#Deliberately NOT tagging the dragon...

[thegodthief]

Catching up on old podcasts, only to hear @traegorn say...

"... if the magic described in [the witch trials] was real, Sec would already be a dragon!"

WELP.

(From @breelandwalker's Hex Positive, Ep 36 "Margaret Effing Murray with Trae Dorn")

[elysiadragonart]

[corvidexoskeleton]

Obsessed with the idea that emmrich's actual formalwear for fancy or special occasions would be more casual and less meticulously put together than what he wears in his day to day. You get used to his normal everyday attire covering him from the neck down, but then he rocks up to the non-academically-focused mourn watch soiree in a loose-fitting shirt unbuttoned to just below the collarbone and a few locks of hair tastefully draped over his face. The red glove has been left at home.

[strawberry-halla]

guys i can’t help but believe that the reason the elves of dragon age had a design change in 2 was because the devs and writers were trying to tell us that the elves look like that because of the fact the first elves designed their bodies.

they carved their own flesh. of course they aren’t going to look like humans with pointed ears like every other fantasy game. because there’s actual world-building beyond “these are the fantasy races in every genre so we have to include them.”

i am so emo that they reverted the design change. it makes so much sense now. there’s a reason why i always kept it in the designs of my elf characters! bc it fucking rules!

and i would go into further detail but my brain isn’t stringing together the thoughts how i want them to. just know that im pretty sure it was a deliberate change that we just didn’t accept at the time of da2’s release because WE WEREN’T THERE YET in the story.

bring back da2 elf designs bioware please please pleaaaase! i will give u all a piece of candy as payment!!!

[baronvontribble]

paint and paint and paint. i'm trying to get better at colors and shading and whatnot and the BG3 fic plot brainworms are back in full force to fuel that practice

do i care that none of it would make a lick of sense to non-readers? no. you get the OC brainrot in full force

[invinciblerodent]

I was originally piggybacking off another post, but with just how long this rant got, I feel like I don't want to burden OP with it, but it bears for me to repeat it yet again- at least once more, until I stop coming across so many takes that fall exactly into this trap.

One of the central features and core themes of the Dragon Age franchise (which I think is a very clever way of approaching a series that encompasses such a long time, both in a real-world sense and within its fiction), is that people are imperfect, and eyewitness accounts are unreliable.

Ambiguity has always been a feature, not a bug: every event (except for what we see with our own eyes, which is informed by our own character's perspective- that's the very premise of Origins) is told to us by someone with a (conscious or unconscious) agenda, or an imperfect memory, or is filtered through centuries of imperfect accounts littered by a series of paradigms that stem from people's own backgrounds and upbringings, or all of those things at the same time. Even the codex entries are canonically all written by someone in-fiction, and that gives the writers a lot of purposeful wiggle room with the facts of the setting's history.

As a very good example that illustrates exactly this (one that's a bit more easy to observe throughout the series than ancient elven history) is "contemporary" Tevinter: Which is a story roughly about how a debate, allegedly over Andraste (a woman who may or may not have existed, and maybe was either a prophet, or a liar, or a general, or a mage, or possessed, or a spirit, or had or didn't have visions from the Fade or the Maker) (who btw also may or may not exist; with fact pointing towards “may not”), and Maferath (who may or may not have betrayed her) and Hessarian (who may or may not have shown her mercy) caused (through a long succession of convoluted and vaguely connected events) a Chantry schism, and a clear and volatile split between the North and the South of the continent.

Over time, the animosity that to this day exists between the North and South of Thedas turned into a very clear-cut, harsh split, which then informed, among others, the perceptions of Ferdinand Genitivi (a respected scholar, but a Fereldan man, and a laybrother of the Southern Chantry at that), resulting in him writing literally the most cited and most widely read publication until "Hard in Hightown" overtook it: "In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar".

In that book, which is quoted dozens of times in the series, all over the South (which is where we've been all this time), he wrote that Minrathous is “buried in the layers of filth that the Imperium's decadence has accumulated over the ages” and that the Imperium as a whole is “little more than a dilapidated old slattern [...] drunkenly cursing at passersby to recall her faded beauty." (which, c'mon Ferdinand, tell us what you really think).

Then, with that perception placed purposefully into our minds, we met the slavers in Denerim, and later Fenris, who both present two perspectives that show us the worst possible goddamn facets of the county that we can see. Then we met Maevaris, and Dorian, and Krem, and Alexius, Felix, Marius, Miriam and Nadia, Rezaren and Elio, and many more, who all present different faces of the Imperium- all before we would get to go there ourselves!!!!! in Veilguard, and see it both with our own eyes, and through Neve's perspective, which puts yet another spin on it all!!!!

And just like that, we are proven to have been wrong, Genitivi is proven to be wrong (inviting the question, what else could he be wrong about? he "wrote" most of the reference books too after all!), and the truth exists somewhere in-between the experiences of these handful of characters, who all have their own reasons for saying what they're saying.

See what I mean? Yes, it's a narrative device, the ambiguity is used and stretched by the writers on purpose, but it being purposeful doesn't change that I could go on a same type of rant about the ancient elves, the Qun, and the Crows, the Circles of Magi, and so many different parts of the story that wouldn't be even half as compelling, imo, if they really just gave us the cold, hard facts in a play-by-play of the exact events that went down.

I don't know about you all, but I genuinely do not recall anything in Veilguard that stood out to me as an objective, egregious change of an event I knew to be a true fact. I've only really seen characters lying, concealing their motivations, or misremembering things, presenting a different perspective, or learning that history they thought they knew to be true was wrong.

And that doesn't make me upset, it makes me giddy. It makes me excited to learn how much of this world I love is not what I thought it was, because -same as the characters- I believed what was told to me, and there are so many things and plotlines that illustrate that very same feeling: Solas obviously, but Jaws of Hakkon and Ameridan's entire story are probably just the clearest and most obvious ones, and there's also Morrigan, Flemeth and Mythal, Bellara's and Harding's whole storylines are ostensibly about this, the whole of DA2 beats you over the head with it all being filtered through Varric, and even the whole Urn of Sacred Ashes questline in Origins- it's always been about subjectivity. The Inquisitor's entire persona is said, canonically, multiple times, by multiple characters (Sera, Varric, Dorian, Vivienne, Josephine all come to mind), to be a larger than life figure that people misrepresent, and misunderstand, misremember, and see as both more and less than a person because of that, even in their own time- which then also is echoed by Rook themselves idly remarking on how they had their own preconceived notions about the Inquisitor. (at least my Rook remarked on my Trevelyan's nobility, cleearly not knowing how little power his name actually holds now, which I thought was a really nice touch.) (But that, I've been going on about for god, who even knows how long, that's its own post lol.)

Just imagine what we might turn out to have been wrong all along in the next game. How can someone not be excited?

[midnight--capricorn]

ok no cookie art today (There would be. I just have not finished any)

There is only a single OC I wish to draw. And it's Tourmaline. This tiger is fun to draw she has like. so many different options

[g1ngerbeer]

actuallly i think trying to stab raishan is THE funniest thing percy has ever done and i love him for it

[princewylder]

Mordred as a persona is so refreshing for me to draw because while I put a lot of thought into other persona designs with Mordred I just went "big dark half rotten dragon :]" and ran with it

[arrolyn1114]

Lord have mercy, this scene was SO charged. I could feel it in my living room. Omg.

When Ser Arryk brought you the crown, did I myself not placed it upon your brow? HOUSE OF THE DRAGON - “Rhaenyra the Cruel” (2024) dir. Clare Kilner.

[gingybimby]

Collateral Damage of Dragons

Synopsis: Sylus is still a dragon, but keeps tight control on his form. It's only when you lose all inhibitions while ovulating that he matches your energy.

Notes/Warnings: explicit shameless nsfw (MDNI), sylus x afab!reader, no use of Y/N, they're feral and break things, breeding, established relationship, you know he's not human but not much else, explicit consent and safe word established, predator/prey tones

This took too long to write. Barely proofread. Might cross-post to AO3 later. HAPPY BIRTHDAY SYLUS- I've been saving for the birthday memory.

wc: 3.1k

Tag List: @browneyedgirl22 @cherryredstarz

You were possessed. At least, that’s what it felt like rushing into the N109 Zone on your bike, the heavy vibrations making the ache between your legs unbearable. You’d only gotten off work just before racing over into lawless land because you couldn’t bother to wait. It was bad enough Xavier had been hovering, like he could tell your panties were soaked even after spending forty-five minutes wrapping up some paperwork from some wanderer encounters. You adored your sleepy coworker, but there was only one man on your mind all day making you ache.

Driving right into the underground garage where Sylus liked to keep all his various motorcycles was second nature to you these days ever since you and Sylus became rather serious about your relationship. You still liked to dance around each other in your methods of sharing indirect affection, but the dance held an electric zeal to it now. It was a good thing you both liked a little danger.

When you slipped into the base, you were on a hunt. Luckily, the twins seemed to be absent. It saved everyone from some awkwardness and trouble. Your boyfriend was proving to be rather elusive. He wasn’t in the boxing ring, his favorite music room, his bedroom, or the main armory. You made it back to the large common room that had an open kitchen and island with a quiet huff when finally a presence appeared at your back.

Your neck was brushed with a strong nose and curious lips that sent fire right to your aching pussy. Large, strong hands settled on your hips as the deep voice of Sylus practically purred into your ear after tugging your earlobe between his teeth momentarily.

“Looks like a little kitten brought herself to me in heat.” 

You spun on Sylus, pointing an accusatory finger in his face until he tried to bite it. Your glare was fueled with playful annoyance.

“You-! You know exactly what time of the month it is and you were deliberately hiding from me.” You accused even as your boyfriend dragged you closer to press your bodies together.

“Hm.. guilty as charged. Fuck I could smell you the moment you walked in, kitten.” Sylus buried his face in your neck once more to breathe in deeply like he needed your scent to survive. A soft growl reverberated in his throat.

You couldn’t stop the shiver that licked up your spine, leaning your head to the side for him. It was the faintest whimper from your lips that had him lightly biting into your neck, his grip tightening for a fraction of a second before relaxing in what you knew to be an exercise of restraint. That simply wouldn’t do. 

Ever since you learned Sylus wasn’t exactly… human, you’ve been wanting to see more of that wild part of him that he always kept careful control over. You learned quickly that your scent drives him crazy, so you intentionally didn’t put any artificial smells on your skin today.

Oh you knew exactly what you were doing. You intentionally denied yourself the littlest pleasure as the peak of your ovulation hit just so you could truly let loose with Sylus. You even already put in for tomorrow off. It was all for this. You wondered if he suspected anything.

Planting a firm hand on his chest, you pushed Sylus away with blushing cheeks, knowing your panties were ruined and that he could smell that. It was such an unexpected turn on. Sylus didn’t look at all upset at being pushed away save for the tiniest frown as his eyes danced over your face.

“Down boy…” You laughed lightly. “You go sit over there for thirty seconds. I get to have a head start since you decided to hide from me. You better not hold back. I have my safeword: Pomegranate.” 

You swore you saw Sylus’s dilate more than they ever have before at your quiet words. It was so embarrassing at first, having open and honest conversations over something like sex, but Sylus always stressed the importance of it and now it made things like what you were about to do utterly thrilling knowing you’re safe with him. 

You’ve never seen Sylus drop onto a couch so quickly, his eyes burning holes into you. The red gaze never once left your direction and followed you as you neared the doorway to the hallway. You looked over your shoulder at him, kicking off your boots one by one.

“Start counting… Now!” With a final shout you broke into a sprint, heart already racing and giggles flying from you without your say.

During your run, you started discarding things. First it was your holsters for your pistols. Then your socks. Your pants and shirt took the longest, but as you let your ruined panties hit the bare floor, you felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and quickly ran off again, now only left in your bra.

You slid into the long hallway that would eventually lead to his bedroom and felt that sensation again- that you were being watched by a predator. You didn’t even make it halfway down the hall before a heavy mass was shoving you into a wall chest first. A hand landed above your head and there your dark red panties were twisted in his grip. A long drag of Sylus’s tongue up the back of your neck and the rough pressing of his hips into your ass had you gasping out his name, reaching back with one arm to bury your hand in his silver hair.

“I caught you.” Came his low growl.

An irreverent hand slipped between your legs to drag through your dripping folds. He pauses to circle two fingers into your swollen clit for several moments. Pressing yourself back against his cock, you didn’t hold back your noises as he drew them from you.

“My pretty girl�� so ready for me… You put so much effort into trying to drive me wild, huh? You want me to breed your pretty pussy so badly, kitten?”

The filth that came from his lips was just what you wanted as you forced him back a step with a harsh elbow, caught by his hand wrapped in your panties of course. Spinning, you dragged him up against you by the waistband of his pants.

“Why are these still on?” You grumbled before his lips crashed into yours in a wild flurry of kisses that was an obscene connection of tongue, lips, and panting breaths.

You only have a brief second to latch onto his shoulders as he drags your legs up around his waist. He only walks you both a small distance before he settles you on a table just meant to display some of his “shiny things” as you call them. Items of exorbitant value that he likes because of one reason or another. You try to be careful to not knock anything over, almost mentioning it to him to be careful, but he was kneeling between your legs.

You were given no warning as his lips closed over your clit for him to suck on and felt two fingers spread your folds to expose your aching hole clenching around nothing. Sylus groaned into your heat, pulling back only briefly to drown you in praise.

“You taste so good- I can’t get enough.” 

You felt the cold tingling sensation of his evol as it wrapped around one of your calves to drag it over his shoulder as he buried his face into you once more. He slipped two fingers into you instead of starting with one like he usually did and it sent your back arching and snapping a hand down to his hair.

“Fuck!” You whined out, feeling his fingers slowly thrust into you at an easy pace. It was when he pulled lightly on your clit with his teeth and teased his tongue along the hood of your clit that made your arm snap out across the table. You were desperate for something to hold onto, but instead you sent a gorgeous piece of kintsugi flying to the ground, shattering immediately on impact. 

The sharp sound made you jump, apologies starting to tumble off your kiss-swollen lips, but Sylus didn’t so much as shift from his position of worship between your legs. He only curled his fingers up to rub that delectable spongy spot in you that made you see stars and felt his grin when you sobbed out his name. It was right there, that delicious edge promising a most wondrous fall that had you bucking your hips into his mouth.

“Sylus! Please! S-so close. Wanna cum…” You cried.

Part of you knew he was going to pull away, but it still didn’t stop your despairing gasps that melted into frustrated growling and huffs. 

Sylus rising from between your legs was a sight you’ll never tire of as his tongue worked over his fingers to collect every drop of your essence. Your slick covered the lower half of his face and that only made the denial of your orgasm all the more painful. The way he was watching you, you knew he was giving you a moment to put a stop to things if you truly wanted. Shaking your head, you sat up just so you could tear open his buttoned shirt. You glared at him when he only gave you an amused quirk of his eyebrow.

“Such a hissy kitten… You should know by now that you’re not allowed to cum tonight unless my cock is buried in you and filling you with my seed.”

Your glare became more of a pout at his purred words, a fresh wave of need hitting you like a freight train. Gods you wanted that so badly. You needed that.

“Then stop talking and take me to bed, or do you not want me to have your baby.” As you spoke you wrapped your legs around him to pull his hips into you and felt his throbbing bulge get soaked with your dripping need.

Sylus’s groan made your toes curl before he was sweeping you up in his arms and stumbling towards his room even as you desperately ground your pussy against his confined cock. His fingers sinking into the flesh of your ass almost felt sharp when he finally kicked his bedroom door in. He was too focused on biting bruises into your neck to even spare a moment of his attention to the fact that he kicked his poor door hard enough to break off one of the hinges.

When Sylus finally threw you down onto his bed you looked up at him with a cheeky smile, rolling over onto your stomach and raising your hips with a little wiggle. It earned you a hard slap as Sylus spanked you while getting rid of what remained of his shirt and his soiled pants. You let out a sharp yelp that eased into a whiny moan as heat radiated from where his palm landed on your ass.

The coolness of his evol was on your skin again as your bra was tugged free and a pillow being moved to support your hips. Then it concentrated on your wrists as your arms were pulled taut in front of you, pinned.

“Is this okay, kitten?” Sylus’s voice was a comforting roughness that always left you putty in his hands. You started to nod before verbally responding instead.

“H..haah… yes. I need you inside, Sy… I need it so badly.” 

You wanted to push back into him when you felt his cock throb against you. You were still so high strung from your denied orgasm, the cusp just lingering beyond your reach. Couple that with how horny you’ve been practically all week, having waited for this day in particular, you were at your wits end.

While discussion of kids has floated around, you two haven’t tried to exactly plan for any of it. If it happens, it happens was the mentality you both were okay with, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t try to tip the odds in your favor. It most certainly wasn’t because one of your coworkers on maternity recently stopped by with her new baby and something gripped at you so desperately you’ve been thinking about it non-stop since.

“Don’t worry Sweetie, I’ll take care of you.” Sylus’s words were an oath and you knew he’d deliver.

One of his hands massaged the cheek he slapped moments ago while his other guided him to your dripping heat only for him to sink in right to the hilt immediately. Normally it took a little time for you to relax properly. His breathless laughter was at your neck as he leaned over you, brushing your hair away so he could trail kisses along your spine.

“You really weren’t kidding… you’ve never taken me so eagerly before, baby.”

You sobbed out in utter bliss as his cock filled out every inch of you just as you’ve been needing, but even this felt like it needed more and he was already huge to begin with! His little bits of teasing didn’t even get a real response from you beyond you trying to bounce yourself against his hips.

Sylus didn’t need to be told twice to get moving, working both of you up to a brutal pace that had your entire being singing with pleasure. His cock hit you in all the right ways, reaching deep enough to tease your empty womb. Your evol-bound hands twisted into the bedding as each noise was forced from your lungs.

“More… Feels so good Sy… Want more…” You babbled, unable to see the slight emergence of black scales along his skin.

He’s never had a lapse of control over his form since long before he even jumped to this time from the Deepspace tunnel, but you right now- the way you cried for him, the scent of your fertile womb at its peak, knowing you’ve been struck by a wave of baby fever from a coworker… It made this beastly side of him rear its ugly head. The need to pin you down with his teeth and tail, to claim you as his mate properly with a vicious bite, to fill you completely and knot you to make sure his seed catches. Oh, you ruined him in all the best ways.

He knew his teeth were already sharper with how his jaw ached to clamp down on your neck and uncontrollable drool pooled in his mouth. His nails wanted to become familiar claws, but he refused to lose the sensation of feeling your skin with the sensitivity fingers offered. Your pleading for more was going to be his undoing. He could already feel a knot forming at the base of his cock and from the way you suddenly bit into the bedding with a sob, the rest of it changed too. Firm ridges and all.

“Oh gods… yessss! Sylus!” You were so lost in your pleasure you hardly paid attention to the differences other than it felt so good. Feeling drool hit your shoulder, you instinctively dropped your head the opposite way.

“Bite me.” You commanded between tearful mewls. “I’m so close-”

The noise Sylus made definitely sounded more beastial than man, but where he worried you might get scared, you just cried his name again, begging him to cum in you as you hit your peak. Sylus was growling when he slammed his hips into you, bullying his knot into your tight hole just as he clamped his teeth down on the junction between your neck and shoulder.

You were crying, overwhelmed completely between the pain and pleasure. The way he rolled his hips with every steady pulse as he filled you dragged you through the remnants of your orgasm. Something deep inside you was immensely satisfied, feeling so full of your lover.

You vaguely heard Sylus swear and your neck ache, but everything was fading out fast with sweet sleep dragged you under with a siren’s song.

“Love you… Sylus…” You mumbled before drifting off fully.

—

When you woke up your entire body was sore, but your pussy ached the most. You could smell Sylus on your pillow and hummed in contentment while stretching out as a lazy cat would. You nearly drifted back to sleep when tender fingers brushed your hair from your face and a low voice called your name.

You blearily pried one eye open, barely peeking out from your blanket you had pulled up right under your chin. Red eyes filled your vision and a tender hand crept past your blanket defenses to cup your chin.

“Hey Sweetie… Are you alright?” Sylus looked so concerned, his hair a wild mess as if he’d been running his hands through it constantly.

“Mhm… It was amazing.” You started to push the blankets down to reach out for him when you realized he already had you in a fresh set of one of your favorite jammies. 

“Why aren’t you cuddling me?” You pouted.

“You, my dearest, are a menace.” He drawled out slowly, a visible relief melting into his body and eyes before he dragged a hand through his hair. You narrowed your eyes slightly.

“Were you worried about me?” You questioned, starting to sit up before he shook his head and crawled into bed with you. He dragged you on top of him like you usually preferred and he started playing with a bit of your hair.

“I lost myself a little.” He admitted quietly, meeting your eyes with genuine remorse. “I hurt you because I wasn’t-” “Did I say pomegranate?” You interrupted him, tilting your head slightly.

“No, but-”

“But nothing. I didn’t say it. I wanted all of you. Even the nonhuman-y bits. Those are starting to become my favorite.” You grinned, cheeks going the slightest bit red as the memories started coming back.

“I trust you. You trust me, right?” You reached to run a finger along his upper lip.

“I do.” He responded without hesitation. “I just… losing any level of control for me is-”

“You don’t have to explain. I know.” Your finger traced up his nose and along his brow. “You’re Sylus. My Sylus. And I’ll always love every part of you- good, bad, and wild.” You sat up slightly on his lap, dancing two fingers up his chest while humming. “And if you ever decide you want me to see all of you, I’ll savor every bit of it. Because it’s you.”

Sylus snatched your hand in his, lacing your fingers together with a quiet laugh, his eyes shining with love and face just the slightest bit red. He dragged your hands close so he could kiss the back of yours.

“I love you.” He breathed your name with reverence along with his declaration of love. It’s hardly the first time you’ve heard him like this, but it still made your heart skip a beat. You snuggled into his chest, letting your hands rest together completely entwined.

“I love you too.”

[inseobts]

Hey hey so I absolutely love your writing but I have an idea and I need you to kinda hear me out… so basically law x f!reader but BUT she’s kaidos daughter GASP (that gasp was totally real) but she hides it but the find out and uh that’s kinda it but maybe like kinemon and the others of the Kouzuki know her somehow (maybe by a birth mark or her eyes or something). So yeah 😋

Shadows of the Dragon

law × reader

a/n: bestie, I spent all morning writing this instead of looking for a job lmaooo I was really into it ngl

words count: 6.3k

tags: wano arc spoilers, reader is kaido’s daughter, first meeting, fluff, slow burn(?)

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The battle for Onigashima has already begun.

Explosions echo through the halls. Screams, smoke, clashing steel. The floor shakes beneath your feet as you weave through the chaos, hood low over your face. You’re not meant to be here. If Kaido knew, you’d be caged.

Just like Yamato was.

Your lungs burn as you duck into the shadows behind a cracked pillar. The air tastes like ash and blood. You scan the fight ahead, Beasts Pirates swarming a small group.

At the center: Trafalgar Law.

He’s calm, calculating, his sword slicing clean arcs through the crowd. But there’s too many. One slips past his line of sight, a massive axe raised behind him.

You don’t hesitate.

Your blade flashes, a quick, clean throw. It hits the attacker’s shoulder, knocking him off balance before Law even knows he was there.

He turns instantly, catching the movement out of the corner of his eye. But you’re already gone, disappearing into smoke and stone like you were never there.

“Someone’s following me” Law mutters minutes later, once the fight thins out. Bepo tilts his head.

“An enemy?”

“…Not sure.”

He looks toward the shadows where you linger, high above on the rafters. Watching. Quiet.

You saved him. You didn’t have to. And now you can’t stop watching him.

That night, as the battle calms down, you leave another Beast Pirate unconscious behind.

Law appears near the crates just moments later. He sees the body, then the knife still buried in the man’s leg. Same kind of blade as before.

He kneels down, inspecting it “You again.”

You smile from the darkness above, unseen.

The next day.

“You know someone’s been helping us,” Law tells the others “Takes out enemies before we see them. Gets in and out like a ghost.”

Momonosuke frowns “A spy?”

“Could be,” Law says “But whoever it is, they’re not with Kaido’s soldiers.”

Kin’emon stiffens at that. His eyes flash toward the shadows “Did you say… ghostlike?”

Law looks over “Yeah.”

Kin’emon’s face darkens “There is an old tale… of a girl with a dragon’s eyes. One who walks through Wano like smoke. Seen, but never caught.”

“Sounds like a myth.” Law says.

Kin’emon shakes his head “Not a myth. A warning.”

You press your back to the wall, heartbeat rising.

They’re starting to notice you. But you can’t stop now. Not until Kaido falls.

Later on you start to pay more attention and you think you’ve gotten better at hiding. But Trafalgar Law is better at catching.

“Room.”

His voice is quiet, but the pressure shifts.

Before you can leap away, you feel the strange ripple in the air, the pull of his power.

Shambles.

The space around you blinks, your feet leave the ground.

You land hard on stone, the shadows gone, replaced by firelight.

You freeze.

He’s already standing there, arms crossed, sword sheathed at his side. Calm, unreadable.

“Not bad,” he says “You lasted longer than I thought.”

You say nothing, the hood still covering your face. Your heart hammers in your chest. You didn’t expect this.

He steps closer, slow and deliberate “You’ve been following me since the inner gate. Took down five of Kaido’s men without being seen. Saved me twice.” He tilts his head “Why?”

You grip the edge of your cloak tighter.

“I don’t owe you an answer.”

“You do if you want to leave.”

You look past him. The door is blocked. No windows. Just firelight, stone, and the surgeon of death with those piercing eyes.

“I’m not your enemy” you say, voice steady but low.

“That’s not an answer” he replies.

His tone isn’t cruel. It’s precise. Focused. He’s dissecting you with words the same way he would with a scalpel. Slowly. Carefully.

You shift your stance, weight toward your heel, just in case.

Law’s eyes flick down for a split second. He notices.

“You’re not used to being cornered,” he says “You don’t like it.”

“Who does?” you mutter.

He steps closer, now only a few feet away. You can see the cut across his brow, half-healed. You almost patched it yourself... almost. But you stayed hidden, like always.

“I don’t like mysteries in the middle of a war,” he says “Especially ones that move like assassins and carry Kaido’s blades.”

You stiffen. Just slightly. Enough for him to notice.

He watches you, eyes narrowing “You’re not with him.”

You hesitate.

“I’m not” you say.

“But you know him.”

That lands like a knife between your ribs. You don’t speak. Can’t.

He stares, then slowly lifts a hand but not threatening, just… thoughtful.

“Let me guess,” he murmurs “You’re not one of his soldiers. But you move like someone who trained. Someone who had to hide.”

He pauses.

“You’re someone close to him.”

Your heart kicks harder. Your hand twitches toward your hood.

He notices everything.

“I won’t say it,” he adds “But you’re going to have to. Eventually.”

You step back, the fire behind you casting long shadows “I’ve done more for your side than you know.”

“Then say it.”

“No.”

He sighs through his nose “Then take off the hood.”

You don’t move.

“I won’t force you,” he says “But if you want me to trust you, I need a face.”

A long beat of silence stretches between you.

Then, finally you slowly lift your hands and pull the hood back.

Your hair spills down. Your face is lit by firelight. And your eyes, Dragon gold. Just like Kaido’s.

Law freezes.

His expression doesn’t change, but you feel his silence is sharp now. Like something just snapped into place.

You say quietly, “Now you know.”

He doesn’t say anything. Not at first.

Then he speaks “…You’re his daughter.”

You flinch.

“I’m not him,” you say quickly, the words tumbling out “I don’t fight for him. He doesn’t even know I’m here.”

Law’s jaw flexes. His eyes narrow. You can tell he’s thinking fast, too fast.

“You expect me to believe that Kaido’s daughter, his blood, is sneaking around, saving my life and stabbing his men in the back?”

You lift your chin “I never chose him.”

He’s silent again. The fire crackles behind you.

“Yamato knows,” you add “I saw him with your group and he knows who I am. He knows what I’ve done.”

“Then why hide?”

“Because if Kaido finds out I’m against him…” You shake your head “I won’t get another chance. And neither will anyone else. I'm not as strong as Yamato.”

He stares at you for a long time. You’re sure he’s going to walk away. Or call you a liar. Or worse.

But then he mutters “…You’re reckless.”

You blink “What?”

“Reckless.” he repeats “And lucky I didn’t stab you the first night.”

You give a breathless laugh, more from relief than humor “You tried.”

He smirks faintly “I missed on purpose.”

You roll your eyes “Sure you did.”

He steps back, finally giving you room to breathe “You’re staying close to me now. No more hiding.”

You hesitate “You trust me?”

“Not yet... not fully.” he says flatly “But I’m curious.”

After that he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches.

You shift under the weight of it, but keep your chin up. You’ve already shown him too much.

“So,” he finally says, voice quiet, flat, “you can throw a blade, take down five men without being heard, and disappear into smoke.”

He tilts his head.

“Were you trained as an assassin?”

You snort, soft and bitter “No.”

He arches a brow.

“An obedient wife who had to learn how to survive.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you see the twitch in his jaw. The faint disbelief.

“…What?”

“That’s what I was trained to be,” you say, eyes fixed on the flames “Kaido wanted me to be a perfect bride. Pretty. Polite. Silent. Loyal.”

You shrug like it doesn’t matter, even though it burns like hell.

“They taught me how to move without being noticed. To listen more than speak. To smile even when I hated it.” You pause, voice low “It made it easy to sneak around later, though.”

He’s quiet. Watching you too closely now.

He says, “Then you’re surprisingly good at throwing knives.”

You let out a short laugh “Yamato taught me that. In secret. He said if I was going to be caged, I should at least know how to stab the lock.”

That earns a very slight, very rare pull of a smirk from Law. It fades fast.

“Do you know who he wanted you to marry?” he asks.

You glance at him, just for a moment “Someone powerful. Someone Kaido could use. It never got that far.”

“Why not?”

“Because I disappeared.”

You watch him now. The way his gaze drops to the stone floor for a second, like he’s putting together pieces you can’t see.

“And now you’re fighting against him,” he says “From the shadows.”

“It’s the only place I can do anything.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, quietly “Until now.”

You blink “What do you mean?”

“You’re not in the shadows anymore.” His voice is soft, but steady “You showed me your face. That means you’re in it now. With us. Whether you like it or not.”

You swallow.

“I didn’t save you to join your army.”

“No,” he agrees “But you saved me anyway.”

The fire pops. His gaze softens, not much, but enough to make your stomach twist.

“You’re not what I expected" he murmurs.

“Good or bad?”

He considers.

“…Confusing.”

You huff a quiet laugh “That’s fair.”

He steps away, hands in his pockets now, a casualness that’s almost too calculated.

“We leave at dawn. We’re moving to the eastern wing. I want you close.”

Your brows lift “What, no cages? No cuffs?”

“You’d just slip them.” He glances back at you “Besides, I already know you’re dangerous.”

You arch a brow “And?”

He shrugs, dry as ever “So am I.”

You’re walking a few paces behind Law, half-shrouded by the long corridor shadows of the eastern wing. The firelight makes your cloak shimmer at the edges, but your hood is back now. He insisted on it.

He doesn’t speak as you move, he’s not much of a talker unless he’s annoyed or amused. Right now, he’s somewhere in between.

And then, around the corner, you both stop.

Yamato stands at the end of the hall, bandaged and panting, having just shoved open a heavy side door. Behind him, Kin’emon and Momonosuke follow close.

“Law! There you are—” Yamato pauses as soon as his eyes land on you.

The whole corridor stills.

You feel their gazes like blades. Momonosuke blinks, trying to place you. Kin’emon’s eyes narrow, sharp with memory.

And Yamato smiles.

“You told him” he says, voice low with something like relief.

Law glances at you, then back at Yamato “You knew?”

Yamato steps forward, nodding “She’s been helping from the start. Since the capital. I only found out a few months ago, but I kept quiet because I know that she likes to hide.”

Kin’emon steps forward now, slowly “Wait…”

You tense as his eyes roam over you, his expression shifting from suspicion to something more ancient, recognition.

“The birthmark…” he murmurs, eyes locking on the base of your neck.

You instinctively reach to cover it.

“You were a child, around my age.” he says “I saw you once. During a peace talk… when dad... Oden was still alive.”

Your breath catches.

“I thought you were just a servant. But I remember your eyes.”

Momonosuke stares at you, wide-eyed “She’s Kaido’s daughter?”

“She is,” Yamato answers for you, calm but firm “But she’s not like him.”

Law stays quiet through all of it. Watching you. While you lower yuo head to not face them.

Yamato faces Kin’emon and Momo “She never supported him,” he says “She kept me safe. Snuck food to villages, warned people before attacks. She hid it for years. But she was always there, helping everyone but herself.”

Momonosuke steps behind Kin’emon, still processing. But Kin’emon… he lowers his sword.

“If what Yamato says is true… then I owe you an apology.”

You blink “Why?”

“For not helping you leave,” he says “For walking past a child in chains and doing nothing.”

That stings more than you expect.

Yamato’s hand rests gently on your shoulder “She’s with us now,” he says “She wants Kaido gone as much as we do.”

Law finally speaks, voice as dry as usual “She’s good at hiding. Quiet as a whisper. But she throws knives like she means it.”

Kin’emon raises a brow.

“She’s also very stubborn, I'd say.” Law adds.

You glare at him “Says the man who cornered me into a room with his powers.”

“You were being annoying” he replies flatly.

“You were being slow.”

Momonosuke blinks between the two of you “Are… are they flirting?”

Yamato groans “Oh no.”

Law just turns and keeps walking “We move in twenty minutes. Don’t fall behind, princess.”

You hiss under your breath, chasing after him “Don’t call me that.”

But he just smirks without looking back.

The room they gather in is small.

You stand near the edge, half-shadowed again, cloak pulled tighter. Law’s somewhere behind you, flipping his blade open and closed in that restless way he does when he’s thinking too hard.

Then the door slams open.

Luffy barrels in followed by Zoro, Killer, and an annoyed-looking Eustass Kidd. They’re dust-covered, blood-smeared, and loud.

“Yo! Law!” Luffy waves like they’re at a barbecue instead of the middle of a war “We just trashed another floor!”

“Obviously” Law mutters, but doesn’t look up.

Then Luffy spots you.

He stops walking.

“Eh? Who’s that?”

You shift, not answering. Yamato clears his throat behind you, ready to explain. But Luffy just beams.

“Oh! Is she your girlfriend or something?”

Law doesn’t even blink “No.”

“Really?” Kidd snorts, arms crossed “You’re keeping her that close and glaring at us like that, but she’s not your girlfriend?”

“I’m glaring because you’re way too loud” Law deadpans.

Zoro eyes you, a flicker of curiosity behind his boredom “She’s been following us, right? I saw her take out two Beast Pirates before anyone noticed.”

“She’s Kaido’s daughter” Law says bluntly, like he’s ripping off a bandage.

The room goes silent.

Even Luffy blinks.

“…Eh?”

You sigh and step forward, lifting your chin “Technically. I didn’t sign up for it.”

Kidd’s eyes narrow “You’re serious?”

Yamato nods “She’s been on our side the whole time. She’s the one who warned the capital two nights ago.”

Zoro whistles low “Well, shit.”

Luffy grins wide again “That’s awesome!”

You blink “You’re not… mad?”

“Why would I be?” he says, confused “You’re fighting him too, right?”

“…Yes.”

“Then you’re with us.”

Simple as that.

Law rolls his eyes “Don’t let him fool you. He always accepts people way too easily.”

Luffy shrugs “I like her.”

You stare at him, stunned. No suspicion. No fear. Just… acceptance. Like it’s normal to welcome the daughter of the enemy with a smile and an outstretched hand.

“Thanks?” you say softly, unsure how to react.

Then Kidd rolls his eyes and mutters, “Still sounds like you picked a girlfriend up mid-war.”

Law turns to him, voice flat “Do you want to be shambled into the ocean?”

You cover a laugh with your hand.

Zoro smirks “He’s definitely keeping you close. That’s not nothing.”

“Shut up.” Law mutters.

“You’re blushing!” Luffy points out.

“I will kill you.”

“I ship it.” Yamato adds unhelpfully.

Killer says nothing, but you’re pretty sure he snorts behind the mask.

You shake your head, hiding a smile you didn’t expect to have today. It feels like chaos, but not the kind you were raised in. It’s lighter. War still rages outside, but here you can finally breathe.

And maybe… fight for something more than just survival.

The storm of battle breaks again not long after.

Steel rings out, smoke choking the air as the ground trembles beneath the weight of clashing armies. Thunder crashes overhead.

You stay close to the walls, in the dark, your steps silent, your blade lighter than air.

This is where you belong.

Not at the front. Not swinging heavy weapons like Yamato. Not rallying the rebels with a captain’s call.

No. You were trained to be invisible. To listen. To vanish. And you’re good at it.

You slip past a Beast Pirate without a sound, catching the edge of his weapon with your cloak as you pass, he stumbles, confused, then goes still as a blade brushes his throat. Yours.

One down.

You never linger. Never let them see your face.

From your perch on a rooftop beam, you watch the others fight below.

Luffy is chaos incarnate, leaping from debris to debris, fists flying. Zoro and Killer carve through the crowd, Kid hurling steel like it’s an extension of his rage.

And then there’s Law, controlled. Deadly. Calling out “Room” like a calm god of precision. You watch his fingers flick and another soldier vanishes mid-swing.

He doesn’t look at you, but you know he knows where you are.

He always does.

But something’s shifting. You feel it in the way Kaido’s men move. Sharper. Slower. Looking up. Behind. Whispering.

They’ve noticed.

You drop behind a wall and press your back against the stone.

Two soldiers stand nearby, speaking low.

“…Too many of us gone too fast” one says “No one saw who did it.”

“She’s here,” the other growls “The girl. His daughter.”

Your breath catches.

“They say she’s with the rebels now.”

“She wouldn’t. He loves her.”

“He doesn’t love anything. You know that.”

A pause.

“If she’s here, and she’s helping them... we’re supposed to kill her, right?”

“…Only if we’re sure. But we better capture her alive, or if we kill her at least make it look like an accident. Don't go ma—”

You’re already gone before they finish the sentence.

Your lungs are tight, your movements sharper than before. Every shadow feels thinner. Every glance feels aimed.

They’re looking now. Not for a fighter. Not for a rebel.

They’re looking for you.

A hand reaches from behind a torn banner, grabbing your wrist.

You twist, knife in your palm, ready to fight.

“Easy.” It’s Law.

His fingers tighten around your wrist just enough to still you. His voice is low, close to your ear “They’re starting to talk.”

“I heard” you breathe.

His eyes flick toward the rooftops “We need to move. If they know you’re here, they’ll send someone.”

“They won’t be sure.”

He stares at you “You don't know how strong some of them are.”

You glare “And you don’t know me.”

He smirks faintly “That’s why I’m keeping an eye on you.”

You pull away, stepping back into the shadow “Then keep up.”

And just like that, you vanish again. But now, they’re hunting you.

You keep your distance, wait to strike when it’s necessary. And then, it happens.

You’re climbing a rickety scaffold to get a better vantage point on the battlefield when a voice, sharp and familiar, cuts through the noise.

“There! There she is!”

Your blood runs cold.

You whirl around just in time to see a Beast Pirate, a low-level soldier, pointing directly at you from across the field. His eyes widen with recognition, then narrow with intent.

“There she is!” he shouts again “Kaido’s daughter!”

A sickening rush of heat floods your chest as the world seems to slow down for a moment.

You don’t think. You react.

In an instant, your hand finds your blade, and you spring forward, vanishing behind a pile of debris.

They saw me.

Your heart pounds as you look for an exit. Somewhere, far down the hall, you see movement, more men. More eyes.

But this time, you’re not just running. You’re not just hiding.

You’re being hunted.

Your mind races, trying to find the quickest escape route, but the sound of footsteps behind you grows louder. They’re closing in.

“You’re not getting away, princess” the Beast Pirate shouts, his voice thick with malice.

Then, a voice, so familiar, so close, cuts through the tension.

“Room.”

The air around you shifts in an instant. A pull. A tug. A lurch.

The ground beneath your feet vanishes, and the next thing you know, you’re thrown sideways, but somewhere else entirely. A shadowy corner of the battlefield, far from the soldiers who are still scrambling.

Law stands over you, the same sharp, unreadable expression on his face.

He doesn’t ask questions. Just holds a hand out to help you up “You good?”

You nod, gasping for air, your heart still hammering in your chest.

“Thanks” you manage, your voice a little too thin. You push yourself to your feet, checking over your shoulder.

He looks behind you, eyes narrowing “They didn’t see you slip away. For now.”

“But they know. They’re coming for me.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but his hand rests on his sword as if it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“We need to move” he says quietly, pulling you along behind him.

You glance back, but it’s already too late. The soldiers you just outran are regrouping.

And then, you hear it.

“I’ve seen her!” the Beast Pirate shouts “Kaido’s daughter’s here! She’s helping the rebels!”

The words pierce through the noise like a lightning strike.

“You need to go tell Kaido.” another pirate shouts, clearly panicking “Now!”

Your blood runs cold.

Law’s grip tightens on your wrist “Stay close.”

You’re both moving again, but now, it’s not just about escaping. It’s about buying time.

“Shambles.” Law snaps his fingers again, his power yanking you both forward, but this time, it’s a wider distance. You’re thrown through the air, landing against the stone wall of a nearby ruin. But you’re still not safe.

The Beast Pirates are catching up.

You glance back toward Law “You know they won’t stop looking for me now.”

He nods once “I know. That’s why we don’t stop either.”

He strides forward, facing the group of pirates charging in your direction. They’re only seconds away from being on you.

You feel the familiar panic start to settle in, but you force it down. You know how to fight in the shadows, even when you can’t be hidden.

You swipe a hand to your side, pulling out a dagger. Law’s eyes flick to it, and a rare smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“You know, you’re not as bad as I thought, princess” he says, voice dry.

“Right now, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t call me that” you mutter under your breath.

He doesn’t answer, only moves to block the advancing soldiers, his sword raised with calculated menace.

One of them steps forward, eyes gleaming as he sneers at you “You're in the middle of the enemy camp. You think you’ll survive this? You think he alone can protect you agaist all of us?”

You meet his gaze, and for a moment, all you can see are shadows.

“I don’t need to be protected and I don't care to survive anymore.” you murmur, and then, you move.

The soldiers charge forward, teeth gritted, weapons drawn. They must think you’re just a soft girl trained to be a wife, that somehow you found someone who protected you all this time.

They’re wrong.

You’re quick, faster than they expect. One rushes you, sword raised, and you sidestep him in a fluid motion. A twist of your wrist, a flash of silver, and the soldier crumples in silence.

Next.

Law’s already engaged, slicing through the soldiers with his surgical precision. He doesn’t need to think about it. Just moves, calm and cold, his blade cutting through the air with deadly accuracy. His power flicks like an extension of his body, ripping through the battlefield with ease.

“Room” he mutters, and in an instant, a soldier who thought he was safe is yanked off his feet and flung into the distance. Law turns toward you with a sharp glance “You’re doing well, princess.”

You twist, knocking the sword of another soldier out of his hand with a well-placed strike “I told you not to call me that!”

He raises an eyebrow as he cuts down another pirate “What’s the matter, princess? I thought you liked the title.”

“I don’t!” You lash out with a quick thrust, taking down another attacker “Don’t call me that!”

He watches you for a moment as you fight, the sword flashes in your hand a blur of motion. But instead of teasing you more, he sidesteps an incoming blow and slides beside you, his voice quieter now “Why?”

The question isn’t mocking. He’s genuinely curious, and for the first time, you can feel the weight of his attention on you. The question hangs in the air, a rare moment of understanding between the chaos.

Your breath catches as you dodge another blow. The soldier’s eyes widen in surprise when you duck, slipping into the shadows just as you’ve been trained. You’re not done yet.

You drop the soldier with a swift kick to the ribs.

Law’s voice follows you through the smoke and dust “You’ve told me to stop calling you that. Why?”

You hesitate for a moment, turning to him as the last of the soldiers scatter in defeat. The heavy weight of the title, the one that’s been used to cage you your entire life, weighs on your tongue.

You take a breath “Because that’s all they’ve ever called me. Kaido’s princess. His daughter.” Your voice cracks slightly, and you quickly steady it “I’m not a princess. I’m just… me. I’m not his.”

The words hang in the air like a challenge to the ground beneath you. For the first time, Law’s sharp gaze softens just a little. He stops for a moment, looking at you, his brow furrowing in thought.

“I’m sorry” he says, his voice quieter than before. The usual teasing is gone.

You’re not used to hearing that from anyone.

You give a curt nod and start walking again, ignoring the weight that still clings to your chest. You don’t need his pity. You don’t want it.

But you’re not used to this either, someone recognizing that you’re more than what others called you. Not Kaido’s daughter. Not some “princess”.

“Let’s just finish this,” you say, pushing forward, your eyes scanning the shadows “They’ll be back. More of them.”

Law watches you for a beat longer, then falls in step beside you, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze “Right.”

You don’t know what’s different now, whether it’s the way you both move in sync or the fact that Law’s stopped calling you “princess” with his usual sarcastic grin, but you know it’s not the same as before.

Not anymore.

The rooftop battle is chaos.

You hide just behind a crumbling pillar, smoke curling around your feet. Lightning flashes above the shattered remains of Onigashima’s highest level, casting jagged light over everything. You can barely breathe through the thick air, heat, ash, blood.

Luffy’s up front, panting hard but still standing.

Kidd is yelling something, hurling twisted metal with wild force. Killer and Zoro are bleeding but moving, their blades catching firelight.

And Law is precise. Silent. His blade is slick with sweat, his coat scorched and fluttering with each blast of energy, but he never stops. His voice is calm, clipped.

You stay hidden. He told you to.

“Don’t show yourself” he said back before the fight began “You’re not ready for this kind of power. And if Kaido sees you…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

So you wait. You watch. And it’s killing you. Because they’re losing.

Zoro’s down on one knee. Luffy coughs blood. Kidd takes a brutal hit to the ribs and staggers, cursing.

And Kaido laughs.

“Pathetic,” the dragon snarls, his voice cracking the sky “You ants dare challenge me?”

He raises his kanabo, slamming it into the stone with earth-shattering force.

You don’t even think.

You move.

You’re in front of Law before you realize it. Blades drawn. Eyes locked on Kaido.

He sees you. And he knows.

The laughter stops.

Kaido’s gaze sharpens like a blade “You.”

The silence cuts deeper than the wind.

“My daughter.”

Law’s head snaps toward you, eyes wide “No!”

But it’s too late.

Kaido takes one slow step forward, the storm above him crackling “You’ve been hiding behind them,” he growls “Lurking like a coward.”

You hold your ground “I’m not your daughter.”

That makes him snarl. The kanabo swings up, glowing with thunder.

“I gave you everything, and this is how you repay me?” His voice booms like thunder cracking stone “I should’ve thrown you away like you brother. Thought you were smarter.”

Your stomach twists but you don’t move.

You hear Law behind you “Get back.”

“No” you whisper.

Kaido lunges. The ground shatters.

And then—“ROOM.”

One second, you’re standing in front of a god. The next you’re nowhere.

The battlefield is gone. The air is cold. You’re lost somewhere far from the battle, knees hitting the ground as you fall from the jolt of his power.

You look around, eyes wide “Why?!”

You're alone.

You keep walking and walking, until you see Kidd and Law stand half-collapsed in the wreckage of victory, bruised and bloodied and barely alive.

You run to him.

“Law!”

He looks up and the flicker of relief in his eyes almost breaks you.

You drop to your knees beside him, checking his pulse, your hands already on his shoulder, trying to stop the bleeding.

Kidd, lying flat in the rubble nearby, groans “Hahh… damn… this hurts…”

You ignore him, completely focused on Law.

Kidd glances over and smirks through cracked lips “Tch. So what, Law? Your girlfriend gonna patch you up, cry a little?”

Law glares “Shut up, Kidd.”

You roll your eyes, already ripping fabric for bandages “Don’t tempt me to throw a rock at your face.”

“You see?” Law mutters, eyes fluttering half-shut “Not a princess.”

You snort softly, pressing your palm to his chest to keep him still “Damn right I’m not.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Just lets you touch him. Lets you stay.

And for once, you’re not in the shadows. You’re right here, with him.

You don’t want to leave him.

You glance up as one of Law’s crewmates rushes over, panting and wide-eyed.

“Captain!”

You stand immediately “He needs stitches. Internal bleeding, maybe more.”

“I—I’ll take care of him,” the Heart Pirate stammers, already pulling out medical supplies.

Law grabs your wrist before you can move away. His fingers are weak, but his grip is firm.

“Don’t disappear” he mutters.

You offer him the smallest smile “Not this time.”

Then you let go, and walk away.

The celebrations stretch on for hours.

Wano is free. The skies are clear. Kaido’s rule is shattered. And for the first time in years, you breathe without watching your back.

You’re standing by a balcony overlooking the lanterns floating up into the sky, your hair loose, a small drink in your hand. The laughter from the festival below rises with the breeze.

Yamato appears beside you, sliding you a grin as he leans on the railing.

“Still not used to this,” you say, looking up at the stars “No shadows. No running.”

He nudges you gently with his shoulder “Told you we’d get here.”

You smile. You’d never had a chance to just be with your brother. Not like this. Not in peace.

You both stand in quiet for a moment, letting the warmth settle.

Then Yamato glances over your shoulder, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Well, I’m gonna go… talk to Momo. Alone...” he says casually “Very alone. Don’t follow me.”

You frown “What?”

Then you hear the footsteps behind you.

You turn and Law is there.

Cleaned up, bandaged, coat draped over his shoulders like a cloak. Tired, but standing. Breathing. Alive.

Yamato’s already halfway down the stairs, wearing that dumb knowing smirk.

Law stops a few feet away from you. Hands in his pockets. Watching you with that unreadable stare.

You speak first “I didn’t think you’d be up already.”

He shrugs “Didn’t want to waste time.”

You shift your weight, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands “You shouldn’t push yourself.”

“Not pushing.” He takes a step closer “Looking.”

You tilt your head “For what?”

Law pauses.

Then he softly says “For you.”

Your breath catches just slightly.

He glances out toward the lanterns, jaw clenched like he’s thinking too hard about what he’s about to say.

“I’m not good at this,” he mutters “Saying things.”

“I noticed.”

He gives you a dry look.

You let him continue.

“I’ve had enough of people who only look useful when they’re strong.” he says “That’s not you. You’re not strong the way people expect, but you still held your ground. Even when it nearly got you killed.”

You don’t respond. Just… listen.

He shifts, eyes flicking to yours “I could use someone like that on my crew.”

You blink “What?”

Law exhales, as if this was harder than any battle he’s fought “Join me.”

You stare at him, stunned.

“You don’t belong here” he says, quietly now “You’re free. Don’t waste it standing still.”

Your heart thuds hard in your chest. Because you hadn’t even let yourself dream that far ahead. But the idea of being with his crew, the sea, freedom, it blooms fast in your chest, warm and terrifying and right.

You finally ask, softly, “And what would I be to you? On your crew?”

Law’s mouth curves just slightly. Not a smile, not yet, but something close.

“Not a princess,” he says “That’s for sure.”

You don’t sleep much.

Your mind buzzes with Law’s words, your heart thudding with something between fear and excitement. You lie in the quiet room the Kozuki retainers offered you, eyes on the wooden ceiling.

Freedom is loud in your chest.

By dawn, you’ve made your decision.

Yamato nearly chokes on his rice ball when you tell him.

“You’re what?!”

You grin “I’m joining Law’s crew.”

He blinks like he misheard you “Law’s? The grumpy one with the resting death glare? Does he know??”

You laugh “Yeah. That one. And of course he knows, he's the one who asked me to.”

“Wow.” He leans back, genuinely stunned “I mean, I knew something was going on between you... but… joining his crew? Really?”

You nod.

Yamato grins, proud and a little sad all at once “So you’re finally leaving Wano.”

You look out over the now peaceful land. Lanterns still float in the breeze. The smoke of war is gone.

“I’ve hidden here long enough...” you say “It’s time.”

He claps a hand on your shoulder “Then go. Find your freedom. You earned it.”

The samurai don’t question your choice. They bow, grateful and respectful, and offer quiet farewells. Kin’emon even presses a small wrapped charm into your hand.

“For protection,” he says “Not that you’ll need it.”

You smile and thank him with a bow.

The Polar Tang is docked just off the coast, preparing for departure. The sun glints off its yellow hull, and the crew bustles around the deck, laughing, loading crates, checking gear.

You approach, a little hesitant until a loud voice cuts the air.

“Oi, captain!” Bepo calls from the deck, waving wildly “She’s here!”

Law steps out from the lower deck, coat swinging behind him. He’s in full command mode again, but when he sees you, something shifts in his eyes.

He meets you at the dock, hands in his pockets.

“You’re sure?” he asks.

You smirk “I’m already packed.”

That earns a short, quiet chuckle from him “Good.”

He turns and gestures to the ship “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

You climb aboard, the sea breeze rushing against your skin, the world stretching wide in front of you.

“This,” Law says as the Heart Pirates pause to stare, “is our newest crewmate.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Bepo cheers “Welcome aboard!”

Shachi whistles “Whoa, the boss brought back a pretty one.”

You laugh, already feeling the knot in your chest loosen. Law just rubs the bridge of his nose.

But just then, Penguin glances at you with a smirk, looking at Law.

“So… she’s the one?” he asks, raising an eyebrow “The one Kidd and Luffy were talking about? Your girlfriend?”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and Law freezes. His eyes narrow, a small frown forming.

“What?” Law mutters, his voice barely above a growl.

Penguin shrugs “Well, they seemed to think so.”

Law’s frustration is clear, and you can’t help but laugh a little, leaning against the ship’s railing “It’s not like that,” Law says, brushing his hair out of his face “We’re not—”

“You’re not?” Shachi cuts in, grinning “Then why were you looking so worried she wouldn’t join us, captain?”

Bepo joins in, his innocent smile hiding the teasing tone “Yeah, captain, never saw you being so obviously anxious… Sounds like you’ve got a thing for her.”

Law glares at them all, his face flushed with frustration “I’m not doing this” he says, rubbing his temples.

The crew laughs. You, however, are enjoying the banter, crossing your arms and smiling to yourself.

Law sighs heavily, looking at you like you’re both cursed and a blessing “I’m really starting to regret bringing her here” he mutters under his breath, but you can hear it clearly.

“Yeah, sure,” you say, laughing softly “Regret it all you want… captain.”

Penguin grins at Law one more time “Hey, she is cute, captain. You could do worse.”

Law just shakes his head in defeat, not bothering to argue anymore “Can we please just get to work?”

You chuckle, feeling a warmth in your chest. Even with all the teasing, it’s clear to you that the crew already sees you as part of their family. And while Law’s still trying to keep his composure, there’s a quiet part of you that feels like maybe this is the place you’ve been searching for.

[gdinthehouseee]

224: KWON JI-YONG x READER

summary: after being indecisive on the design, you finally get a matching tattoo with ji-yong

word count: 2504

tags: fluff, flirting, smau bonus - (if you have tattoos we'll pretend this was your first ever tattoo, for the plot ofc) also your usernames are within the images :pp

“You know,” Ji-yong muses, tracing lazy circles on your arm as you lay tangled together on the couch, “I still think we should get matching tattoos.”

You roll your eyes with a small laugh. “You’ve been saying that for months.”

“Because I mean it.” He props himself up on his elbow, watching you with that signature smirk—the one that always spells trouble. “I’m covered in them, and you still don’t have a single one. It’s kind of unfair.”

“You say that like I haven’t wanted one,” you argue, nudging his chest. “I’m just… picky. If I’m going to have something on my body forever, it has to be perfect.”

He hums, nodding like he understands, but then his lips curl mischievously. “Oh, I know you’re picky. That’s why I’m mentally preparing myself for the five-hour deliberation when we finally go.”

You scoff. “It won’t take five hours.”

“Mm. No, you’re right. Six hours at least.”

You swat at him, and he laughs, catching your wrist before lacing your fingers together. “I’m just saying,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, “you overthink things, and I think this is one of those times you don’t have to. It’s about meaning, not just aesthetics.”

You exhale slowly, your fingers idly playing with the chain around his neck. “That’s the thing, though. I want it to mean something. If I get a tattoo, I don’t want to regret it in ten years.”

He studies you for a moment, his expression shifting from playful to soft. “I get that,” he says, voice quieter now. “That’s why I want to get something with you. Because I know I’d never regret it.”

You and Ji-yong have never needed grand gestures to prove what you already know—you're in this for life. It’s something you’ve both made clear, in whispered confessions late at night, in the way his fingers always find yours in a crowded room, in the unshakable certainty that no matter what, you’d always choose each other. Marriage is definitely in the cards, something you’ve talked about more than once, not as a distant "what if" but as an inevitable when. But a tattoo? That’s something different. Something permanent in a way that even rings aren’t, ink pressed into skin as a quiet, unwavering promise. If you were going to do this—if—you wanted it to be right. You wanted it to truly mean something. 

Your heart clenches at the sincerity in his tone, but before you can dwell on it too much, he smirks again. “But since you’re the most indecisive person on the planet, I might have to take matters into my own hands.”

You raise a brow, already suspicious. “And what exactly does that mean?”

“I was thinking... tiny cartoon dragons.”

A groan slips from your lips as you shove his face away, making him laugh. “Ji-yong, no. If I’m getting my first tattoo, it’s not going to be a cartoon dragon.”

“Okay, okay, how about this?” He shifts, pulling out his phone. “We could get something cool—like a symbol, maybe. Or lyrics from a song.” He scrolls through images for a moment before holding up a picture of a delicate script tattoo. “Something simple, like this?”

You tilt your head, considering it. “I like that, but… I don’t know.”

“See?” He grins, nudging your cheek with his nose. “Picky.”

“Thoughtful,” you correct, flicking his forehead.

He chuckles, tucking his face against your shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. Same thing.”

You smile softly, the idea still floating in your mind. You do want a tattoo, but you want it to be right. Something that matters, something that’s yours. And knowing Ji-yong, he’ll wait as long as you need.

“Alright,” he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss just below your jaw. “I’ll be patient—for now. But the second you figure it out, I’m taking you straight to the shop. No second-guessing.”

You shake your head, amused. “We’ll see about that.”

His lips brush against your skin again, warm and teasing. “Mark my words, jagiya. One day, you’ll be the one begging me to go first.”

You scoff, but the thought lingers in your mind long after the conversation ends. Maybe he’s right. Maybe one day will be sooner than you think. For the entire week following said conversation, you were kept awake by all the different design possibilities—including everything wrong with them, critiquing every Pinterest board you came across, analysing them like you were a professional. 

Like the previous few nights: it’s late—one of those nights where the world outside feels distant, the only sounds in the room are the slow hum of the air conditioning and Ji-yong’s steady breathing beside you. You should be sleeping, but instead, you’re lying on your back, phone in hand, scrolling through tattoo ideas for what feels like the hundredth time.

Ji-yong shifts, his arm tightening around your waist as he buries his face against your shoulder. “You’re thinking too hard again,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “I can hear it.”

You let out a breathy laugh, locking your phone and setting it aside. “You can hear me thinking?”

“Yes,” he groans, shifting onto his elbow to squint at you through heavy-lidded eyes. “It’s loud. Annoyingly loud.”

You roll onto your side to face him, resting your cheek against the pillow. “Well, I can’t help it. This is permanent—I want to get it right.”

He sighs dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. “This is worse than when you take an hour to pick a restaurant.”

“Excuse me, that’s an important decision,” you argue. “I need to weigh all my options.”

“It’s food.”

“It’s life or death.”

He huffed a laugh, then pokes your forehead lightly. “See? This is exactly what I mean. You’re gonna think yourself into oblivion if you don’t chill.” He drags you closer until your head is against his chest, his fingers absentmindedly tracing shapes along your back. “We could get anything, and it wouldn’t change a thing. You and me? We’re already forever. Today, tomorrow, and every day after that.”

That’s it! Something clicks in your mind, the way puzzle pieces snap into place. You sit up slightly, your fingers gripping his shirt. “Ji-yong.”

He hums, eyes half-closed. “Mm?”

“What about 224?”

His brows furrow. “224?”

You nod, heartbeat picking up. “Today, tomorrow, forever.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then—his eyes widen slightly, like the meaning is settling in, like it’s really hitting him. He blinks. “Wait.” A slow, almost disbelieving smile tugs at his lips. “You came up with this?”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”

He grins, propping himself up on one elbow. “I mean, I’ve been watching you spiral for days over this, and now you suddenly come up with something perfect? My words finally got through to you, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “I hate that you’re right.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he repeats the numbers under his breath. “224… today, tomorrow, forever...” Then, suddenly, his expression shifts—his brows lift slightly, his lips parting as if something just hit him. He shoots up, sitting fully upright now, eyes wide.

“Oh my god.”

You blink, startled. “What?”

Ji-yong grabs your hands, his excitement bubbling over. “Two plus two plus four!”

“What?”

“It adds up to eight!” His grip tightens as he shakes your hands a little, like he can’t contain himself. “Eight!”

You blink again. “And?”

He looks borderline offended. “Aein. Eight is my number.”

Realization washes over you. You’ve known about his obsession with the number for years—the symbol of his recent comeback. And now, your number ties into it.

Ji-yong laughs, running a hand through his hair as he stares at you, looking completely smitten. “This is fate. You—” He cuts himself off, then groans dramatically. “You’re gonna make me fall in love with you all over again.”

You laugh. “Now you’re being dramatic.”

“I’m serious!” He cups your face, tilting it up so you can see just how much he means it. “224. Eight. You and me, forever.”

You grin, warmth spreading through your chest. “So we’re doing it?”

“Oh, we’re definitely doing it.” His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you onto his lap in one swift motion. “And I’m making sure everyone knows you came up with it, but I made it iconic.”

You snort, swatting at his chest. “You are unbearable.”

Ji-yong smirks, leaning in to kiss you—slow, deep, certain. But he doesn’t stop at just one kiss. The moment he has you in his lap, his lips are everywhere—pressing soft, lingering kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, the tip of your nose. He hums against your skin, grinning between each press of his lips, murmuring little praises like, "My smart girl," and "how did I get so lucky?" Before capturing your lips again. His hands keep you close, fingers tracing absentminded patterns along your back, as if he can’t bear to let go. When he pulls away just enough to catch his breath, he takes one look at your dazed expression and dives back in, peppering kisses along your collarbone, your shoulder, up the curve of your neck, until you're giggling, overwhelmed by the sheer warmth of his affection.

The excitement lingers between you both for days, the decision feeling more perfect with each passing moment. When the appointment finally arrives, Ji-yong insists on making a whole day out of it—because, of course, he does.

You find yourselves at a sleek, upscale tattoo studio, the kind that feels both exclusive and effortlessly cool, much like him. Ji-yong has been here before—he greets the artist like an old friend, all easy smiles and playful banter, while you stand there, heart pounding just a little. He catches your hesitation immediately. His fingers brush against yours before lacing them together, giving your hand a light squeeze. “Nervous?” he asks, tilting his head with that knowing smirk.

You sigh, shifting slightly on your feet. “Maybe a little. I mean, it’s my first tattoo.”

He grins. “And I get to be part of it. I get to be your first.” He leans in, voice dipping playfully. “You sure you can handle that, jagiya?”

You roll your eyes, shoving at his shoulder. “You make everything sound suggestive.”

He laughs, pulling you closer. “I’m just saying, it’s a big deal.” He presses a quick kiss to your temple before nudging you toward the tattoo chair. “Come on, let’s make history.”

The artist preps everything, and before long, the stencil of 224 is placed on your skin, just beneath your wrist. You stare at it, taking in the simple yet meaningful numbers. It already feels like a part of you.

Ji-yong watches you carefully, his thumb rubbing slow circles against your other wrist. “Looks good?”

You nod, exhaling. “Yeah. More than good.”

He grins, looking genuinely proud. “Then let’s do this.”

When the needle touches your skin, you brace yourself—but Ji-yong is right there, his hand never leaving yours, his voice low and reassuring. “You’re doing so good,” he murmurs, squeezing your fingers lightly. “Told you it wouldn’t be that bad.”

“Says the guy covered in tattoos.”

“Fair.”

When it’s his turn, he barely even flinches, watching with an easy, satisfied smile as the same numbers are inked into his skin. When it’s done, he lifts his arm beside yours, comparing the matching tattoos with a pleased hum.

“Perfect,” he says simply. Then, he turns to you, eyes softening. “Just like us.”

Your heart swells. And when he kisses you right there in the chair, not caring about the artist’s amused snort, you know there’s no one else you’d rather have by your side—today, tomorrow, forever.

The buzz of adrenaline from getting the tattoo still lingers as you step out of the shop, his fingers laced with yours once again, his grip warm and steady. He swings your joined hands between you as he smirks down at your fresh ink. “We did it. Matching tattoos. No going back now, baby.”

You glance up at him with a teasing glint in your eye. “Oh, I don’t know… I hear laser removal is pretty advanced these days.”

His mouth drops open in exaggerated offense. “Excuse me?”

You bite back a smile, shrugging. “I mean, if you ever get sick of me—”

He cuts you off immediately, tugging you flush against him. “Not a damn chance,” he murmurs, voice low and certain. “You’re stuck with me now. Today, tomorrow, forever, remember?”

Your heart flips, but you refuse to let him have the upper hand that easily. Smirking, you trace your fingers along the collar of his jacket. “Guess I should start thinking about what other permanent marks I wanna leave on you, then.”

His eyes darken just slightly, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Oh, now we’re talking.”

Dinner is at one of your favorite spots, a place tucked away from prying eyes, where dim lighting and soft music make everything feel intimate. Ji-yong insists on ordering for both of you, leaning across the table with his usual confidence. “Trust me, I know exactly what you need.”

And, annoyingly, he’s right. The food is perfect.

Midway through the meal, you glance down at your hand resting on the table, the fresh tattoo peeking out from under your sleeve. The sight of it still feels surreal—permanent proof of something that was never in question. You reach for your phone, snapping a quick picture before turning to Ji-yong. “Should I post it?”

His eyes light up instantly. “You want to?”

You shrug, smirking. “Well, I mean… it’d be kind of cruel not to let everyone lose their minds over it.”

He grins, leaning forward with clear excitement. “Oh, I love when you’re the troublemaker.”

Laughing, you tap out a caption, keeping it simple but meaningful.

As soon as you hit post, your phone explodes with notifications. Fans are already freaking out, but the real fun starts when you notice familiar names popping up in the comments.

Ji-yong, who has been watching you with amusement, leans over slightly. “Alright, who’s losing it the most?”

You scroll through, grinning. “Let’s see…”

Daesung: I knew it. You two are disgusting. (Also, congrats 😭❤️)

CL: Finally. My favorite power couple stays winning.

ROSE: 224… I’m emotional. This is beautiful.

Seunghyun: A timeless commitment. Very fitting.

Minzy: Love is real 😭💜

Taeyang: Ok but who cried first? Be honest.

Ji-yong snorts at that last one. “Should I comment back and expose you?”

You shoot him a look. “Me? Don’t even try it. You were the one getting all sentimental about forever first.”

“That’s because I meant it.”

Your heart does that annoying little flip again, and before he can tease you for it, you shake your head, grinning as you type a response to Taeyang:

You already know it was him.

“Wow. Betrayal.”

You just laugh, sliding your phone across the table. “Here, go defend your honor.”

Instead of taking it, he leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips. “Nah,” he murmurs. “I’ve got better things to do.”

taglist: @thanosscrossmain @maskedcrawford @mirahyun @riddlerloveb0t @onyxmango @sherrayyyyy @seunghyunwifey @petersasteria @allthoughtsmindfull

[m4rs-ex3]

some additions

callum not being able to breathe during his dark magic coma, which both brought sarai to him, which ultimately helped him figure the whole thing out (you just need to breathe, sweetie) and also rayla nearly confessing to him

reflection story "strangers", where soren is struggling to breathe and viren finally speaks to him for the first time in two years, guiding him through breathing excercises; "soren, breathe. breathe. you know the way.")

callum's chilling, shaky exhale at the beginning of finnegrin's wake

callum's sigh after his second-first kiss with rayla

the way callum's breath is visually highlighted (i mean yes it's bc it's cold but still) before he falls during his 6x06 trial

the importance of breath in the dragon prince

Spoilers for Season 6 of the Dragon Prince.

Breath, by its nature, is everywhere in the world of storytelling. But what I've noticed throughout the show—especially in S6—is that the importance of breath really

There's a few different mechanisms that I see. The first: breath as balance and reflection.

We learn relatively early in the season that Callum's biological father, Damian, was a poet—a man who struggled with a "terrible breathing sickness" for his entire life. Meanwhile, Callum's magic has always been derived from breath. The first spell he cast (back in S1 with the Primordial Stone) was Aspiro—from aspirare in Latin, literally "to breathe." When he recovers his magic in S2, the first spell he casts is once again Aspiro.

That reflection of father and son is poetic in its own right, but it becomes even more significant when you consider that there is a genetic component to many respiratory conditions, from asthma to more complex respiratory conditions. We see breath take its toll on Callum: he's the first to collapse and struggle to breathe due to the thin air while climbing to Zubeia's lair, and Rayla catching Callum after a breath-based spell is so common that I've seen several posts dedicated to it.

So much of his magic is derived from breath, but that magic is where Callum finds his purpose. Callum has been open about the fact that he struggled with finding a sense of confidence and belonging as a child. When he lost his magic, it was like losing a part of himself—and those who know grief knows how it can feel like a punch to the lungs. When he acts as a mage, utilizing his breath as his power, it feels right. It feels like he's able to breathe. Every time he accesses magic, whether it's his own or another (like Star Magic during the ceremony in S6), Callum breathes it in like a man drowning.

Callum and Damian are linked by blood, by genetics, even possibly by the same respiratory condition in different degrees. And therein lies the greatest balance of all: the thing that killed his father—breath—is the very thing that gives Callum life.

We see another application of breath as balance, though on a slightly darker point. Like Damian, Soren was also born a child that struggled to breathe (though we don't know if the two had the same condition). As a result, Viren took the last breath of Kpp'Ar for the very chance that his son might be able to breathe.

Unlike Callum and Damian, that exchange of breath was far more intentional, and its result was far more detrimental. Soren was finally able to breathe, but Viren turned cold towards him. And at the same time, that gift of breath was the first step that Viren took towards his use of dark magic—which, as we know, had numerous implications over the course of the series.

The second mechanism is partially derived from the first, breaking down breath into inhalation and exhalation: acceptance and release.

This is something that is the most evident at beginnings and ends, which one would typically link to inhalations and exhalations respectively, but that is not always the case. We see different applications of this throughout the series, though I'll focus heavily on S6:

In the Starscraper, when Rayla and Callum redo their reunion meeting, Rayla exhales sharply. It's a steadying thing; it seems to signify a release of nerves, of anxiety, of all the fears she'd had leading up to that point.

Zubeia's first discernable breath when she wakes up in S3 is (to my ears) an exhale: a release of all the pain and grief that she had felt.

When Rayla says goodbye to Tiadrin and Lain in the Moon Nexus portal, they both tilt their heads upwards—the movement echoing one last inhale. For them, it is acceptance of their own death, of their departure—something that they hadn't truly realized up until that point. But for the two of them, Dragonguards until their last breath in both worlds, it's also acceptance that they have passed on their role to their daughter: the next generation of Dragonguard. (Bonus: Rayla exhales right before she tells the two that she has to let them go: one last release. It's not a release of her love for them, which is something that she may never let go, but it is a release for her pain—something she'd kept locked up for so long.

When Runaan turns into the flower for Rayla, you can hear an exhale in the music. For him, this is a release of all the pain and fear that he'd had, all the regret of attacking his daughter. Once Runaan has been returned to his form, he inhales again, accepting the role of her parent. He inhales hard, and it sounds almost painful—and in some ways, I think it has to be. In that moment, he accepts that their past is a part of their present: that even though both of them have done things that they regret, they still share the same bond.

As Sol Regem dies, he does not breathe in: he can't, since he is choking. He cannot accept what he has done to his mate. Instead, he tries to exhale, tries to release his grief and pain, but without the balance of acceptance, all it can do is burn him from within: in this case, in the most literal of ways. (Bonus: Sol Regem also inhales to see if Aaravos is telling the truth. He can smell the truth from a lie, and what is the first step to acceptance if not the truth?)

After casting the Hearts of Cinder spell, Viren inhales as soon as he's done casting the spell, perhaps accepting that he is a servant of the people—and of course, his last breath is a release of a lifetime of pain.

Of course, this isn't an exclusive list, and there's plenty more, but these are some of the ones that have stuck in my memory.

This balance of inhalation and exhalation even applies to the mechanics of magic in the world, with inhalation and exhalation being more directly reflective of giving and taking. (Mechanism number three!)

The elves of Xadia breathe through their magic. (Callum too!) Magic comes as naturally to them as the air in their very lungs. We see this most obviously in the warriors: they let out a cry, emptying their lungs as they activate their primal magic. Janai stands out in my memory, since we see her fight often throughout the series. The six primordial sources: these are a magic of giving, of life. It is a release. The elves don't have to constrain themselves; instead, they are their truest selves when they are in touch with that primordial power.

Dark magic is not so natural, as the show reiterates, and to be honest, it often sounds painful. The words of spells are reversed, but when we hear Claudia and Viren complete spells, it sounds almost as though they are inhaling through the words. They are, in the most literal of senses, taking through the dark magic. It twists the acceptance of an inhale by turning magic from something freely flowing into something that is taken—accepted by the one who takes, but not released by the being that gives.

All of this results in one world where breath connects everything. It lives in every human, elf, and being: the essence of the sky connecting everything.

[aventurineswife]

EXPAND ON DAN HENG NIBBLING ON HIS S/O AND MY LIFE IS YOURS

“My Life is Yours”

Summary: Dan Heng teases his partner with playful nibbles and gentle affection. As he explores the unique ways dragons show affection, his actions are full of both mischief and tenderness. Through laughter and a touch of vulnerability, Dan Heng expresses his deep affection, promising that his life belongs entirely to his partner, and they share a mutual, heartfelt bond.

Tags: Dan Heng IL x Reader, Fluff, Light Teasing, Affectionate Teasing, Playful Nibbling, Intimacy, Romantic Confession, Soft Moments, Mutual Affection.

Warnings: Mild Physical Affection (Nibbling and Playful Teasing), Soft Language and Tone, but No Explicit Content.

The dim, golden light of the Astral Express illuminated the quiet library, where the faint rustle of pages filled the air. You were curled up in one of the plush chairs, your legs tucked under you as you read, utterly absorbed in your book. Across from you, Dan Heng sat with his own tome, his elegant horns catching the light like crystalline crescents. His vivid eyes occasionally flicked to you, watching the way your brow furrowed in concentration, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of a page.

A quiet smile tugged at his lips.

“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice a deep, soothing melody.

You looked up from your book, smiling softly. “More than comfortable. What about you?”

He hummed in response, closing his book with deliberate care. “I’m... content,” he admitted, his gaze steady but laced with a glimmer of mischief you didn’t quite catch.

As he stood and crossed the room, your eyes followed him, curiosity bubbling. Without a word, he settled beside you, the warmth of his presence immediately engulfing you. His fingers brushed your cheek, tilting your head to meet his eyes, which now sparkled with a teasing glint.

“Do you know,” he murmured, his voice low and almost conspiratorial, “dragons show affection in unique ways?”

Before you could respond, you felt the ghost of his lips against your neck. A shiver ran down your spine as he pressed a feather-light kiss just below your jaw. His sharp teeth grazed your skin, playful and teasing, sending sparks of electricity through you.

“Dan Heng,” you managed, a laugh slipping from your lips, “what are you doing?”

He pulled back slightly, his expression calm but his eyes betraying his amusement. “Exploring this... peculiar tradition,” he said, leaning in again. This time, his teeth gently nipped at the curve of your shoulder, a sensation that made your breath hitch. “Do you dislike it?” he asked softly, though he already seemed to know the answer.

You swatted at him half-heartedly, your cheeks burning. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I enjoy you too much,” he countered smoothly, his voice dipping lower. His nibbling became more insistent, tracing up your neck and along the edge of your jaw. Each playful bite sent a jolt of warmth through you, a mixture of surprise and affection.

“Dan Heng!” you protested again, laughter bubbling uncontrollably now.

He chuckled, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re so expressive,” he whispered. “I can’t help myself.” His hand found yours, threading your fingers together. “It’s fascinating—seeing you like this.”

Your breath hitched, the intimacy of his words grounding you. His lips lingered at your temple, where he pressed a gentle kiss, his nibbling now replaced by tenderness. “You know, in my past life, I was taught that everything a dragon treasures is theirs to protect.”

He leaned back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes shining with unspoken promises. “And you... are what I treasure most.”

Your heart swelled, your earlier embarrassment melting away. “Dan Heng…”

He brought your intertwined hands to his lips, brushing a kiss across your knuckles. “My life is yours,” he said softly, his voice a solemn vow. “Every part of me—past, present, and future.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you reached up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing against the smooth line of his jaw. “Then we’re even,” you said with a smile, “because my life is yours too.”

Dan Heng exhaled a soft laugh, his composure finally breaking into something warmer, more vulnerable. He pressed his forehead against yours, his horns glimmering like ethereal ornaments in the soft light. “Then I suppose,” he whispered, his tone light but full of meaning, “I’ll just have to keep nibbling until you believe me.”

[novaursa]

What Was Promised (2/2)

- Summary: From her childhood, Cersei has been told how she would one day stand next to the dragon as his queen. And she will. Just not in the way she dreamed of.

- Pairing: (targ)male!reader/Cersei Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (adult content, blood, gore, violence and death)

- Previous part: 1/2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @literaturedog @idenyimimdenial

The torches lining the corridors of the Red Keep flickered as a warm evening breeze drifted through the open archways, carrying with it the distant echoes of music and laughter from the great hall. The wedding feast continued in full splendor, but you had long since removed yourself from the revelry, slipping past the crowd with the ease of someone who did not wish to be found. The air outside was cooler, touched with the salt of Blackwater Bay, the night sky above the city dark and endless, save for the dim glow of scattered lanterns below.

You had always preferred solitude over the noise of court, and tonight was no different. The games played within the walls of the great hall were of little interest to you—hollow displays of feigned loyalty, careful smiles masking hidden ambitions. You had known the outcome of this day long before the first vows were spoken. Rhaegar was wed, the match sealed, the ties between Targaryen and Martell forged in ceremony. And yet, you had seen it in your father’s eyes during the feast, the way he had watched Rhaegar with something akin to contempt, the way his fingers had clenched against the armrest of his chair whenever Dorne was mentioned.

Aerys was slipping. The cracks in his mind were beginning to show, and the court whispered of it more freely now, no longer only in hushed corners but behind veiled hands at feasts and in council chambers.

You had just stepped into the open courtyard, inhaling the cool night air, when you heard the measured footfalls behind you.

You did not turn immediately.

Instead, you let the silence stretch, waiting, listening. The steps were deliberate, steady—not the hurried movement of a squire or the cautious gait of a servant. No, this was a man who knew he had a right to be here, who had no need to rush, no need to announce himself.

When you finally turned, you were unsurprised to find Lord Tywin Lannister standing there.

The lion of Casterly Rock regarded you with his piercing gaze, his expression as unreadable as ever. His golden cloak barely shifted in the breeze, his posture rigid, composed. He did not bow, nor did he feign pleasantries. Tywin Lannister did not waste words on things he deemed unnecessary.

“Leaving the festivities so soon, my prince?” he asked at last, his voice smooth, deliberate.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “I find them tedious.”

Tywin gave a small nod, as if he had expected that answer. He stepped closer, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. “I had hoped to speak with you,” he said. “In private.”

You leaned back against one of the stone pillars, arms folding across your chest. “Then speak.”

For a moment, he only studied you, his green eyes measuring, weighing. Tywin Lannister did not enter a negotiation without first assessing his opponent. And though he was a man who commanded respect, a man who had shaped the realm through his rule as Hand, you knew well enough that he did not see you as his equal. Not yet.

“There is much uncertainty in the realm,” he began. “Much change. The King’s mind… wavers.” He did not say the word madness, but it hung unspoken between you.

You said nothing, waiting.

Tywin’s gaze did not waver. “Dorne is a weak alliance.”

That caught your interest. Your lips curled slightly. “My brother seems to disagree.”

“Your brother is not the King,” Tywin countered, his voice edged with finality. “And he may never be.”

You let that settle between you, watching the way his eyes flickered, the careful way in which he chose his words.

You had known this conversation would come eventually. Tywin Lannister had spent years molding himself as the true power behind the throne, his command as Hand unchallenged for over a decade. He had built the might of House Lannister not through blind loyalty, but through strategy, through precision, through patience.

And now, as Aerys slipped further into paranoia, as his trust in his former Hand crumbled, Tywin was looking elsewhere.

“You speak as if you are ready to break from the King,” you said evenly.

Tywin’s face remained impassive. “I speak of alliances, my prince.”

A small breath of amusement escaped you. “And how, Lord Lannister, do you propose we form such an alliance?”

The words lingered in the night air.

Tywin’s silence was his answer.

Your smirk deepened. “You offer me your daughter.”

Still, Tywin did not blink.

“It would be a strong match,” he said simply. “Your father has already made his disdain for Dorne clear, even as he binds our future to them. House Lannister is a stronger ally, with resources unmatched by any in Westeros.”

You watched him carefully, noting the steel in his tone, the unwavering certainty. Tywin Lannister did not beg, nor did he request. He offered, knowing full well that what he brought to the table was of worth.

But he was not a man without pride.

And there was one flaw in his plan.

“Tell me, Lord Lannister,” you said, voice light, yet cutting, “do you truly believe my father would allow such a match?” You tilted your head slightly. “Would he not laugh in your face again?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, though his expression did not shift. “Your father is not the man he once was.”

“No,” you agreed. “He is not.”

You let the silence stretch again, considering. Tywin was not wrong—Dorne was a fragile ally at best, their fealty given only as long as it suited them. Aerys had made his choice, binding Rhaegar to Elia, but Aerys himself was no longer seen as a stable ruler.

And you?

You had always known your place in the shadows of your brother’s legacy, in the court that adored him, in the eyes of a father who only saw one true heir. But things were shifting. Rhaegar had secured his future. Perhaps it was time you secured yours.

Cersei.

Your mind drifted back to the dance, to the way she had met your gaze, unflinching, taunting. The way she had pressed you, provoked you. She did not cower. She did not shy away from the fire.

No, she burned just as fiercely.

You inhaled slowly, turning your attention back to Tywin. “I will consider your offer.”

Tywin Lannister gave a small nod, as if that was all he had expected. “That is all I ask.”

He did not bow as he turned to leave, his golden cloak sweeping behind him.

You watched him go, your fingers curling slightly at your sides.

The lion had made his move.

Now, it was time to decide your own.

The tourney at Harrenhal was the grandest spectacle the realm had seen in decades, a gathering of lords and knights, of banners unfurled and sworn swords eager to prove themselves in the lists. The crumbling walls of the cursed castle loomed over the vast expanse of the field, its shadow stretching long across the gathering of nobility seated beneath richly adorned pavilions. The banners of every great house in Westeros fluttered in the early spring breeze, a riot of colors against the dull grey of Harrenhal’s ancient stones.

Cersei sat in a place of honor now, her seat among the royal family, though she was not yet their own. Not officially. But the whispers had long since spread, and the colors she wore today left no doubt.

Gone was the crimson and gold of House Lannister alone. In its place, she wore a gown of deep black, embroidered with dragons of gold and red—the colors of her betrothed. The weight of the silk clung to her as she sat beside her father, the great Lord Tywin Lannister, who had never looked more pleased, nor more controlled in his satisfaction.

She did not sit with Queen Rhaella or with Rhaegar’s Dornish wife, though Elia Martell was not far, her dark eyes keenly watching the jousts, her delicate hands clasped over the swell of her belly. Cersei knew the Martell princess found no joy in these games of blood and sport, but she played the role expected of her. Just as Cersei did.

Except today, there was something different.

Cersei’s gaze remained fixed on the field, watching as the next round of jousts commenced. The crowd was alive with anticipation, the rumbling excitement growing as knights rode forth, their lances gleaming in the afternoon light. The banners of House Baratheon, House Tyrell, House Tully, and a dozen others stood proud along the edges of the lists.

But none commanded attention quite like the black dragon.

He sat atop his destrier, the warhorse a beast of night-dark muscle, its breath misting in the cool air as it pawed at the earth. He wore no elaborate flourishes upon his armor, no unnecessary embellishments of pageantry this time. His armor was blackened steel, the filigree of golden dragons glinting faintly along the pauldrons and gauntlets, the sigil of his house emblazoned upon his breastplate. His helm, adorned with nothing but the sharp ridges of Valyrian steel, concealed his expression, but Cersei did not need to see his face to know the weight of his gaze.

He had always been like this. Unyielding. Relentless. More dragon than courtier, a man who commanded without words, without poetry or song. Where Rhaegar had always been the prince of dreams, this one had been forged in fire and steel.

The crowd hushed as the joust began.

His opponent was formidable—Ser Jonothor Darry, a sworn knight of the Kingsguard, a man known for his prowess in the lists. But skill meant nothing when faced with sheer, unrelenting force.

The moment the signal was given, the two knights charged.

Their lances struck true, but where Ser Jonothor’s shattered harmlessly upon the black dragon’s breastplate, the younger prince’s struck with the precision of a predator. The impact was brutal, sending the Kingsguard knight crashing to the ground in an explosion of dust and splintered wood.

The crowd erupted in cheers, but Cersei did not stand, did not clap. She only watched, her breath held in anticipation of what she knew was coming next.

He did not linger at the far end of the lists.

Instead, he turned his horse sharply, guiding the great beast along the edge of the stands, his movements controlled, deliberate. The other knights had played their part well today, accepting their victories with bows and flourishes, basking in the admiration of ladies eager to toss them favors.

But he did not stop for them.

He rode past the fluttering hands of noble daughters, past the bright smiles of eager young maidens hoping to catch his eye. Past the noblewomen who whispered his name behind their fans, their gazes lingering on the untamed silver of his hair, the unshakable confidence in his stride.

And then, he came to a stop.

Before her.

The hush that fell over the crowd was almost tangible, a collective breath held as the black dragon lifted his lance, tilting it toward Cersei in an unmistakable request.

A request for her favor.

She had waited years for this.

The moment she had been denied at the tourney so long ago, when he had walked past the ladies of the court without so much as a glance. The moment she had burned in silence as he had shown no interest, no desire to play the game that others so eagerly indulged in.

And now, here he was. A man, no longer a boy, standing before the court—before her—and making it known.

Cersei did not hesitate.

She rose from her seat, the black and gold of her gown pooling around her as she stepped forward. Her hands were steady as she unpinned the silken ribbon from her sleeve, the colors matching his own, a deliberate declaration that she was his and he was hers.

The crowd watched, murmuring, as she leaned down, tying the ribbon to the shaft of his lance with slow, deliberate movements. The cool steel beneath her fingers felt warm, thrumming with something unspoken, something electric.

When she finished, she met his gaze, her green eyes locking with his through the narrow slit of his helm.

She did not smile.

She did not need to.

The message was clear.

And then, without a word, he turned his horse and rode away, the black and gold trailing behind him like a banner of conquest.

Cersei sat back down, her heart pounding beneath her ribs, her fingers still tingling from where they had brushed against his.

This was no song of courtly love.

No empty gesture meant for admiration.

No, this was a claim.

And Cersei Lannister had never wanted anything more.

The chaos of the tourney had settled into an uneasy hum by the time you strode through the halls of Harrenhal, your blood still burning with the fury of what had just transpired. The air inside the great castle was thick with smoke and murmured voices, the remnants of feasting and celebration still clinging to the walls. But all of it felt like a distant haze compared to the storm raging inside you.

You had left the lists. You had withdrawn from the tourney just before facing Barristan Selmy, a match that had been anticipated by lords and knights alike. And in your absence, Rhaegar had taken your place.

And he had won.

That, in itself, did not matter. He was your brother, and if anyone was to best Barristan Selmy, it was him. But it was what came after that had sent the court into uproar, that had left the lords whispering and the ladies gasping.

Rhaegar, in all his silvered grace, had ridden past his own wife. Past Elia Martell, who had watched with her dark eyes brimming with quiet resignation. Past the woman he had sworn himself to in the sight of gods and men.

And he had crowned Lyanna Stark instead.

The blue roses had looked almost like an omen in his hands, their color rich and vibrant against the pale skin of the northern girl who stood frozen in the stands. The moment the wreath had touched her lap, the world had cracked apart.

A prince did not forsake his wife in such a way. A Targaryen did not snub Dorne. A husband did not humiliate his bride before the entire realm.

But Rhaegar had.

Because of some dream. Because of something he had seen in the flames or the stars or whatever foolish thing he had let consume his mind.

And now, you were going to make him face it.

The door to his chamber swung open with force as you stepped inside, the wood slamming against the stone wall. Rhaegar was standing by the hearth, his silver hair catching in the dim light, his hands braced against the mantel as if the weight of what he had done had only just begun to settle upon him. He did not turn immediately, as though he had been expecting you, as though he had known this confrontation was inevitable.

"You sentimental fool," you spat, your voice edged with barely restrained fury. "Do you have any idea what you have done?"

Rhaegar exhaled, slow and measured, before finally facing you. His indigo eyes were calm, but there was something else beneath them—something distant, something unshakable.

"I did what I had to," he said simply.

You laughed, the sound bitter. "Had to? Had to?" You took a step closer, your boots heavy against the stone floor. "You crowned a Stark bitch as your Queen of Love and Beauty. You humiliated your wife, insulted Dorne, and made an enemy of the North in the span of a single moment." Your voice dropped, sharp and cutting. "For what? A dream?"

Rhaegar's jaw tightened. "It is more than that."

"You think the gods whispered to you?" You sneered, your patience unraveling. "You think some prophecy—some foolish, half-formed vision—is worth tearing the realm apart?"

Rhaegar’s gaze did not waver. "She is important."

"She is a girl," you snapped. "A girl with a wolf’s blood in her veins and a house that will burn the world to see her returned to them."

"She is more than that," he insisted, his voice firm, unwavering.

Your breath came harshly as you stared at him, your older brother, the golden son, the one everyone adored, the one who had been meant to lead. But looking at him now, all you saw was a man lost in his own delusions, a man who had damned them all for a whisper in the dark.

"Do you think Aerys will forgive this?" you demanded. "Do you think our father will let this pass? Or do you think he will see treason in your actions and burn every Stark in the process?" You stepped closer, your voice a growl. "You have destroyed us. You have destroyed her."

That struck something in him. A flicker of pain. Of doubt. But it was gone as quickly as it had come.

"I know what I am doing," Rhaegar said, but there was a crack in his voice, a hint of hesitation.

"No," you said, your voice low, dangerous. "You don’t."

And then, you moved.

Rhaegar barely had time to react before your fist struck his jaw, the force sending him stumbling back against the table. He caught himself, his eyes wide with shock, but you did not stop.

You lunged, grabbing the front of his tunic, shoving him back with enough force that the wooden chair beside him toppled over. He struggled, but you were stronger, your grip unrelenting as you slammed him against the stone wall, your forearm pressing against his throat.

"Do you think love will save you, brother?" you hissed. "Do you think the North will sing your praises for this?" You leaned in closer, your breath hot against his skin. "They will kill you. They will kill all of us."

Rhaegar struggled against your grip, his hands bracing against your arms, but you did not relent. You could feel the way his breath came faster, the way his pulse quickened beneath your hand.

"You would strike me?" he rasped, his voice strained.

"I would kill you if it meant saving our house," you snarled.

For a long, heavy moment, neither of you moved. The fire crackled behind you, casting flickering shadows against the walls. Your breathing was harsh, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears.

Then, with a sharp exhale, you shoved him away, releasing him with enough force that he staggered forward, coughing as he caught his breath.

"You are my brother," you said, your voice calmer now, but no less lethal. "But if you do not stop this madness, if you do not think before you act again, I will not be so merciful next time."

Rhaegar straightened, his hand rubbing his throat, but he said nothing.

You turned, striding toward the door. But before you left, you cast one final glance over your shoulder.

"Whatever it is you think you saw," you said, your voice quiet but firm, "forget it. Before it consumes you."

Then you were gone, leaving Rhaegar standing alone in the flickering firelight, his hand still pressed against his throat.

The waters of the Trident ran red with the blood of men. The clang of steel and the screams of the dying echoed over the riverbanks, drowning in the roar of war. The banners of Targaryen and Baratheon clashed in the wind, torn by the fury of battle, their colors sullied by the mud and gore that painted the ground beneath them. The air was thick with the scent of death—iron and sweat, flesh burned from the torches that had set the fields ablaze.

You had seen war before, but never like this. Never had you seen the river choke on the bodies of the slain, never had you watched knights drown beneath the weight of their own armor as they clawed at the surface, only to be pulled under by unseen hands. Never had you seen the dream of your house shatter like this.

And all for what?

For a woman. For a prophecy. For a foolish love that had turned a kingdom to ruin.

Rhaegar had always believed in destiny. He had believed in the songs, in the visions, in the whispers of things unseen. And now, here he was, fighting in the waters of the Trident, his silvered armor glinting with each desperate strike of his sword, his breath coming ragged, his strength waning.

And then, Robert Baratheon’s warhammer struck.

You saw it before you could stop it, before you could move, before you could call out. The heavy iron weapon swung through the air with terrifying force, smashing into Rhaegar’s chest with a sickening crunch. The dragon’s armor, the rubies embedded in the plate, shattered on impact, scattering like drops of blood across the river.

Rhaegar reeled back, his body crumbling into the shallows, the water around him churning red. His sword slipped from his fingers, sinking beneath the current as he struggled to breathe.

The world slowed.

Robert turned, lifting his hammer once more, his body heaving from exertion, his face twisted in victory. He did not see you coming.

You moved like the shadow of death itself.

Your sword was in your hand before thought could form, the weight of it an extension of your will. You had been trained for this since the moment you could walk, forged not in prophecy but in war, not in dreams but in blood. You were not the prince who sang songs. You were not the prince who spoke of destiny.

You were the prince who killed.

Your blade found Robert’s flesh before he could react, slipping between the plates of his armor, piercing through his ribs. His eyes widened in shock, his mouth opening, a guttural sound escaping his lips as he staggered. You twisted the blade, feeling the warmth of his lifeblood spill over your hands as you wrenched it free.

Robert Baratheon, the would-be usurper, the man who had sworn to take the Iron Throne, collapsed at your feet, his warhammer falling from his grasp, sinking into the bloodied waters of the Trident.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Silence fell, but only for a moment.

The battle still raged around you, but you did not hear it. Did not see it. Your world had narrowed, had funneled into a single moment, into the broken body of your brother lying in the shallows, his chest rising and falling in shallow, struggling gasps.

You dropped your sword.

The water sloshed around your knees as you stepped toward him, the sounds of war fading into a dull roar. His hands trembled as they pressed against his ruined chestplate, as if he could hold himself together, as if he could stop what was coming.

You knelt beside him, your hands steady as you pulled the helm from his head. Silver hair, damp with sweat and blood, clung to his forehead, his indigo eyes unfocused as he looked up at you.

You had never seen him like this.

Rhaegar, the golden son, the dragon who had been promised, lay broken before you. The prince of prophecy, the man who had abandoned reason for fate, was dying in the waters of a river that had swallowed the dreams of so many before him.

You swallowed, your throat tightening as you reached for him. He flinched, just barely, his body trembling beneath your hands.

“I told you,” you murmured, your voice quieter than it had ever been, “this would consume you.”

His lips parted, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. He was trying to speak, but the words would not come. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth, his body shuddering beneath the weight of his wounds.

You gripped his chin, forcing him to meet your gaze. “I am sorry, brother,” you said, your voice steady.

And then, you took your dagger and drove it into his heart.

He gasped, his body jerking beneath you, his fingers twitching before going still. His indigo eyes, softer then yours, stared up at the sky, unseeing.

The river carried the rubies from his breastplate downstream, scattering them like drops of blood upon the current.

You exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of what you had done settle deep into your bones.

Rhaegar Targaryen, the prince of prophecy, was dead.

And you had kept your promise.

The Red Keep had never felt so suffocating. The great hall, with its towering pillars and high vaulted ceiling, had always been a place of power, a chamber where kings commanded and courtiers whispered. But today, there was a weight in the air, thick and stifling, pressing down upon every soul gathered within its walls. The torches burned low, the flickering flames illuminating the wary faces of those who stood in silence, waiting.

Cersei stood among them, adorned in the black and gold of her betrothed, her gown draped in rich silks, the embroidery of dragons curled along the sleeves, a symbol of the union that had been promised. She had been here before, had stood in this hall countless times, had walked these corridors knowing that one day, this would all be hers. But today, for the first time, she felt something akin to unease curling beneath her skin.

The war was won. Robert Baratheon was dead. Rhaegar was dead. The rebellion had been crushed before it could consume the realm entirely. And yet, there was no celebration in the Red Keep, no triumphant feasts or songs of victory. The court lingered like a gathering of ghosts, their eyes flitting between one another, between the door and the Iron Throne, where the king—her king—sat, unseeing, unknowing, slipping further into the madness that had taken root in his mind.

Grand Maester Pycelle stepped forward, his hands folded within the heavy sleeves of his robes, his expression carefully schooled, but even he could not hide the tremor in his voice. “Your Grace,” he murmured, bowing deeply, his white beard brushing against his chest, “Prince—” he hesitated, correcting himself, “—your son, and Lord Tywin Lannister, stand at the gates of the city. They come with their armies, victorious.”

A hush fell over the chamber, the words settling like a cold weight upon them all.

Cersei felt it, the pang of relief that coursed through her at the knowledge that her father was here, that he was here. She had waited for this moment, had clung to the certainty that they would return, that they would see this war ended, that they would not let the realm descend into chaos.

But the silence that followed Pycelle’s words was heavy, stretching unbearably long before Aerys finally stirred upon his throne.

The king’s fingers tapped against the armrest, slow and erratic, the nail of his smallest finger broken, dark with dried blood. His robes, once resplendent in crimson and black, hung loose around his thinning frame, his silver hair unkempt, his lips twitching as he glanced toward the gathered court, eyes darting from face to face, searching for treason in every shadow.

“And you would have me open my gates to them?” Aerys’s voice was biting, brittle, like glass that had already cracked but had yet to shatter completely.

Pycelle hesitated. “They are your loyal subjects, Your Grace. They have won your war.”

Aerys let out a short, high laugh, a sound that sent an uncomfortable shiver through the chamber. “My war?” he echoed, his voice rising. “My war?” He shifted upon the throne, his fingers curling into the carved dragon heads at its arms. “This war is far from over. The traitors still breathe. The wolves, the falcons, the dragonslayers.” His lips peeled back in something that was not quite a smile, his teeth bared like a starving dog eyeing a fresh kill. “My fire has yet to consume them all.”

Cersei’s jaw tightened, her hands folding at her waist to keep them from trembling.

This was not the king her father had once served. This was not the ruler of Westeros. This was a man who had been swallowed whole by his own madness, who had turned his throne into a cage from which he would never escape.

She looked to Jaime, standing rigid in his white cloak, his hand resting upon the pommel of his sword. His expression was unreadable, but she could see it in his eyes—the quiet war within him, the battle between duty and the reality of the man he had sworn to protect.

Aerys shifted again, his gaze snapping back to Pycelle. “They mean to replace me,” he whispered, though the words were spoken loudly enough for all to hear. “They mean to usurp me, just as Rhaegar—” he cut himself off, his mouth twisting as if he had bitten into something rotten. “I will not open my gates. Let them beg like the rest.”

Before Pycelle could find his voice, before anyone could speak, the great doors of the hall groaned open, the heavy iron hinges shrieking under the weight of movement.

The court turned.

And the world shifted.

The golden lion entered first.

Tywin Lannister stepped into the hall with the same measured confidence he had always carried, his cloak billowing behind him, his armor polished and gleaming, the lion of his house emblazoned upon his breastplate. The light of the torches flickered against the edges of his face, his cold green eyes scanning the chamber with the practiced ease of a man who had already decided the fate of those within it.

And beside him, walking with slow, deliberate steps, was the dragon.

He was no longer the prince who had once stood at Rhaegar’s side, no longer the shadow behind the dreamer. He was something else entirely now.

The black and gold of his armor had been darkened by war, the dragon wings carved into his pauldrons glinting like the edges of a blade. His long pale hair, damp with sweat, clung to his jawline, his face unreadable beneath the weight of the past days. He had killed Robert Baratheon. He had killed Rhaegar. He had crushed the rebellion at the Trident with his own hands.

And now, he had returned.

The hush that fell over the court was suffocating. No one spoke. No one dared move.

Aerys, for the first time in days, was silent.

Cersei’s breath caught in her throat.

She had seen him fight before. Had seen him ride, had seen him command. But this… this was something new.

This was not a man returning in victory.

This was a conqueror standing before a king who no longer ruled.

And as Tywin Lannister took another step forward, as the prince followed in silent, watchful step, the entire court felt it.

The tides had turned.

And the Red Keep would never be the same again.

The silence in the great hall stretched unbearably, thick with unspoken words and the weight of what was about to come. Cersei sat rigid in her place among the courtiers, her green eyes locked upon the two figures now striding toward the throne, toward the unraveling king who perched atop it, his fingers twitching against the armrests of blackened iron.

Tywin Lannister was composed as always, his every step slow, deliberate, a lion stalking the last moments before a kill. He did not look at the assembled lords, did not acknowledge the way their gazes flickered nervously between him and the throne. He had served in this hall for years, had commanded from behind the throne, had once been the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. And now, he had returned, but not as a servant.

At his side, the younger prince walked in equal silence, though his presence was something altogether different. There was no caution in his steps, no hesitation in the way he carried himself. His violet eyes, dark and unreadable, did not waver as they settled upon the throne and the mad king who sat upon it.

Cersei’s breath was shallow, her fingers gripping the fabric of her gown beneath the table, unseen. She had spent years longing for this moment, for the war to be over, for her father’s return, for her betrothed to claim what was rightfully his. But now that it was happening, now that the moment had come, she could not shake the feeling curling in her stomach—the certainty that nothing would be the same after today.

Aerys Targaryen tilted his head slightly as Tywin and his son approached, his lips parting into something like a smile, but it was wrong—stretched too thin, twitching at the corners. His nails drummed erratically against the throne, the jagged edges of his seat pressing into his thin frame. He had wasted away in these last moons.

Tywin stopped before the dais, but it was the younger prince who spoke first.

“The war is over,” his voice cut through the chamber like a blade, smooth but firm, unyielding. “You have won, Father. Step down. Rest.”

Aerys blinked.

And then, he laughed.

The sound was shrill, fractured, peeling into the air like the screech of metal against metal. It rang through the chamber, bouncing off the walls, sending a ripple of unease through the assembled lords and courtiers.

“Step down?” Aerys cackled, shaking his head violently. “Step down?” His eyes darted between them, lingering on his son, his expression twisting. “You sound just like Tywin. Is that what this is? Has he turned you against me? Has he promised you something grand? Has he filled your head with ambition?”

Cersei saw the flicker of something in her betrothed’s eyes, but he did not react, did not shift under his father’s manic scrutiny. “There is no one left to fight,” he said simply. “No one left to burn.”

Aerys stilled, his fingers curling tightly against the armrests.

“I will burn them all,” he whispered, his voice suddenly low, almost childlike. “I will burn them all before I let them take my throne. Before I let you take my throne.”

The king’s breathing was erratic, his lips twitching as his gaze darted wildly, his mind slipping further from reason. His fingers found the edge of his robes, curling into them, as if seeking comfort, as if seeking control.

The younger prince took a slow step forward.

“Then kill me.”

Aerys’s gaze snapped to his son, his body tensing.

Cersei’s breath caught in her throat.

The room went still.

The younger prince spread his arms slightly, exposing the dark armor that bore the sigil of their house, the dragon of three heads gleaming in the dim torchlight. His dark violet eyes were steady, unblinking, fixed solely upon his father.

“If you believe I mean to take your throne,” he continued, his voice calm, unwavering, “then do it. Kill me, and prove to them all that you are still king.”

Aerys’s fingers twitched.

Cersei saw it then—the hesitation, the flicker of confusion in the king’s eyes, the way his mind scrambled to process the words, to grasp at what was real and what was not.

Aerys let out a shuddering breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His gaze flickered to the guards, to the pyromancers standing near the edge of the chamber, to the ones who had whispered to him of fire and destruction, who had fed the growing madness within him.

His lips curled, baring his teeth.

He opened his mouth—

And then, steel flashed.

A gasp rippled through the chamber, a choked sound of surprise and horror as Aerys jerked forward, his body convulsing.

For a moment, he sat motionless upon the throne, his breath caught in his throat, his hands twitching.

Then, slowly, he turned his head.

And behind him, standing at the foot of the Iron Throne, was Jaime Lannister.

His white cloak billowed slightly, his sword still buried in the king’s back, his expression unreadable. Blood pooled around the hilt, a crimson stain spreading against the deep red of Aerys’s robes.

The king let out a ragged breath, his body shuddering as his hands gripped the arms of the throne. His lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came. Only the sound of a wet, choking gasp.

Jaime ripped the sword free.

Aerys pitched forward.

He tumbled from the throne, falling in a heap at the younger prince’s feet, the light in his wild eyes flickering out before his head hit the stone.

The chamber was deathly silent.

Cersei stared, her mind racing, her heart hammering against her ribs. She had imagined Aerys dead before, had dreamed of it, had longed for it in the quiet of her thoughts, but never had she imagined it would happen like this.

Never had she imagined that it would be Jaime who struck the fatal blow.

Jaime stood rigid, his Kingsguard whites now stained crimson, his breath coming harsh and uneven. His sword—his oath-sworn blade—was slick with the blood of the man he had once sworn to protect.

The silence was still deafening.

Cersei could not breathe.

The king was dead.

Her betrothed stared down at the body, his expression unreadable, his dark violet eyes cold and fathomless.

And then, he sighed.

He stepped over the corpse, past the fallen king, past the pools of blood that seeped between the cracks in the stone.

He did not look at Jaime.

He did not look at Tywin.

He only walked forward.

And with each step, Cersei knew.

The throne was his now.

And nothing—not gods, not kings, not the ashes of the war—would ever take it from him.

The Sept of Baelor had never felt so vast, nor so heavy with silence. The high, arched ceilings, adorned with delicate carvings of the Seven, loomed above, their presence eternal, unyielding. The colored light from the stained-glass windows painted the marble floors in hues of crimson and gold, deep blue and shadowed green, reflecting the gods who watched as the realm turned upon its axis.

It was quiet now, save for the soft murmurs of the septons preparing the altar, the shuffle of feet as nobles found their places among the pews. The air smelled of myrrh and melted wax, of incense curling through the air in thin, ghostly tendrils. The weight of history settled over the sacred space, for today was not just a wedding—it was the binding of a kingdom, the final stitch in the tapestry of a conquest that had begun with fire and ended with blood.

And at the altar, waiting beneath the flickering glow of a hundred candles, stood the king.

He was clad in black and gold, the armor of war now set aside for the regality of rule. His tunic, woven from the finest Valyrian silk, bore the sigil of House Targaryen, the three-headed dragon emblazoned across his chest in thread of red and black. The heavy cloak that draped over his shoulders was fastened by a golden clasp in the shape of a dragon’s head, the metal gleaming in the dim light. His silver hair, untamed as ever, fell past his shoulders, unbound by the ceremonial circlet of Valyrian steel that crowned his brow.

He was a king now. Her king.

Cersei stood just beyond the great doors of the Sept, waiting as the moment stretched unbearably. The weight of her gown, a cascade of golden silk embroidered with dragons in red and black, felt heavier than it should have, the tightness of her bodice almost suffocating. The jewels at her throat gleamed, the rubies nestled within gold settings catching the light as she breathed. She was beautiful—radiant even—but there was a sharpness beneath her beauty now, something carved from the past moons, from the war, from the weight of what was about to happen.

Tywin Lannister stood beside her, his expression unreadable, his hands clasped behind his back in that controlled, measured way of his. But Cersei could feel it—the change in him, the subtle shift of his ambitions, the moment when he realized that what was unfolding before him was not the future he had originally planned.

No, this was something far more terrible. And far more perfect.

He had once envisioned his daughter as the wife of Rhaegar, the quiet queen beside the dragon prince who played his harp and dreamed of prophecies. That had been his path to power, his way to secure his dynasty. But now, she was to wed not the prince of songs, but the dragon of war.

She was not marrying a man who played at prophecy.

She was marrying the man who had killed his brother to take the throne.

"You should be proud," Tywin said, his voice smooth, deliberate. "You will be queen, as I always intended."

Cersei turned her gaze to her father, tilting her chin slightly. "You did not intend this," she said, her voice light, almost teasing, but there was an edge beneath it.

Tywin studied her, his green eyes flickering with something unreadable. "No," he admitted after a pause. "Not like this."

Cersei smiled, slow and knowing. "And yet, this is better, isn’t it?"

Tywin did not answer immediately, but she saw it—the way his jaw shifted slightly, the way his gaze flickered toward the doors of the Sept, toward the man who waited within.

"This is not a man who will be ruled," he said at last.

Cersei’s smile did not fade. "No," she agreed. "He will not."

Her father exhaled, a slow breath, before offering her his arm. "Come, then. It is time."

Cersei placed her hand upon his arm, her fingers resting lightly against the crimson silk of his sleeve. Together, they stepped forward, the great doors of the Sept opening before them, revealing the path to the altar, where the man who had reshaped the kingdom in fire and blood stood waiting.

She felt every pair of eyes upon her as she walked—lords and ladies, knights and septons, the great and the powerful, all witnessing the moment that would bind her fate to the most dangerous man in Westeros.

And as she stepped closer, her gaze met his.

His dark violet eyes held hers, steady, unblinking, as if he had known all along that it would come to this. As if he had always known that no matter what had been planned before, no matter the fate her father had once written for her, this had been inevitable.

She was not marrying a dreamer.

She was marrying a dragon.

And she had never wanted anything more.

The chambers given to the King and his new Queen were vast, their grandeur unmatched by any in the Red Keep. The canopy bed, carved from dark mahogany, was adorned in black and crimson, the silks smooth beneath Cersei’s fingers as she stood in the center of the chamber, feeling the weight of expectation settle upon her shoulders. The air was thick with the lingering scent of wine and candle wax, the remnants of the feast still echoing in the halls beyond, though the laughter and music had long since faded.

She barely heard it now.

Her heart pounded in her chest, but it was not from fear. No, she had never feared this. This was what she had longed for, what she had envisioned in the quiet corners of her mind, in the years she had been denied.

The doors shut behind her with a deep, resonant sound, sealing them within the chamber. She did not turn immediately, but she felt him. Felt his presence like the heat of a fire growing ever closer.

When she did turn, he was there, standing in the flickering glow of the hearth, his violet eyes dark beneath the crown he had not yet removed. The circlet of Valyrian steel rested upon his brow, but his tunic was already loosened at the collar, his hands working at the fastenings with deliberate ease.

Cersei exhaled, slowly, tilting her chin upward, her green eyes locking onto his with the same unshakable defiance she had carried through the years. She was not a timid maiden, not some meek girl to be taken gently, to be coaxed with whispers of love and careful touches. That had never been what she wanted.

She stepped toward him, the golden embroidery of her gown catching the candlelight.

"Are you going to make me wait?" she murmured, her voice smooth, edged with challenge.

A slow smirk curled at the corner of his lips, though his eyes remained focused, unwavering. He said nothing, only watching her, assessing, as though weighing the hunger in her voice against his own.

Then, with a single motion, he shed the heavy cloak from his shoulders, the fabric pooling onto the floor behind him.

The space between them vanished in an instant.

His hands were upon her, not soft, not hesitant—strong fingers curling around her waist, pulling her flush against him, the heat of his body searing through the silks that still clung to her. She gasped, but it was not in protest. No, she arched into him, her fingers finding the clasps of his tunic, working them apart as his mouth found the skin of her throat, his breath hot against her pulse.

"Not gentle, are you?" she whispered against his ear, her nails scraping against his skin as she shoved the fabric from his shoulders.

His response was a low, amused growl. "Would you want me to be?"

Cersei laughed, low and breathless. "No."

She felt the shift, the way his grip tightened, the way his restraint frayed like a rope pulled too taut. He did not waste time, did not treat this like some delicate courtship. He was fire and strength, unyielding in the way he pressed her back against the edge of the bed, in the way he tore at the laces of her gown, the fabric slipping from her shoulders, pooling at her feet.

Her skin burned beneath his touch, every nerve alight, but she did not falter. She met him with equal fervor, her fingers tangling in his hair, her mouth claiming his with the same demand, the same hunger that had simmered between them since the moment she had first seen him.

Their bodies collided, limbs tangled, hands bruising, lips parting only for breath, only for more.

He did not worship her like some fragile thing.

He took her.

And she let him.

The world narrowed to the heat of his body above her, to the way his fingers dug into her hips as he thrust into her, each movement forcing a gasp from her lips, each stroke deeper, rougher, claiming her in a way no man had before.

She met him with the same force, her nails scoring against his back, her legs wrapping around him, pulling him closer, taking all that he gave and demanding more. There was no patience, no soft murmurs of affection. Only the raw, unrelenting rhythm of their bodies, the sound of their mingled breath, the fevered gasps swallowed by the night.

It was not sweet.

It was not gentle.

It was a battle.

And neither of them surrendered.

It was only when the fire reached its peak, when the pressure built to the breaking point, that he groaned her name against her throat, his body shuddering as he spilled inside her, the last vestiges of control snapping as he buried himself deep within her.

Cersei gasped, her own release crashing over her like a wave, her back arching, her fingers curling against his skin as she trembled beneath him.

The world stilled, their breath the only sound in the chamber.

His weight pressed against her for a moment longer before he shifted, his lips brushing against her shoulder, his breath warm against her damp skin.

Then, his voice came, low, rough, edged with something unreadable.

"Is this what you wished for?"

Cersei turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze, her own breath still uneven.

She did not smile.

She did not hesitate.

"Yes," she whispered. "And more."

The great hall of the Red Keep had always been a place of power, but now, as the banners of House Targaryen draped over the towering pillars and the Iron Throne loomed above, it was something more. It was the beating heart of the realm, the seat of a dynasty reforged in war, tempered in fire and blood. The torches burned low, casting flickering shadows over the polished stone floors, their light dancing across the scaled sigil of House Targaryen carved deep into the walls.

Cersei sat upon the dais, clad in black and crimson, her golden hair bound in intricate braids that crowned her head like a queen’s diadem. She had ruled beside her husband for years now, had seen the kingdom shaped under his reign, had birthed his heirs. And now, as she watched the great doors of the hall swing open, she knew that today would be another moment upon which history would turn.

Eddard Stark stepped into the chamber, his steps slow, deliberate, the wolf of Winterfell standing tall even in the lion’s den. The banners of House Stark, grey and white, did not fly here, but he carried the weight of his house in his stance, in the quiet steel of his gaze. His wife, Catelyn, walked beside him, her expression composed but wary, and behind them followed their household—Benjen Stark, grim and watchful, and the great lords of the North who had ridden south in the name of justice.

And yet, before their eyes could settle upon the throne, before they could bow before the dragon who ruled from its seat, their gazes fell upon something else entirely.

Three children sat at their mother’s side, dressed in Targaryen black, their silver hair gleaming beneath the light of the torches.

The eldest, Aerion, no more than ten, sat with all the composure of his father, his dark violet eyes steady, his expression unreadable. He bore the strength of his lineage, the sharp lines of his father’s face already beginning to take shape. Beside him sat his sister, Rhaenys, seven, her curls cascading over her shoulders, her gaze keen and curious, though tempered with the same regal poise as her mother. And the youngest, Daemon, barely five, leaned slightly against Cersei’s arm, his small fingers curled around the edge of her sleeve, though his sharp eyes studied the Northern guests with unblinking intensity.

The sight of them was undeniable. They were dragons.

And for the briefest moment, Eddard Stark faltered.

Cersei saw it—the flicker of something in his eyes, the way his lips pressed into a thin line, as though he had glimpsed a future that had long been denied him.

"Lord Stark," she greeted, her voice smooth, unwavering. "Winterfell has come a long way from the North to stand in our halls."

Eddard inclined his head, slow and measured. "Your Grace." His gaze flickered briefly to her children before returning to her. "It was not a journey made lightly."

Cersei smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. "Few journeys are."

A beat of silence passed, heavy with the weight of the years that had led to this moment.

"I have come to speak with the King," Eddard said finally, his voice firm, but not without caution. "To demand justice for the deaths of my father and brother, slain under the rule of Aerys Targaryen."

The hall was silent save for the distant crackle of the torches.

Cersei tilted her head slightly, her gaze never leaving his. "Justice?" she echoed, amusement curling at the edge of her voice. "And tell me, Lord Stark, what justice do you seek from a man who had no hand in their deaths?"

Eddard’s jaw tightened. "Aerys may be dead, but his crimes remain unpunished."

Cersei leaned forward slightly, resting her elbow upon the armrest of her chair. "The Mad King burned your father alive, yes. And his son, the one you would have raised banners for, the one you fought against us for, stood by and did nothing." She let the words sink in before she continued. "My husband did not."

Eddard’s eyes darkened. "Your husband is a Targaryen, just as Aerys was."

"And your friend, Robert Baratheon, was a traitor," Cersei countered, her voice sharpening. "Yet you followed him to war. You killed for him. You bled for him." She smiled, slow and cold. "Tell me, Lord Stark, is it justice you seek? Or is it vengeance?"

Eddard exhaled through his nose, his hand clenching at his side.

Cersei did not move, did not break his gaze, but she felt the small shift beside her, the way Aerion straightened slightly, the way Rhaenys glanced between them, already keenly aware of the weight of the conversation. Even Daemon, barely past his fifth name day, watched with quiet intensity.

Finally, after a long moment, Eddard spoke.

"There must be peace," he said. "The North will not rise against the throne, but neither will it forget what was done to us."

Cersei inhaled, then exhaled slowly.

"You stand in a hall that bears the banners of House Targaryen," she said, her voice quiet but edged with steel. "You stand before the wife of the King, before his heirs. The war is over, Lord Stark. It has been over for years. Whatever vengeance you carry in your heart, whatever ghosts still haunt you, they will not change what is."

Eddard’s gaze flickered, but he said nothing.

The great doors of the hall creaked open once more, and the presence that filled the chamber was undeniable.

The King had arrived.

The hush that fell was immediate, a ripple of bows and lowered heads as the ruler of Westeros strode toward the dais, his cloak billowing behind him, his dark violet gaze taking in the gathered lords with quiet command.

Cersei did not turn to greet him; she did not need to.

She simply smiled.

The dragon had come.

And whatever justice Eddard Stark sought, he would find only the rule of fire and blood.

...

The silence between you and Eddard Stark stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring, unspoken words simmering between you, unyielding as the cold of the North he had come from.

His eyes, grey as a winter storm, held no fear, no wavering hesitation. He had come here not as a petitioner, not as a man seeking favor, but as a son, as a brother, as the last of his house who remembered the day Aerys burned Rickard Stark alive, the day Brandon Stark strangled himself in chains, clawing for a sword that would never come.

“I ask for my father’s and brother’s remains,” Eddard said, his voice steady but edged with something deeper, something that had been buried beneath years of duty and restraint. “They were left to rot in the dungeons of this keep. I would see them returned to Winterfell, to be laid to rest beside their kin.”

The hall was silent.

Cersei sat beside you, watching with an expression as still as a painted mask, her golden hair glinting under the dim light of the torches. Your children, the future of your house, watched with quiet intensity—Aerion, regal and composed, his eyes betraying nothing, Rhaenys, sharp and curious, and Daemon, young but already understanding that power was not just in words, but in how they were spoken.

You exhaled slowly, fingers tapping once against the armrest of your throne before nodding. “It will be done,” you said simply. “You have my word.”

Eddard held your gaze for a moment longer, as if measuring the weight of your promise, as if still trying to reconcile the man who sat before him with the legacy of the house you bore. Then, he inclined his head, slow, deliberate. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He turned, the final act of his duty seemingly fulfilled, his cloak shifting as he moved toward the doors. The North had come for its dead, and soon it would leave, retreating back to the lands of snow and silence.

But you were not done.

“Stark.”

Your voice carried across the hall, smooth, measured, but there was something beneath it, something that made him stop in his tracks.

Slowly, Eddard turned back, his grey eyes wary.

You tilted your head slightly, studying him, watching the way his shoulders stiffened ever so slightly beneath the weight of what he thought had been laid to rest.

“They were both fools,” you said, your voice quiet, but edged with something biting. “Your brother, my brother. But Lyanna… she was just as much to blame.”

The shift in him was subtle, but you saw it. The way his jaw tightened, the flicker of something behind his eyes, something long buried, long silenced.

“You know it,” you continued, watching him carefully, gauging the way his breath came just a fraction slower, as if he were bracing himself. “Perhaps you have always known it, but you could never say it. You could never let yourself believe it. Because if she was not stolen, if she was not taken… then what does that make her?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

A muscle in Eddard’s jaw twitched, but still, he did not speak.

You leaned forward slightly, resting your forearms against the arms of your throne, your gaze never leaving his. “I was there the day my brother died, Stark. I saw it. I saw the way his chest was caved in, the way the rubies from his armor scattered into the river like blood upon the water. And in his final breath, do you know what he looked for?” You tilted your head. “Not his wife. Not his children. Not his house. He looked for her.”

Eddard’s breath came slow, controlled, but you saw the tremor in his fingers, the way they curled into fists at his sides.

“They destroyed us,” you murmured, your voice lower now, the words curling through the air like embers caught in the wind. “Together. Not just Rhaegar. Not just Aerys. Lyanna, too. She was no mere girl stolen in the night, no innocent thing torn from her home. She ran with him. She chose him.” You let the words sink in, let the weight of them settle upon the man who had built his life upon the ruins they had left behind. “And for what? A prophecy neither of them understood? A love that was doomed before it even began?”

Eddard’s throat worked, his breath heavy, controlled, though his face betrayed nothing.

You leaned back, exhaling slowly. “I wonder, Lord Stark, how long you’ve known the truth,” you mused, tilting your head slightly. “Or is it that you never allowed yourself to see it?”

A long silence stretched between you, the weight of unspoken truths pressing upon the hall like the final embers of a dying fire.

Finally, Eddard inhaled, slow and steady. His face remained unreadable, but there was something behind his eyes now, something colder, something resolved.

“I came for justice,” he said at last. “Not for ghosts.”

You smiled, slow and knowing. “Then you have what you came for.”

Eddard Stark turned without another word, his cloak sweeping behind him as he strode toward the doors, the weight of the past trailing in his wake.

The doors groaned open, the cold wind of the North whispering through the hall as he disappeared into the shadows beyond.

And just like that, the last remnants of the rebellion, the last echoes of the war that had shaped the world, faded into silence.

Cersei exhaled softly beside you, her fingers brushing over the armrest of her chair, her golden hair catching in the dim light as she watched the doors close.

You did not move.

The past was gone.

And the future was yours, like it was promised.