby lords, "Yeah, tell me about it." He brought a hand up to rest between your shoulder blades, guiding you through the remaining steps. "It's like they look for reasons to break any resemblance of peace we might have."

You hummed at his words, biting back a laugh of your own, "Se iēdrosa, Rhaenyra ivestretan nyke ao gaomagon naejot mōris se lyks aōla gō īlen āzma." ('And yet, Rhaenyra tells me you used to raise quite the trouble yourself before I was born.')

"Kessa, sȳrī, īlen drējī tolī kirimves skori paktot zirȳ, mērī." Daemon defended halfheartedly. ('Yes, well, I was admittedly more fun than these people, at least.')

"Hen rhinka," you mumbled, stopping beside Rhaenyra and greeting her with a warm smile. ('Of course')

From the other side of the room, the one-eyed prince watched. He'd kept his eye fixed on you as soon as you stepped through the throne room doors. His hands clasped behind his back tightened their grip with each step you took. And for each of your steps, his heart beat twice as hard, heavy and hurting for an escape.

It was true that you had grown into a stunning young woman over the years; enticing curves, soft hair falling over your shoulders, freckles still dusting your cheeks and nose, delicate hands holding onto the fabric of your dress. Many gazes turned your way whenever you walked into a room, it came as no surprise to Aemond, even if it bothered him.

And yet it wasn't just that, no; he could see so far beyond, that same spark in your eyes lingered, the one he'd see each time he'd ask you to tell him the story of how you found your dragon; that same smile that was so contagious still had the same sway to it; your mere presence still made his heart race and hands itch to touch you, as it always did.

Aemond thought, perhaps wished, he would have forgotten all about you over the years. You had abandoned him, after all. You had abandoned him, maybe at a time when he needed you the most. His only friend, and you never came back.

The prince had waited, for nights and days on end, he'd stare out the windows to the horizon and past the sea, hoping with all he had that one day he'd spot the blue hue of your dragon's scales in the distance. And he knew he'd cry, and run to you, and hold you close no matter who was watching. But it never happened, you never came. And the years kept on going by, years of which he kept a close count. By year three, he decided he wouldn't feel within the right to hug you anymore. By year four, he decided he wouldn't cry anymore. By year six, he decided it would be best you didn't come back anymore.

Alas, perhaps he could have gone to you. But he hesitated, he knew he wouldn't be welcomed in Dragonstone; and after a few years went by, as much as Aemond would never admit it, he lacked the courage to go after you. In the most fragile parts of his heart, he feared you'd react as all ladies of the court did when they looked at him; with wide-eyed gazes and poorly concealed whispers about his ugly scar and 'off-putting demeanor', as they'd say.

Yet he had missed you, oh he missed you. In a way that he'd walk into every room hoping to find you there. And now, it finally happened. You came back to King's Landing, but you didn't come back for him.

Aemond watched as you walked into the room, your father meeting you halfway and guiding you to your family. The prince felt a tightness build in his throat, he tried to gulp it back, squaring his shoulders. Even after all these years, all it took was one look at you, and Aemond's resolve crumbled. All his attempts at putting you behind him were suddenly futile, if the speed at which his heart was racing was any indication.

Yesterday, when Aemond spotted you in the small crowd of the training yard, he nearly lost his balance, nearly lost the fight. Seeing you again after so long brought an onslaught of confusing feelings to his chest—one of them being petty bitterness, perhaps even betrayal, despite not having the right to feel so, for seeing you stand beside Jace and Luke so amicably—he hardly knew what to think or do; all he knew was that he was angry that you'd abandoned him. Or perhaps just hurt, but broken things tend to have sharp edges.

─── ⋄✧⋄ ───

You held back a scream as the severed head of Vaemond Velaryon fell from his body, staining the floor of the throne room with deep crimson blood. Your father had unceremoniously beheaded the Velaryon knight after he accused Rhaenyra's sons of being bastards. You watched the gruesome scene with wide eyes, goosebumps on your skin, and a hand clasped over your mouth.

"Disarm him!" Otto Hightower screamed to the guards, who readily took to their weapons and surrounded Daemon.

"No need," the Rogue Prince uttered all too calmly, cleaning the blood off the blade of his sword with the hem of his clothing. He then extended said sword to you, without bothering to look in your direction.

You hesitated for only a second before taking Dark Sister from him, and once you did so, Daemon raised both hands in surrender; yet a smug smirk still played on his lips.

You held tight onto the hilt of his sword, until your knuckles turned white, watching as the room filled with fearful whispers and terrified gazes of everyone around you. All eyes were seemingly glued to the pool of blood on the floor that only got larger by the second.

"We are done here," Viserys spoke with finality to the best of his ability, before falling back on his throne as the pain of his wounds filled his decaying body.

Slowly and hesitantly, people began leaving the room, a certain eeriness lingered in the air. From afar, you met your father's gaze, and he simply gave you a curt nod, which meant you'd be giving him his sword back in private, later. He'd told you once; "People don't usually fear women with swords, even if they should. Therein lies your advantage."

Beside the Iron Throne, a few steps away from you, Alicent ran to help her husband, Aegon followed after the guards who began removing the lifeless body, Helaena skipped to the main doors with her hands covering her ears, and Aemond... Aemond had his eye burning a hole in the back of your head.

You would be able to feel the weight of his gaze on you from a mile away, you had been feeling it since you took the first step into this room. Part of you hoped he'd have come to you already, you weren't sure what you were expecting exactly, but so far the words he'd spoken to you in the training yard had been the only ones he'd spoken at all. And you were starting to think that, if you didn't go to him, you'd remain forever far apart.

You took a deep breath to steady yourself, and then another, and one more, tapping the hilt of Dark Sister with your pointer finger until you built up the courage or until your palms grew sweaty. A sorrowful feeling still lingered deep within your chest, because this was Aemond, the same Aemond you spent nearly entire days with during your childhood, be it training together, sharing stories, or hiding away in the library. You shouldn't be feeling hesitant to face him.

It felt almost as if he had been waiting for you, because as soon as you turned around to face him, Aemond raised his chin a tad, blinking slowly as he watched you walk over to him.

All you could hear was the beating of your heart as you came to stop in front of him, holding tight onto the sword in your hands, its end resting on the floor as you kept it between you and him. "Hello... Aemond." It was the best you could do, voice still too unsure for your liking.

For a moment, Aemond seemed to be hesitating just as much as you. His eye flicked with an emotion you couldn't name, but it was quick and gone as soon as it came. "My lady."

The formality felt wrong and unwanted, like taking a thousand steps backward from what you had once been to each other. Your lips parted but you didn't quite know what to say, so for a moment, you just looked at him, at the new him. The long hair fell over his shoulders, eyepatch covering the deep scar, his perfectly straight posture, and tense shoulders. You saw then, that there was an undeniable wall between you, that Aemond had his guard up and was keeping you at a safe, far distance. It hurt, more than you had the right to feel.

"I'm- It's good to see you again," you stumbled over the words, trying a smile.

Aemond hummed, giving you an almost imperceptible nod in return. For long beats, that was all. He refused to look you in the eyes. "It's been a long time," he chose to say eventually, voice devoid of too much emotion.

Distantly, you felt the back of your eyes burn. "Seven years," you said in nothing but a whisper, as if you could only admit the unfairness of it at a certain decibel level.

"And four months," Aemond finished, his voice just a tad tighter and strained, breath running shallow as he strived to keep his face impassive.

His words took you by surprise, you couldn't help the way your lips parted and the way your heartbeat quickened. He'd kept count, too.

Aemond pursed his lips with something resembling a small pout, he glanced at you briefly as he slowly started walking towards the doors of the throne room, silently beckoning you to follow, his hands still tightly clasped behind his back.

You kept at his side, choosing your words carefully; "I hope... you've been faring well, my prince?"

A low hum came from Aemond again, "As well as a half blind man can be, yes." He stole another glance at you, feeling his heart swell at the fact you'd kept in mind to stay on his good eye's side. "I assume your time at Dragonstone has been a most joyful one?"

You caught the bite at his words then, the concealed hurt. A sigh fell past your lips, the sound of Valyrian steel against stone each time you took a step and tapped Dark Sister on the floors now becoming sharp and loud, as the room was empty, save for you and Aemond. "It was, at times, yes. But I also missed the liveliness of the Keep... on most days." I missed you, you refrained from saying.

Another hum, another beat of silence, as you neared the doors. "I hear you came on dragonback." Aemond observed.

A small smile tugged at your lips; "I did. I've always favored the skies over the seas."

If you looked at Aemond, you'd see him mimicking your soft smile for once. "On that we agree."

Once you reached the main entrance, Aemond stopped, and you had a feeling that regardless of which way you were headed, he'd be going the opposite direction.

He held his stance, chin high, shoulders tensed, hands behind his back. His breath ran shallow and shaky, however, hanging on by a thread under the weight and warmth of your presence; so close.

And you looked up at him, with big and vulnerable eyes. Part of Aemond had always admired how you had a habit of wearing your heart on your sleeve. And he was well aware that if he held your gaze much longer, he wouldn't be able to hold himself together.

"I will see you again soon then, my prince." You spoke with a tight lipped smile.

Yet what were simple words to you, brought back the memories of the last time you'd promised to see him soon, and instead left him alone for seven years. Aemond's sight grew blurry at the edges, and before you could see the tears collecting in the bottom lid of his eye, he cleared his throat and made his way around you.

You watched, with a heavy heart, as he walked away from you, one hand reaching up to his face as his steps quickened.

Your stomach dropped with a mix of guilt and longing, wondering if the distance between you had become one too big to ever be mended.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

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[lecpardd]

when a lion saunters into fire

the LION and the DRAGON

“ i don’t look like a, uh, ghost do i? ”

if you asked Corryn Lannister what he wanted, he would not speak of crowns, nor conquest, nor kingdoms. he’d tell you one thing, maybe even with a tired smile. “i want to be adored, not seen as a lion; but seen as a vulnerable cub under the mane, loved but never worshipped.” he ached to be understood, not just by his warriors, not just by his people but by love not even the Gods above could grant a man like him. a love that forgave him, and saw beyond the shadows of his glimmering armour

but if you asked Velara Valyria what she wanted, she’d smile and shake her head “i only want to be powerful, i want to be feared nor do i wish to be mourned. i want to be remembered. not die as a whisper, but as a legend.” it was imbedded into her veins to irk for power and control, the dragon in her knew what it wanted and would get it at any cost, even if those around her had to suffer and simmer. she’d etch her name into the bones of history and let the world bleed before her.

two souls carved from different truth so predestined in what they wanted, whether they would gain it alone or reign side by side.

and when they met, Corryn gave Velara what no king had dared to: devotion without fear. and in return she gave him, love without conditions, so raw that even dragons flinched when they both became one.

but fate is cruel, and nothing good every lasts in Westeros. Corryn Lannister and Velara Valyria did not die in each others arms, but in each others reflections. Velara died with her name etched into fire and faith, her people chanting her into a legend, not out of fear but love and pure admiration. and Corryn died with the power his late lover once craved, except poisoned and weakened by the longing of being forgotten.

and in the end they both died exactly the way the other had dreamt. “you will not escape me” Velara swore to Corryn “in this life or the next, my fire will find you no matter what name you wear” promising to haunt his soul and spirit as long as the Flamecrags stood.

and now Jaime Lannister starred back at Queen Florencia, the lion inside him recoiling, not in fear but in recognition, something his soul knew long before his mind could name. her violet blood gaze cuts through him like armour meeting molten steel. her lips parted, like she felt the sickening theme burning too.

“ the eyes of a lion once loved,

the soul of a dragon once betrayed ”

Velara Valyria and Corryn Lannister… had met again.

a.n: for my first post i decided to drop probably one of the most insane lores in my dr (there’s definitely more just as crazy as this) but yeah this dr is one of my favs at the moment, shifting to it was definitely not how i expected and i can’t wait for more experiences and discovering more about my past lol

[itsmeyaspider]

Under the devils eye~

Yandere Aemond Targaryen x female reader

Triggers: Yandere behaviour, manipulation, gaslighting, kidnapping

The crackling of the flames is the only noise to be heard in this godforsaken room. You can't remember how long you've been locked in this room. Has it been days, weeks or months? The room, the prince regent put you in was filled with things you used to love in your childhood. Oil paintings of long-dead queens and kings adorn the otherwise blank wall. A green, silky carpet lies on the floor, the bed where you spent your childhood, before everything escalated, still stands there as it once did. The red-black blanket embroidered with the three-headed dragon, your mother's sigil, reminds you of your family. Are they doing well? Do they know you're here? Does your mother even care about you, or are you just another figure in this brutal war?

Thoughts about your family possibly hating you, or worse, seeing you as a traitor, halls in your mind every god damn second. You wanted to end this damn war, after all, far too many good people have already died. But this naive, foolish thought brought you into this helpless situation. Now you are a prisoner of war, a valuable pawn for your uncles. All because you thought that you and your now dead dragon could save the world. What kind of fool am I?!

Your (e/c) eyes gaze into the blazing flames, it is almost like, as if the flames want to tell you a story. But you are not in the condition to perceive it. For days you have refused to eat, let alone speak a single word to your uncle. Why should you? He killed your beloved dragon, (d/n), and then captured you. It would probably have been better if you had died on that dark day, so you could have been with your beloved brother. Finally, united as siblings again. By the seven gods, you miss Lucerys so much. Your poor, little brother, killed by the man who locked you in this empty room. Is this just another game for him? Probably.

But Aemond had always been like that, you just couldn´t believe it, you should have listened to your brothers and your mother...God damn it! When you were still children, you even stood up for Aemond. Another idiotic thing you did. You were against your own brothers, just to scream at them, that they should stop harassing him. At the time, Aemond and you were inseparable. Probably because you both knew the feeling of not being seen by anyone. Constantly standing in the shadows of your brothers and sisters, never being spoken to by anyone... Yes, everything was different back then, better. Who would have thought that everything, what you used to love, shatters into thousands of pieces. It was like a beautiful glass shattering after falling to the ground.

Caught up in your own melachonic thoughts, you don't notice that a certain someone has entered the room. You are still sitting on your bed, your gaze never turning away from the flames. It is almost hypnotizing. The loud creaking of the door being closed pulls you out of your thoughts. The gentle footsteps coming slowly but surely towards you tell you that it wasn't a servant who usually brought you a meal. No, they would have imediatly left your room by now.

Your instinct told you who had entered the room, you didn't need a Maester to put one and one together. "Why? Why are you keeping me as a prisoner here, Aemond?" you sigh out, it's a wonder that you can get a word out. The Targaryen came with every step closer to you and your already fragile form. He reaches out his hand, as he roughly grabs your chin, forcing you to look him into his eye. For a moment, you thought you could see a spark of obsession reflecting in it. His thumb brushing almost careful your cheek, something what almost made you want to throw up. "Because you are meant to be mine, (Y/n)." he whispers, as he continues to speak. "If you would be a good girl for me, and be obedient, I will even let you go outside, with my supervision of course. Wouldn´t want you to escape." A small, evil smirk graces his lips, as he strokes your (h/c) hair, twirling it in his fingers.

The Targaryen gives you a little kiss on your forehead, his smile never leaving his lips. "We have been destined for each other since our childhood. You will learn to love your new life, just as you will learn to love me, (Y/n)." His words sound more like a command than a simple plead, something that shocked you even more. A cold shiver runs through your body, something that makes your whole body covered in goose bumps. "You killed my brother. I will never love you Aemond, you are a monster, nothing more than that! My mother will come and take her throne and then-" But before you can continue to speak, you feel a searing pain on your cheek. You hear the sound of a loud slap, and before you can say anything else - let alone do anything about it - the prince grabs your (h/c) hair. "Your brother was a little brat, he deserved to die. If you don´t learn to hold your tongue, I will take a knife and make sure your pretty face, won´t be that pretty anymore. Do you understand me, (Y/n)?" His voice becomes dangerous, colder, with every single word.

You had hit a sore spot, that was clear, but you didn´t know that he would react so extremly. The pain in your cheek starts to glow, everything in you wants to get away from here as quickly as possible. Even if the chances of escape were very slim, you couldn't stay here any longer. Aemond was a monster, who impris you for his own selfish desires. "I asked you if you understood me. I hate to repeat myself." You immediately nod at his raging words, not daring to say another word. After all, you didn't want to make him angrier than he already is. By the seven gods, how are you supposed to survive this? Satisfied, the prince takes a few steps back, as his eye pierces you. "Now, you´re going to be a good girl and obey...or there will be consequences."

[novaursa]

i've been reading through your blog and your stories are so enjoyable to read and suck you right into the world, and since the requests are open. 🏃‍♀️ the reader is coming to kingslanding, for her wedding to aemond. however, she is deaf, and he isn't sure how to connect with her, thinking perhaps if he should hate her because she's reflecting his own disability back to him. thinking if this marriage might even be punishment, but throughout their time together he one day sees her with vhagar, she's leaning against her feeling the dragon rumble, and she's smiling ... maybe you'd like to write something with that, don't care if you change things or what ending it gets, you can decide freely. thx !! 💗

The Silence

- Summary: Aemond viewed your betrothal to him as another punishment he must endure. But then he introduced you to Vhagar and saw how truly special you are.

- Paring: tyrell!reader/Aemond Targaryen

- Rating: Mild 13+

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

- A/N: ❤️

The sun hangs low over King’s Landing, casting shadows that stretch across the Red Keep as you arrive. The capital, bustling and vibrant, is a sharp contrast to the verdant expanse of Highgarden, your home, but you’ve been preparing for this moment. You can’t hear the raucous calls of merchants or the clamor of city life below, but you can see the way the guards at the gates watch you with curious eyes, the way servants scurry about, and the sharp looks from courtiers. All eyes are on you, the Tyrell betrothed to Prince Aemond Targaryen.

You’re led to your chambers by a lady-in-waiting who introduces herself as Taena. Her lips move quickly as she tries to make conversation, her voice lost on you. You nod and smile, following her lead, trying to hide the apprehension bubbling in your chest. The grandeur of the Red Keep feels overwhelming, each step a reminder that you’re far from home, about to marry a prince whose reputation precedes him.

Aemond, they say, is a cold, sharp-edged blade of a man, known for his intellect and ferocity. He lost his eye and gained a dragon, but not the love of the people. And now, he’s gained you—a wife he never asked for.

You haven’t met him yet. Not properly. There was the brief, formal introduction when you arrived, a stiff greeting in the throne room with his mother, Queen Alicent, and his siblings. Aemond had looked at you, his single eye icy and unreadable, his mouth a thin line of disdain. It was hard not to flinch under that gaze, to keep your chin up and meet his stare. He’d offered you his arm, and you’d taken it, the weight of his hand on yours strangely heavy, the air between you thick with unspoken words and unacknowledged fears.

He did not try to speak to you, not that day. You wondered then if he knew, if he had been told that his betrothed could not hear. Or if, perhaps, it made no difference to him. What was one more defect?

The days since have been filled with preparations for the wedding, leaving little time for you to dwell on what your life will be like here. Today, however, is different. Today, Prince Aemond has decided to spend time with you, and you sense the tension in every step as you walk beside him through the castle gardens.

His movements are clipped, precise, and there’s a hardness to him, a steel that does not bend. He speaks little, his words few and far between, his gaze never quite meeting yours. You try to follow his lips, to catch the meaning behind them, but his speech is too quick, his diction too sharp.

Frustration wells up, but you swallow it down. You’ve learned to live with silence, to read the world through other senses. He hasn’t learned to live with you yet. The thought stings more than it should.

He stops suddenly, turning to you, his eye flicking over your face as if searching for something. He gestures, a broad motion towards the distance, and you follow his hand, squinting against the sun. You can just make out the massive shape of a dragon, its wings folded, its head turned in your direction.

Vhagar.

Your breath catches in your throat. You’ve seen dragons before, from a distance, but never so close. Vhagar is ancient, her scales jaded and mottled, her presence a shadow that looms over the earth. She’s beautiful in a terrifying way, her sheer size and power awe-inspiring.

You glance at Aemond, who’s watching you intently. There’s a challenge in his gaze, a dare. He’s waiting to see you flinch, to see you tremble before the beast that even the bravest knights fear. You lift your chin, your heart pounding in your chest, and take a step forward.

Vhagar’s massive head tilts slightly, her eyes, like molten gold, narrowing as you approach. You keep your movements slow, measured, your hands out at your sides. You’ve learned that all creatures, from the smallest songbirds to the greatest dragons, respond to calm, to confidence.

You don’t know if Vhagar will understand, but you hope she will.

The ground seems to shake as you get closer, her breaths rumbling through the earth like distant thunder. You can feel the heat radiating from her scales, the sheer weight of her presence. When you’re close enough, you reach out, your fingers brushing over the rough texture of her scales. The dragon rumbles beneath your touch, the sound a deep, reverberating vibration that you can feel through your bones.

You smile, your heart soaring, and you lean in closer, resting your forehead against her side. Vhagar huffs, a sound that vibrates through your entire body, and you feel the tension that has been coiled inside you since you arrived in King’s Landing begin to loosen, to unfurl.

Aemond watches you, his expression unreadable. He had expected you to recoil, to balk at the sight of Vhagar’s sheer enormity. But you haven’t. Instead, you’ve done something he rarely sees from anyone—you’ve shown no fear, only a quiet, almost gentle strength.

His chest tightens as he observes you, your delicate form dwarfed by Vhagar’s immense bulk, your face softening into a smile as the dragon shifts, a low, contented rumble escaping her throat. He’s seen men twice your size cower before Vhagar, seen warriors blanch and turn pale. But you—this woman who cannot hear, who has been forced into a marriage with a prince who does not want her—stands before his dragon with an ease that borders on reverence.

He steps closer, his boots crunching on the gravel, and Vhagar’s eye flicks towards him. He hesitates, unsure for a moment, then reaches out to rest his hand beside yours on Vhagar’s side. You look up at him, your eyes bright, the smile still lingering on your lips.

For the first time, he’s unsure of what to say. He’s spent so long building walls around himself, using his sharp tongue and his sharper mind to keep people at bay, that he doesn’t know how to reach across the chasm that lies between you. He doesn’t know how to connect with someone who, by all rights, should be as broken as he feels.

But you aren’t broken. You’re here, standing beside his dragon, smiling up at him as if he’s something more than the scarred, half-blind prince of a family that’s falling apart.

He clears his throat, glancing away. “You’re… not afraid,” he says, his voice low. He doesn’t know if you can understand him, but he says it anyway.

You tilt your head, studying his face. Your fingers move slowly, shaping words he barely knows, but he watches intently, trying to understand. She is beautiful, you sign, the motions graceful, deliberate. She is strong.

His breath catches. He hadn’t expected that. “Yes,” he replies, his voice softer now, almost reverent. “She is.”

You smile again, a small, gentle thing, and turn back to Vhagar, stroking her scales with a tenderness that Aemond has never seen in anyone but his mother. And as he watches you, something shifts inside him, something deep and buried and aching. It’s not love, not yet, but it’s a start. An understanding, perhaps, that the woman standing beside him, who cannot hear his words but sees so much, might be more than he ever expected.

Might be exactly what he needs.

[paulyenvol6]

Devotion (Part 1)

Based on this request

Daemon x Rhaenyra x wife!reader

Thank you for this amazing request and feel free to send me whatever you would like me to write :)

Contains: angst, fighting

Wordcount: ~4.23k

Masterlist

You glared at your armour, shining ever so lovely that you could see your reflection. You saw the flames dance over the metal. The view made you sigh and you felt a melancholic feeling in your stomach, a desire that you knew you couldn't fulfill at this moment.

Quickly, you brushed with your finger over the cold metal and it brought up memories from when you had fought beside the rogue prince at the stepstones. Or when you had fought at the tournaments during the reign of Viserys with your helmet on so none of the noble woman and men could tell that it was actually a woman winning.

You craved these times, this delicious feeling of victory on your tongue. But at the same time you wouldn't change anything, you thought as you ran your hand over your swollen belly. It was Daemon Targaryen's child you were carrying and you already loved it with all your heart so of course you didn't regret letting him get you pregnant. And yet… you would give so much to return to the battle field once more, fight for your queen and wife Rhaenyra and slaying everyone who followed the usurper Aegon.

This was when your thoughts were being interrupted and the door to your chambers opened. You had sat on a chair with your head bowed to admire your armour but now you turned to see who had come. A smile appeared on your face as both your husband and wife approached you with a loving smile on their faces. Rhaenyra quickly leaned down to press a kiss on your hair and then sat down on a chair next to you while Daemon stood by your side.

"How are you, love?" he asked and caressed your shoulder.

"Good," you lied and leaned back in your chair.

"Where were you?" you then asked.

"A small council meeting. The Swanns have sworn allegiance to the usurper," your husband hissed with his jaw tightened.

That was another thing. You were wife to the queen and the prince and yet you didn't have a place at the small council. In the past you hadn't minded because you were a warrior after all and prefered the fights to the long lasting sessions in the dark chamber but right now you felt as though everything happened without you knowing and you were forced to stay out of it. You had joined this war to protect your queen. And now it was you duty to stay in your chambers? You wanted to do something, fight for Rhaenyra. But you didn't have a choice but to listen to Daemon's report on the newest matters and then in the end he contendly looked down at you and stroke the side of your head.

"You look tired, y/n. Perhaps you should get some sleep?"

But you nodded without looking at him which didn't go unnoticed by Rhaenyra.

"Something wrong?" she asked as she saw the stiffness around your mouth but you shook your head and faked a smile.

"No, everything is fine."

Although she looked a little suspicious she changed the topic and talked about finding new dragon riders for the remaining dragons in Dragonstone but you interrupted her suddenly.

"I would like to fight, my queen. I want to help win this war for you."

You didn't know why you had said it because you knew that they would both disapprove of this idea. But you couldn't help it, the words had simply stumbled out of your mouth and now they both had their eyes fixed on you. Rhaenyra's forehead had furrowed while Daemon had his eyebrows lifted.

"You know I can not allow this, my love," Rhaenyra said softly and put a hand on yours. But your lower lip trembled at her words and you fiercefully stared at the table in front of you.

"I swore to protect you, Rhaenyra. And now I'm here locked up in Dragonstone and I can only watch and listen to the reports of what happens in King's Landing. I am meant to be on the battlefield fighting for your throne."

"Y/n," the queen scoffed and you finally met her gaze. "I know. I know that you a warrior and I know you want nothing more than to fight but you're with child. It would be too dangerous for the both of you."

You were about to answer but then felt a hand on your shoulder. You turned to study Daemon's expression but to your misfortune only found worry and disapprovement.

"Rhaenyra is right. It would be riskful and irresponsible."

Your eyes got big as you pleadingly glared at the prince.

"I can look out for myself and the child. I know it. Please, I just need this. I can do more good out there than here and I know I can protect our child as well."

You had hoped to find some doubt on Daemon's face but he remained determined and shook his head.

"No, y/n. You will not leave dragonstone until after you have given birth."

His words suddenly made anger rise in you and you clenched your hands to fists.

"You are not to give me orders, Daemon," you hissed.

Sometimes he just acted as if he was the highest lord with the most authority here and at times you couldn't stand him like that. When he only said few words but sounded as though no one was to question him. As if his word was the word of the dragon. Rhaenyra had sensed your fury and put a hand on your arm.

"Y/n. It is better this way. I just don't want you to lose this child, you knew I just had to go through this as well with Visenya."

Tears welled in her eyes. "I don't want you to suffer the same way, darling. Trust me, it is better for all of us."

Your head was aching, you felt sick and you were so incredibly tired and so you just wanted to disobey them. Argue with them and not let them command you. You felt too miserable to give in and so you pouted at them.

"I can decide it for my own whether I want to take the risk or not. And I won't lose the child when I go to battle."

Rhaenyra and Daemon exchanged a brief look as they noticed your sulkiness and they both realized that this wasn't a good moment to discuss something like this. You would feel better once you had gotten some sleep and so they tried to stay calm.

"But the chances are definitely higher than if you were to reside here at dragonstone," Daemon argued and caressed your arm. You were furious and pushed his hand away.

"I don't want to reside her at Dragonstone. I want to fight. It is my purpose," you protested and your husband and wife once again exchanged a worrying look. But then Daemon's expression became hard and he lowered his head slightly so you glared at him.

"Forgive me, love, but this is an order," he said softly and yet sounded as if he didn't accept any obejction.

"You'll remain here. Both your queen and wife and your husband command it."

You were sulkly and neither felt like meeting your wife's nor your husband's eyes. You gulped loudly and then tried to fight the tears that threatened to fall to your cheeks. You wished that they would leave your chambers now because you feared you'd cry in front of them and after a few moments they actually did you the favor and walked towards the door after Daemon had studies your stubborn expression one last time.

Once they were gone you exhaled loudly and let the tears roll down your face. They were for the most part angry tears because you had hated the way Daemon and Rhaenyra had talked to you as though you were a little child who couldn't take care of herself. It made your blood in your veins throb and you felt like squeezing or hitting something. And it especially annoyed you how Rhaenyra had spoken to you as if she had any real battle experience. She didn't know anything about what it was like giving her life to fight in a war and now she wanted to lecture you about it?

Anger continued to control your senses for the rest of the evening and long after you had laid down to find some sleep you got off the bed again. Though you were so incredibly tired your mind wasn't at ease and didn't let you enter the world of your dreams so you aimlessly walked around in your room, your hand caressing your belly. You were thinking about what to do. You felt on fire, adrenaline flooding your system and you knew you wouldn't be able to fall asleep until you had done something. And so at the hour of the owl, in the darkest of night, you sneaked out of your chambers and through the dimly lit corridor.

You didn't sleep in your own chambers very often. It happened maybe one in ten nights that you spent the hours in your own room, all of the other times you slept beside Daemon or Rhaenyra and sometimes even with the both of them. But tonight it had been clear to the three of you that you didn't crave the company of your husband and wife and so there hadn't been a servant bringing you to the prince's or queen's chamber and neither had you seeked their presence.

But now you had a purpose, a plan. And though you weren't keen on spending a lot of time with her, you walked through the corridor heading to the white worm's chamber.

Mysaria, the mysterious woman with the brown seducive eyes.

You didn't particulary like her because you didn't trust her. She had switched the sides during this war too often and you had found yourself wondering whether it was a good idea to grant her hospitality at Dragonstone many times. Yet now you were grateful to be able to speak to her so you approached her chambers.

With every other person you would have waited until the morrow to talk to them rather than burst into their rooms in the middle of the night but the white worm was said to never sleep. You had once walked through the corridor of Dragonstone at 3 in the morrow because of a terrible nightmare you had had and so you had craved the company of your husband. On the way you had walked past Mysaria who had simply nodded at you and acted as if there was nothing odd about the situation.

That was why you confidently knocked at her door and actually, seconds later the white worm opened the door dressed in a night gown but she looked as awake as ever. She looked at you curiously with her head questioningly crooked to one side.

"My Princess," she whispered with her thick accent. "Is there a reason for your emergence in front of my door at such a late hour?"

You nodded. "There is."

Mysaria lifted her eyebrows and then took a step back. "Come, then."

You followed the young woman inside of her chambers. Mayhaps it was a stupid thing to do but at that moment you felt as though you didn't have a choice. The white worm was the only person who could help you with your situation because she was the only one to know her way around Dragonstone and the capital without anyone noticing. She had proven that many times in the past. She now stood by a chair, her chin high and a daring look in her eyes. You really didn't like this woman a lot.

"Mysaria. Forgive me my late disturbance but there is a matter I feel the need to discuss with you."

She didn't answer you but instead glared at you as though she was waiting for you to continue so you did after hesitating for a moment.

"As you well know, I am a warrior. I want to protect and fight for our queen and her rightful throne. But… as you might also well know, this wish has been demolished by the queen and the prince themselves. They forbade me to take part in the fighting."

Mysaria frowned and turned her head slightly. "You bear the prince's child inside your womb."

Quickly you nodded. "Yes. But I… I need the fighting and the thrill. I need to do my duty to the crown. I miss it terribly and keeps me up at night."

The white worm chewed on her lower lip which you took as a sign to keep on with your request.

"I wish to go to King's Landing. To see with my own eyes what the situation is like. And I plan to speak to the gold claoks. If we're lucky they still remain loyal to Prince Daemon and I might be able to convince them to follow me to Dragonstone."

Now Mysaria slowly turned away and walked back and forth, her hands folded behind her back.

"So you want me to help you get to the capital without the queen or the prince noticing."

You exhaled.

"That would be too much to ask and I know it is not possible for them not to notice. I merely ask you to help me leave Dragonstone and sneak me into the city. You of all people can do it."

Mysaria stopped strolling through the room and her eyes met yours.

"And why should I do it? Why should I go behind my queen's back so you can sneak into a dangerous place? What do you think Prince Daemon will do to me when you'll get harmed and he finds out that it was me who helped you with your plan?"

Of course it had occured to you that the white worm will bring this up but you had thought about it as well.

"You'll get ravens. A hundred or more. I know that your little messangers come here by boat to inform you of the news in the capital. They take long and exhausting journeys on boats but they could be so much faster if they sent you letters with by ravens."

Mysaria squeezed her eyes and looked thoughtful for a moment.

"A most tempting offer."

This didn't sound badly so you clenched your hands into fists in your nervousness and dug your nails into your palm.

"Do me this favor and I will not forget it, Mysaria. I will show my gratefulness with as many ravens as you like and my trust in you in the future."

The white worm kept you in the dark for another 2 minutes but then she finally turned to you and her eyes narrowed at you.

"Fine. I will help you, princess. I will get you into the capital. I do not approve of this either, because the queen and the prince's objection sounds reasonable but it is not mine to question the risk of your plan. I will help you get in and I will help you get out. Nothing more."

You exhaled deeply and closed your eyes in relief.

"You have my gratitude, Mysaria."

And so the deal was sealed and shortly after you left her chambers again heading to your own. Now that you had found a solution for you problem you were actually able to fall asleep and soon you were lost in your chaotic dreams.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was only 4 nights later when the white worm and you realized your plan.

Long after the queen and Daemon had fallen asleep, Mysaria gently knocked at your door to communicate with you that it was time to sneak out of Dragonstone. Swiftly you wrapped yourself tightly in the long grey cloak that had magically appeared in your chambers earlier that day and covered your face with the hood. Mysaria welcomed you equally hidden in a dark purple cape and quietly gestured you to follow her.

And so you did, you walked closely behind her through the empty corridor and wondered why it was empty but simply thought it was the making of the white worm. You didn't question her ways, all you cared about was that she did her part and brought you to the capital.

And then the two of you left the castle and you found yourself holding your hood above your head because otherwise the strong wind would have blown it away. You walked down to the beach behind Mysaria and wondered what would happen once Rhaenyra or Daemon noticed your absence. They would surely have every person at Dragonstone questioned and you could only hope that the white worm would protect her. Well, it didn't matter anyway because you already knew that this would have consequences for you. You had disobeyed the two of them and their anger would await you when you would come back. But at this moment that wasn't your priority. Now you wanted to help your queen and mayhaps it would make them more merciful with their punishment.

Mysaria led you to a boad that peacefully dangled in the shallow waters. Once the two of you sat inside she took the two oars and began to steer the boat away from the beach and out into the dark, dangerous-looking expanse. You only heard the water that hit the wooden boat every now and then and the wind blowing in your face and leaving a swoosh in your ear.

The gods were gracious because you managed to make the journey within two days and two nights. You arrived at the dock of King's Landing in the evening which turned out to be your advantage. There was much less hustle and bustle at the bay and additionally you knew that you could directly head to the city to take action.

But the white worm obviously didn't berthed at the dock. She steered the boat to a cliff face on the southside of King's Landing. At first you thought the woman had betrayed you and meant to slaughter you here where no one could hear you, but then you noticed a hole in the rock that was elegantly hidden behind another rock and would be big enough to work as an entrance.

You were in awe as you left the boat, shook your numb and crampy legs and followed Mysaria. Now that you had entered the city so easily it was only a matter of minutes until you suddenly found yourself in the midst of an old basement with rats and spiders creeping up the walls. You didn't know how you had come here, where all these passenges beneath the surface had led you but didn't ask neither. The white worm just grabbed your arm tightly and pointed to a staircase.

"These stairs will lead you up to the street of silk. Do what you think is your duty but be sure to be back in two nights before the dawn. We have to start our journey back before the sun rises. Otherwise it will be too dangerous to leave the city unnoticed."

You nodded and adjusted the hood above your head.

"I understand. Thank you."

Mysaria bowed her head and then disappeared into the darkness as a shadow who melted with the stoney walls.

Your only direction now was upwards and into the night life of King's Landing so you walked up the stairs until you found yourself in front of a wooden door. You had to use all of your strength and lean against it but then managed to open it and stepped into a room that looked equally run down and deserted and you once again wondered what a mysterious person Mysaria was. What was this place and how did she know about it? There was a stuffed boar hanging on a wall which scared you a little so you quickly passed it and walked to the door.

Once you opened it and left the mysterious house, you were flooded with expressions, so many that you held your breath for a second.

You heard music and singers who sang their ballads from so many directions that everything melted into a chaos in your ears and you couldn't understand a word. There were fools and acrobats who showed their skills among the clear night sky and people were cheering and throwing their coins at them. Drunk men were howling and clamoring, whores stood tightly by the wall eyeing the crowds for customers and two men to your right were involved in a fight which was ended when the redhead smashed a bottle against his opponent's head. Between all these people ran little children, some because they were in a hurry and carried out orders from their fathers or lords they served and some simply to play with their friends.

It was an overwhelming scene and because you had hardely seen anything but the tall walls in your chambers at dragonstone the past weeks it was a lot for you take in and you unconsciously smiled. But quickly you collected yourself again because you had a strict schedule and so hasted through the busy streets.

Your eyes danced over all the different people walking around, some running, some strolling and then you saw what you had looked for. A tall man with blond long hair and – a gold cloak. He had searchingly watched the men and women snattering and laughing to spot any sort of crime or injustice when his gaze fell upon you.

"I need to see Djaren. Now."

The man shut his eyes and looked down at you as though you were a rat or another kind of vermin.

"What is your business with Djaren?" he growled which sent shivers down your spine. If he were to recognize you and not remain loyal to Daemon he could kill you in an instant. You weren't armed after all.

"It is urgent. He will understand."

The man laughed and smirked crookedly. "You're a bratty little thing. What do you want from him?"

You gulped loudly. You didn't know this man so was probably relatively new to the city watch.

"I wish to discuss it with him and not with you."

He remained silent for a few moments and then intended to speak again when suddenly someone approached the both of you.

"Gevor," a man shouted and you couldn't believe your luck. Your heart was beating fast when you recognized the familiar blue eyes and his sharp chin. You knew Djaren from your time when you had fought at tourneys and trained with knights of the king's guard.

Djaren widened his eyes when he saw your face under the hood and swiftly approached you.

"My lady. What – Why… You shouldn't be here."

He grabbed your upper arm and the other gold cloak frowned.

"Who is this, Djaren?"

But he was too stunned to speak and instead led you to the wall so you were better protected from sight of a group of drunk people only a few feet away.

"I've come here to talk to you and I know it is dangerous but we need you. I know that you're a good man, Djaren. And so does Prince Daemon. We need the force of the city watch."

The man scoffed and shook his head. "It is not that simple, my lady."

"I know. But you swore an oath to Daemon. You pleadged him your loyalty. Right now you are protecting this city in the name of an usurper. Give your swords to the queen and fight for the right side."

Djaren sighed deeply and walked back and forth in front of you.

"It wasn't easy, you know? All of these men… They really respected Prince Daemon. But when Aegon was crowned everything happened so quickly and now he sits the throne and I-I just went with it. I don't like it of course. But we didn't have a choice."

You stepped towards him and determindely glared at him.

"You do now. Gather your men and come to Dragonstone. You'll have the hospitality and mercy of the queen Rhaenyra. If you swear your loyalty to her."

"I'm sorry, my lady but I can't do that."

You raised your chin with a stiff lip. "Why?"

"Because I can't just tell my men to leave the city. It will be dangerous and some might not follow me but riot against me."

You scoffed. "Then you will show them what made you their leader."

Djaren remained silent and his eyes studied your face. Then in the end he exhaled loudly.

"Fine. We will follow our commander's order and come with you. Daemon has formed and trained this watch and we didn't forget. Before him we were nothing but a group of savages who rather fought each other than defending this city."

A warm feeling spread throughout your body and your eyes softened.

"The crown appreciates this, Djaren."

The man chuckled lightly. "Does it? Does the crown even know you're here?"

You chewed on your lower lip and Djaren raised his eyebrows.

"Well, it doesn't matter. I will gather my men soon and we will come to Dragonstone to fight in the queen's service. You have my word, my lady. This is something I should've done weeks ago."

[normatural]

Echoes of Souls | A.T

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

Summary: In the old, abandoned castle, she found a love letter addressed to her, written by someone who died a century ago.

Word Count: 1.121

A/N: Feedback is always welcome. English isn't my first language so excuse any mistakes but feel free to point them out to help me improve.

Chapter 1: Echoes of a Forgotten Past

The old castle stood quiet and forgotten on the outskirts of King’s Landing, its once-glorious exterior now a ghostly relic of the past. Long vines of ivy climbed its weathered walls, making it appear almost as if nature had attempted to reclaim the abandoned structure. Shutters banged against cracked windows, held only by rusty, old hinges, while the wind whistled mournfully through the broken panes. Even the birds seemed to shun the place, their songs the only absence in an otherwise haunted landscape.

It was this eerie, magnetic pull that had drawn you here—a sense of familiarity combined with an insatiable curiosity for between all the projects the company allowed you to choose, this was the one that stood out for you. As you walked through the creaky front doors into the sprawling foyer, you were struck by the imposing architecture, which still held a sliver of its former grandeur. Your footsteps echoed softly against the hardwood floor as you moved through the house, your fingers lightly grazing the banister of the grand staircase.

A sense of déjà vu washed over you. You paused, trying to pinpoint the origin of this haunting familiarity. Why did every corridor, every room, seem like it held a secret, a memory just out of reach? It was as if you had been here before in another life, another time. But that was impossible—or was it?

As night fell, the castle’s eerie charm only deepened. You made your way back to the trailer with the delivery you had ordered. The moonlight casts silver shadows through the window. Exhaustion soon claimed you after dinner, and you drifted into a deep, dream-filled sleep.

In your dream, the world was different—brighter, more vibrant. Standing on the verdant grounds of the palace, it was no longer an abandoned relic. It was alive, bustling with people, laughter, and the roar of dragons. The skies above were filled with the majestic creatures, their wings casting shadows on the cobblestone pathways below.

You looked down at yourself, your attire reflecting a time long past. Rich fabrics and intricate embroidery adorned your gown, and your hair seemed to be styled in the fashion of nobility. Heart swelled with emotions you couldn’t explain as you walked through the manicured gardens of the castle, the very same one that looked like a dried jungle just moments ago. Everything feels uncannily familiar.

Suddenly, you felt a pang in your heart. A strange vibration in your chest. And then saw him. Your breath caught as you took in the sight of him. His tall, statuesque form was cloaked in regal hues, the fabric of his attire moving subtly with each of his graceful movements. He reached out to touch a blossom, his long fingers brushing the petals with unexpected tenderness, and in that moment, you felt as though she was witnessing a secret part of his soul.

His face, chiseled and strong, held a serene intensity. The angles of his jaw and the line of his nose were softened by the play of light and shadow, creating a portrait that was both striking and ethereal. But it was his eyes that truly made you hold your breath. Piercing violet, it seemed to see right through the world and into the very essence of things. When his gaze shifted and met yours, you felt an electric thrill course through your veins, as if his eyes held the power to unravel your very being.

Slowly, a rare, faint smile touched his lips, transforming his face with a warmth that contrasted beautifully with his otherwise austere demeanor. The sight of that smile, so fleeting yet so profound, made your heart ache with an inexplicable longing.

Something inside you is alarming that the man standing a few meters from you is the very same from the letter whose words haven’t left your mind. Aemond Targaryen.

His silver hair glinted in the sunlight, and his piercing violet eye, filled with a depth of emotion you instantly recognized, locked onto you. He approached with a look of tender resolve, his footsteps confident and deliberate.

“Vaela,” he called you, a name from your past life that felt both foreign and intimate. Familiar. “I was waiting for you. Walk with me.”

You nodded, heart fluttering with a mixture of excitement and calm, and took his offered arm. Something inside you told you to stop staring but how could you avert your eyes from his figure when it was making your heart beat so fast? You strolled through the garden, the scent of blooming roses enveloping you, the sound of dragon wings beating in sync with your heartbeat.

“I have something important to ask you,” Aemond began, his voice steady yet soft. He led you to a secluded alcove where the garden’s flowers seemed to bloom more brightly. He turned to face you, taking both your hands in his. “I have loved you from the moment we met. In you, I found my heart’s true desire, a soul that mirrors my own. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Tears welled up in your eyes, the emotions flooding through you from both the past and present. Why was your heart-warming so abruptly at his words? Why did they sound so familiar? How the answer seemed to wish to jump out of your lips so quickly. Aemond was strange after all. Perhaps something is created just in your mind. But it couldn’t be, could it?

“Yes, Aemond,” you whispered, your voice trembling with joy. “I will.”

His smile, rare and sincere, was a sight that imprinted itself deeply into your memory. Wishing you could see it again. He lifted one of your hands to his lips, your knuckles being touched so softly and yet intimately by them as his violet eye seemed to stare deep into yours.

You awoke with a start, the remnants of the dream lingering in your mind like the last notes of a haunting melody. You could still smell the scent of the flowers. Feel the touch of his lips on your skin. You realized in that moment that your journey here was no accident. The castle, the dreams, Aemond—they were pieces of a puzzle you were destined to uncover. Meant to find.

Clutching the blanket tighter around you, you knew the first light of day would bring with it a new resolve. You would unravel the past, discover the hidden secrets of this place, and understand why destiny had led you here. There ought to be answers somewhere in those walls. It was not just an abandoned relic; it was a bridge to your past, a testament to a love that had defied time itself.

+

taglist: @donut-seam @strangersunghoon @teasweeter @darktrashsoulbear

[gffa]

Do you have any Sith!Obi-Wan fics you can recommend? 🙏

Hi! You can do a search for Sith Obi-Wan in my bookmarks which brings up several or you can start with the novel-length ones that still live rent-free in my head even years after I've read them: Equinox by lilyconrad, obi-wan/anakin, NSFW, 95.9k During the Clone Wars, Obi-Wan and Anakin crash on a remote planet and take shelter in the ruins of a grand estate only to find they are not alone. This fic was written for me, so I'm biased, but it's genuinely my favorite for the trope because Lily put all this thought into the undercurrents going on between the characters, because it gives such care about why any version of Obi-Wan would fall to the dark and what he would be like, because each chapter had moments of foreshadowing and care given to lush, beautiful descriptions and the creeping dread of the place. It's a gorgeous fic and I think even if someone doesn't usually like Sith versions of the characters, the way this one does it (created reflections, not that our characters are falling, so it's scratching the itch of how it's an extension of our characters, but our characters are not on that exact path), I would gently suggest this one.

Lex Talionis by intermundia, obi-wan/anakin & cast, NSFW, 187.1k Or, how Obi-Wan and Anakin fell to the dark side, obtained their revenge, and saved the galaxy in the process. My other favorite Sith Obi-Wan fic, this one is about how these characters fall to the dark, and the author takes his time with how it happens step by step, but also how these massive, galaxy-spanning changes happen, how it's a combination of how sexy the dark side can be but also how awful it can be, how much pain and hurt it can cause. There's so much care and effort put into this story, it spans such a huge story, that it's one of those fics I want to physically print out in special binding because it deserves to be a pretty set on my bookshelf.

wicked thing by imaginarykat, obi-wan/anakin & cast, NSFW, 124.2k the story of how Anakin exists in a perpetual state of intense embarrassment, Kenobi is enjoying it a little too much, and everything is, generally speaking, a gigantic mess. This is an AU where Obi-Wan never trained Anakin and is already a Sith when we meet him, and there's a reason it's one of the most famous fics in the fandom, because it is the most charismatic thing I've just about ever read, the sheer amount of dark side sexy charm coming off Obi-Wan is incredible, the tension between him and Anakin is delicious, and the writing/plotting of the storyline is superb. I could not put this fic down when I read it, there's a reason this fic helped really popularize the trope, because it's just so goddamned addicting and glorious to read.

Soldier, Poet, King by Glare, obi-wan/anakin & cast, NSFW, time travel, 106.4k wip Second chances are very rarely given, but the Force smiles upon two of its favorite children and returns them to a time before their actions have met their consequences. Anakin Skywalker, also known as Darth Vader, seeks redemption while Obi-Wan “Ben” Kenobi, disillusioned with the Jedi Order and its Code, falls to the Darkness. Trapped out of time, Master and Apprentice must once again work together to stop Sideous’ plans from reaching fruition and bring Balance to the Force—all the while dodging the Jedi, the Sith, and their feelings for each other. I think this might even have been the first Sith!Obi-Wan fic that I read and I know it remains dear to me because I reread it a year or two ago and got sucked in just as hard as before. Obi-Wan is dropped back into his younger body, feels like the whole thing is a bunch of bullshit, gets sucked into dark thoughts, and just goes full dark side dom on Anakin and fixing the galaxy through machinations and foreknowledge. It's so fun and it does such great service to Anakin's level of power, that this guy is an absolute dragon in the Force, but that he also very much wants Obi-Wan's hand on the back of his neck to force him to kneel to the one person he loves. Hnngggg, it really cemented me as a fan of this trope because of how well it scratches the sexy dark side dom/sub while they're both badass dynamic, I love it so much.

I'm still making my way through a lot of Star Wars fic, so if anyone has any more recs, feel free to jump in, especially if you have some gen ones, since I mostly read pairing fic for Sith!Obi-Wan (because I'm personally after the sexy dom/sub dynamic with it)!

[stressed-and-queer]

My creative writing teacher had this exercise where we would just write what came to our minds. Found this in my drafts and did exactly that. Enjoy

Arthur can't pinpoint the exact moment when gold became his favourite colour. If he had to guess, he'd say it was the first time he had seen Merlin do magic without fear in his heart. Finding out Merlin was a sorcerer was…a lot to say the least. In that moment he had felt many things. Confusion and denial being the first, for he couldn't believe his Merlin could ever be a sorcerer. Ever since Arthur could remember his father had instilled in him that any form of magic was the epitomy of evil and, by default, so was anyone who used magic. All his life he was led to believe the use of magic would be the downfall of the kingdom, that anyone who uses it is pure evil. But, try as he might, anytime he looked at Merlin, he didn't see a shred of evil and that confused him to no end.

Maybe it was because he had come to know him as a bumbling baboon. His clumsy man servant who did the weirdest things. Like look for woodworm. Maybe if was because in all his years knowing Merlin, he had seen nothing but a kind man who had most of the castle in his sleeve. A loyal man who had fought a dragon with him when no one else would. A man who had proved over and over again since he had first saved him that he would do it again. The man who had drank poison for him.

That was supposed to be evil?

That was supposed to be a sorcerer.

No.

The world's greatest sorcerer? Magic itself?

Which begged another question. If Merlin was the embodiment of magic, then didn't that mean he represented magic itself? That was both comforting and not to Arthur. Because on one hand, he knew Merlin. At least, he thought he did. That man did not have an evil bone in his body. But on the other, if he was the embodiment of magic, the representation of magic....what about all the people who had made an attempt on his life.

An attempt he had learned Merlin had stopped every time.

And as Arthur looked at Merlin, who was currently sat on the ground with a little girl. His eyes casted that beautiful golden hue he loved so much, his hand hovered over the ground as a rose magically grew underneath it, Arthur had made his decision.

Magic was not evil. Not completely anyway. Not if Merlin had it. And Merlin would've probably been the only exception.

But still it was hard to say thatbhis father had been wrong. But he knew he must as he pulled a paper out of his desk. Dropped his quill in the black ink and started on his proposition to unban magic. His eyes glancing over at Merlin every once in a while.

Merlin was the only one currently allowed to do magic. And try as he might, he couldn't keep his best friend locked in a cell. He had unlocked the door, unable to look Merlin in the eyes. And yet the man stayed. Loyal to a fault but dumb as rocks in that moment. And so he let him wonder, having good faith Merlin would not go anywhere.

And Merlin had been bold. Using magic in front of Arthur and others. And Arthur had gotten used to it. Used to seeing the sun in Merlins eyes. Every time he did magic. Like light reflecting off of a coin. And he doesn't know when he began to enjoy it. He doesn't know when he became unafraid.

He knew it would be a long journey before Camelt came to accept magic like he had. He was still struggling to tell the truth. But in his heart he could not bring himself to kill any more people. To execute people who may be just as good as Merlin is. People Merlin didn't even know, yet cared about.

And Arthur couldn't help but muse that that's what a true king is after all. A reminder in the back of his head that Merlin was technically magical royalty. King of the druids. And he began to wonder how important an alliance would be between his kingdom and the druids. The best way to do that would be through marriage. And Arthur didn't want to admit he didn't hate the idea. He would be marrying his best friend after all. He would he able to see gold anytime he wished.

Eventually he would come to ask this of Merlin. And eventually Merlin would say yes. For alliance sake after all.

So in conclusion, yes. Gold was Arthur's favorite color. And in conclusion, it was utterly and completely because of Merlin.

[kedsandtubesocks]

this high of you & me

Lucien De Leon x F!Reader

summary: Lucien De Leon is your weed dealer and you think that’s about it

warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI. dealer!Lucien AU, drug use and discussion, shotgunning, sweet giggly moments, mentions of unspecified age gap (reader’s age is not mentioned but Lucien is older) reader and Lucien under the influence but he’s still a consent king, one use of ‘good girl,’ light making out

word count: 1.4k

a/n: I wrote this in a possessed fever after that clip & I know this might not reflect his personality once the movie comes out but I just had to I’m sorry, thank you to @lowlights & @tightjeansjavi for letting me scream about this and if you decide to read this - know I’m thanking you a million times

His house is an eclectic mess.

There’s a framed photo of Gustav Klmit’s ‘The Kiss’ beside a black light poster of a tiger. His awful leather black couch screams of a bachelor refusing to grow up.

“All I have to drink is bad tap water, ginger ale, or a mini grey goose sample.” Lucien yells from his kitchen.

“Uh, the ginger ale is fine.” You answer back.

This is the first time you’ve ever been alone with him.

Normally you’ve only experienced him with your best friend and his boyfriend. They’re the ones, through a friend of a friend, who introduced you to Lucien.

That’s how he became your dealer.

Now as you try to seem busy, you scan the book shelves in his living room.

There are many things that catch your eye -

The Alchemist by Paulo Coehlo, a very abstract but suggestively sexual mini sculpture of two beings entangled in a type of wave like motion, a clear quartz crystal and a cute elephant figurine.

The man known as Lucien De Leon is no short close to a chaotic puff of smoke you think you’re never meant to catch.

Behind you, you hear him rearranging things on his coffee table.

“You gonna joint me, or not?”

His pun makes you snort.

On the glass coffee table sits your drink among a cluttered collection of things.

“You asked for the usual right?” He mutters preparing everything like someone out a check out counter.

“Yeah, but I can go after you give me the- ”

“No, no it’s all good.” He reassures quickly, cutting you off. “I got nothing planned and company is always nice.”

He packages up the weed in the typical baggies he uses. This time they're holographic blue, almost matching his charming but strange vibes in a strange way.

“What happened to the dragon ball z themed bags you had?” You ask jokingly.

“Ran out.” He pouts and you grin.

After separating and packing up everything, he moves to start grinding the weed. Then with a click on his remote his stereo flows to life.

Frank Ocean’s ‘Pink + White’ begins playing and illuminates the room.

Small talk comes. Lucien asks about how work is going, any new shows you’ve gotten into.

He’s charming, like a bizzare off highway tourist attraction you can’t seem to leave.

“No need to sit on the floor. Come on. Spots open right here.” Lucien grins patting the couch beside him.

“Your couch is a pain, hate how it sticks to me.” You reply with a scrunch up face.

“Maybe I want you to keep sticking to it?” He offers light and you roll your eyes.

Being a notorious flirt, you try not to fall under his sweet words spell.

You’re about to make a quip back until you see him yank out a fuzzy blanket and spread it across the couch.

“What a gentleman.” You dryly smirk and Lucien shrugs.

But you rise up to sit besides him, close but not comfortably so.

“How much extra is this gonna cost me hm?” You muse watching him pack the bowl.

“Don’t you know the old saying, pretty babes don’t pay?” Lucien remarks so effortlessly.

Your throat gets a bit dry and you’re thankful for the ginger ale wetting your lips.

The lovely glass pipe, swirled with so many unique colors like the silk button up shirts Lucien wears, is handed to you.

“You first.” Lucien grins.

He even lights it for you, a modern day chivalrous knight in his own fucked up unique way.

The first inhale is always a favorite of yours. The smoke fills you, tickles your senses. But you can’t help but cough a bit.

“That’s the good stuff, huh baby?”

The phrasing and how smug his voice purrs out is dangerous.

“It’s one of the new strands I’ve been wanting to try. S’called ‘girl scout cookie.’ Pretty sweet name huh? But kinda makes me wish I could eat some right about now, ya know.” Lucien rambles as you hand the pipe back to him.

You at least appreciate how talkative and alluring he is. Between passing the pipe back and forth to him, you’re pulled into discussions about aliens, music and then, YouTube videos.

“No,” you giggle. “You gotta see this one.”

“If it’s another sad cat video I’m gonna cry and kick you out.” He pouts and you’re overcome with the urge to lean forward and kiss the furrow in between his brows.

You can’t deny how handsome he is. Like, ridiculously so. You know he’s older but there’s a youthfulness to him that’s reassuring. Like his spirit will always stay free. But you know that also seems dangerous after hearing about the list of exes he had from your best friend’s friend.

So very cautiously you tread into this new territory, whatever it is.

You lean closer, hold your phone up and show him your favorite go to funny video.

You can’t even stop the giggles. You wanna blame the weed, but it’s so hard not to laugh even without it. You’re overcome with glee and lean against Lucien’s shoulder. His shoulders shake and you hear the most adorable twinkling giggle.

He’s laughing.

“See!” You urge. “Told you it’s funny!”

“It’s not that! It’s you! You’re making me laugh.” He wheezes out and your heart flutters.

“Then I’ll stop laughing so you can stop laughing and watch!” You reply back determined.

So pressing your lips together, you rewind the video. You and him stay silent. Or you try to. Your lips twitch so terrible wanting to break.

Then Lucien’s shoulders shake again. In seconds you’re both busting out laughing. Your poor phone is forgotten.

This time he howls with an infectious joy and you feel it in your gut, in your bones.

“You weren’t supposed to laugh!” You chide him through the giggles.

“You weren’t either!” He cackles.

You realize you’re practically draped against him, and Lucien even fully leans back into you.

The smoke, the drug, coats everything in a smokey soft haze and with the high creeping its way into your mind, a molteness seeps into you

Lucien smells so good too, clean, cozy, but also like a cologne you wish you could pinpoint.

“Thanks, it’s dolce and gabbana.” Lucien replies.

Your face ignites in flames realizing you must have spoken your thoughts out loud.

You’re about to scramble out from this mess when you peer up and find Lucien staring. His earth soil eyes, softly dusted with a rosy color, hazily watch you.

“Y’smell good too.” He mumbles back.

“Thanks, it’s my fabric softener.” You tell him.

Lucien busts out laughing, a bright firework of a thing and you once again get caught up in how wildly warm he is.

Shaking his head he shifts to grab the pipe.

But his hand slides to rest against your thigh, like it’s a small way of saying don’t move, don’t leave.

And you don’t.

“You wanna try something fun?” He offers.

“Sure.” You don’t know what you might have just agreed too.

Lucien maneuvers, slides his large warm hand to your face and your heart stops. He tilts your head towards him and his thumb softly rubs against you.

“You trust me?”

The soft lull of Frank Ocean continues playing in the background softening this world around you.

You don’t even know if this man has a middle name or not, but you know him enough, or mainly, find yourself wanting to melt more into him.

So you nod quietly.

“Good girl, just keep your mouth open.”

That line takes your breath away.

You have an idea of what’s coming, but even with that, you crumble.

Lucien inhales from the pipe, filling his mouth with smoke. In a blur he moves. It’s like you blink and he’s all around you.

His hand on your face, his body pressed up flush against you and then, his face slowly moving towards you.

With his lips open, he breathes the smoke into your waiting mouth and your eyes shut in bliss. His lips graze against yours, a tease.

You inhale on instinct. Yet your hands move on their own, possessed, to run against his warm broad chest.

Once the smoke is in your mouth and you hold it in, allowing this mixture of the smoke and him to consume you. You also don’t miss the way Lucien himself breathes out.

Then before you can close your mouth, he lets his tongue gently swipe at your top lip, a kitten-like lick.

But it’s divine.

When a soft whine escapes you, Lucien effortlessly dives in to kiss you, cradling your face and steals your breath away again.

Making out with your dealer could probably be one of the dumbest decisions ever. But he’s a unique high of his own, one making you so dizzy, but you think you don't want it to end just yet.

So you melt into this smoke and into him.

And it’s otherworldly bliss.

[naetaesarya]

Mothering monsters

I'm not sure if this means anything but I was thinking about how, in ADWD, Dany reflects:

Mother of dragons, Daenerys thought. Mother of monsters. What have I unleashed upon the world? A queen I am, but my throne is made of burned bones, and it rests on quicksand. Without dragons, how could she hope to hold Meereen, much less win back Westeros? I am the blood of the dragon, she thought. If they are monsters, so am I.

ADWD, Dany II

And then there's Val, the girl who Jon is crushing on, and she acts as a surrogate mother to Gilly's baby whom [Val] names 'Monster':

[Jon] "I have heard you singing to him." [Val] "I was singing to myself. Am I to blame if he listens?" A faint smile brushed her lips. "It makes him laugh. Oh, very well. He is a sweet little monster." "Monster?" "His milk name. I had to call him something. See that he stays safe and warm. For his mother's sake, and mine. And keep him away from the red woman. She knows who he is. She sees things in her fires." "Kings and dragons." Dragons again. For a moment Jon could almost see them too, coiling in the night, their dark wings outlined against a sea of flame. "If she knew, she would have taken the boy away from us. Dalla's boy, not your monster. A word in the king's ear would have been the end of it." And of me. Stannis would have taken it for treason. "Why let it happen if she knew?"

ADWD, Jon VIII And who knows what Jon is returning as himself? What is he? Fire wight, he's already a warg, he could be walking the planes of Planetos as a resurrected human, a zombie, the Others...

"Can they talk?" asked Jon Snow. "I think not, but I cannot claim to know. Monsters they may be, but they were men before they died. How much remains? The one I slew was intent on killing Lord Commander Mormont. Plainly it remembered who he was and where to find him." Maester Aemon would have grasped his purpose, Jon did not doubt; Sam Tarly would have been terrified, but he would have understood as well. "My lord father used to tell me that a man must know his enemies. We understand little of the wights and less about the Others. We need to learn."

ADWD, Jon VIII I am high

[beautifulterriblequeen]

Wait you wrote some of the Dragon Prince's Reflections short stories? That's awesome, congratulations! What was that like and how much lore did the showrunners give you access to, or were you allowed to make your own additions to canon? 😃 Which ones did you work on if I can ask? Thanks!

Oop, this question came in while I was answering another one! I just went over which Reflections stories were my work here! tldr, most of the first volume and one in the second volume.

I worked with Devon on ideas to pitch, and then on crafting and polishing the ones that got approval. I only needed to know a little bit of lore from upcoming seasons in order to write the stories, but with the timeskip between S3 and S4, I necessarily had to know a few things, like "so it's been two years."

I did get a couple of references to look at, such as the design of the soul candle for "The Queen's Soul," since that was an asset they'd already created for the show. And I did get to watch an early version of the first episode of S4, for character/design/location/etc reasons. A picture is worth 1000 words, etc. But most of my stories were just little bubbles stuck on the side of the main plot bubble - as the Reflections series was originally pitched to be! It's full of treats and foreshadowy lil clues, but in the end it's just fun supplemental material for the extra nerdy to indulge in! So there was some freedom in pitching and writing, as long as it held to theme, and we had a lot of fun bringing these little moments to life.

Crackledrake is my favorite short story because I got to add the cute little ritual to Sunfire canon and created the lore behind it. It's inspired by the real-world tradition of snapdragon, so you can see I was super inventive with its TDP name there! I gave Janai and Amaya their own Xadian fruits and nuts, though, as they deserve. I can't say I did so with a straight face, though. My face was extremely gay about it, actually.

Rise Again was another of my pitches that got accepted, and writing it really helped me connect with Claudia in a way I hadn't before. I've felt differently about her ever since, and that wouldn't've happened if I hadn't gotten to spend time with her and give her Burnt Biscuit.

I think Changing of the Guard was already in the pitch lineup, but I was really excited to get to write for Soren and Corvus. I always enjoy when opposite personalities try to come together! I tried my best to add some angst into Corvus' backstory, but I had to trim it for length so he remains mysterious. But King Ezran's Belly Full of Jelly tart-eating contest is a thing I've put into the world, and I'm genuinely pleased with that. And then there's all the *waves Sorvus flag*. I just think they're neat! (and you're welcome)