#In the sepulchre there by the sea | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

barbieaemond · 8 months

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The King of Qarth I

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Qartheen f!reader (use of third perspective)

Warnings: angst, dubcon (but not really), handjob, fingering, p in v, hints at sexual trauma, self indulgent use of sorcery

Word count: 11k (i know...i'm sorry...)

Author’s note: The foreign words you’ll find are stolen from Greek. Second and final part coming in two weeks. English is not my first language.

taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @arcielee @succnfuccubus @zaldritzosrose @kckt88 @venmondiese @miraclealignertlsp369 @ilikechocolatemilkh @credulouskhaleesi @bunbunbl0gs

He had taken each one of them. Dragons, power, the Crown. Snatched them from whatever divine plan the Gods had concocted, for others, never for him, and perhaps this was their punishment.

Death would’ve been a far too kind blessing, he would come to realise in one of those endless days spent wandering, roaming to find some meal, a softer clod to lie on, an identity.

Prince, Protector of the Realm, Rider of Vhagar, Blood of Old Valyria.

They were nothing more than shrouds. Once stripped of them, what was left was merely a man.

And a son. That’s what his mother saw when they threw him on the ground of the Throne Room.

Crawling on her knees like some commoner, she begged and sobbed until her voice became raw and her throat hoarse, chanting obsessively the same plea over and over like a mad woman.

"Please...have mercy in the name of the Mother… my only son...” she had bent so much as to graze the toe of Corlys Velaryon's boots with her face. “you took them all...you took them all...”

Whether she was talking to the Sea Snake, Rhaenyra, the Gods or fate, Aemond didn’t know. He didn’t know the woman kneeling before him, if he ever truly knew her. You cannot know ghosts, only walk through them.

He could not look at her. He turned his head and watched over that crowd of traitors looking down on him, as if they themselves had not looted, slaughtered, and burned more innocent than guilty.

Trained puppets they were, obeying like green little soldiers to Cregan Stark, a northern savage who had taken upon himself the right and duty to do justice. Corlys Velaryon knew it well, having spent days and nights in the dungeons as an accomplice in the poisoning of Aegon the Elder. And there they were, taking over the reins of a kingdom shattered and embittered by war.

But with the promise of Alysanne Blackwood’s hand in marriage, the Wolf had been tamed. He had stopped howling about trials and executions. Now, caution moved and bogged down their decisions. But one thing was clear as a law written in stone: there had to be peace, no matter the cost. Hence, a marriage had been arranged, between two children who, for no reason, had been taught to see the other as the enemy, whose eyes had seen too much death; orphaned and thrown like marbles into a game that brought neither smiles nor laughter to their sepulchral mouths.

She was looking at him, Jaehaera, and in her empty eyes Aemond could see Helaena climbing up the windowsill and letting herself fall.

“What happened to Vhagar?” The Sea Snake asked “Kinslayer! What about your dragon?”

"Dead.” He lied, although he didn’t know for how long that lie would remain so. That rope in his heart had loosened, weakened, but it still held. She must have crawled off to some remote place, perhaps beyond the Neck, to recover from the injuries to her neck and right wing.

Then the Sea Snake had turned his back, consulting with his council of leeches. Exile. He heard them say. Essos. And then that word he hadn’t heard for a long time. Dragonless. A kinder word for useless. Powerless.

“Let him go, Corlys. He’s always been a spoiled brat. He won’t survive for long in those savage lands.” Someone said outside the cell they threw him in, shackled with chains on wrists and ankles like some rabid dog.

He won’t survive for long.

How he wished they were right. How he wished to look into the beady eyes of the Stranger.

Alicent would curse him, perhaps she would slap him as she used to slap Aegon for being so blasphemous, not to the Gods, but to her. Aemond was no father, and no matter how much he could try, he’d never understood the fierce, unforgiving grip motherhood had on a woman.

When he saw her for the last time before being thrown on a ship to Braavos, he realized it was the only tether that kept her alive. Him and Jaehaera.

“Just a little longer, please…just a little…” she pleaded to his jailers. With the arranged marriage, cruelties had softened, and concessions became more frequent. The Dowager Queen was granted to see her son for the last time.

“Mother!” he screamed as they dragged him away “Keep your fucking hands off me!”

He needed to speak to her. He needed her to tell him she was lying.

“Mother, there’s a woman…”

“The Strong witch? Aemond, she’s…They captured our last allies from the Reach and…they said they found a woman in the woods but…she was in pain…and bleeding….”

The Gods’ punishment flowed through the long-cowled robe of the Stranger. And he took them all.

Aegon, Helaena, Daeron. Alys and the baby.

Alicent could not bear to see the last piece of her flesh and bones being cloaked by the cold shroud of the Stranger. And so, she crawled and begged to preserve his existence.

But that, that was no existence.

It was a limbo, a hanging life for the damned. And he was one, wasn't he? He killed kin, he killed innocent men, women and children, coming from above like a heaven banished God unleashing his wrath on the world. And even gods pay for their sins.

Only he would gladly have stuck his head in a noose or waited for the hangman's blade, a death worthy of a soldier, rather than wandering like a derelict, rootless and restless, with that rope pulling and fraying day after day. Or Weeks? Moons? He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d set foot in that limbo.

He seemed to be living in a slumber, a Milk of the Poppy hallucination. And yet, the ground was real beneath his exhausted feet, as was the heat, and at some point, the hunger.

The leeches had tried to appear civil and compassionate, lying to his mother’s face about the gold they would give him, to sustain himself once reached the East. But naturally, they didn’t keep their word. If he died of starvation, he was sure they would have lit a candle to each God in the Grand Sept. They probably prayed for that to happen.

Or maybe not. Maybe there was no greater gratification and source of amusement to know that the haughty Prince Aemond was tasting the everyday humiliation of having to steal in order not to starve, of not having clean clothes, feather pillows to lie on, the disgrace of not being able to give orders to anyone, but rather having to suffer them.

He stayed in Bravoos for a short time. It was too dangerous, too close to Westeros and too wary if anyone ever caught the color of his hair under the cloak’s hood. He remembered his history books quite well. It was the only one among the Free Cities that did not yield to the Valyrian empire; indeed, it was founded by a group of rebellious slaves fled from the tyranny of the Dragon Lords.

Volantis, on the contrary, worshipped the Old Empire. But in equal measure, they worshipped slavery. The city swarmed with mercenaries and slavers, peddling men and women like meat for slaughter, ready at every corner to steal children from the streets. And in Volantis Aemond understood that if he did not want to end up in some butcher’s hands, he had to be what he had always been: a soldier. For he realized that everywhere in the world, the most valuable currency was not gold, nor castles and titles, but blood.

This man for new fresh clothes, that woman for few gold coins and a mattress to rest his back, not to sleep. Sleep eluded him, as well as remorse. Unless his body shut his mind out of exhaustion, he lied there for hours on end, with blood drying on his hands, listening to all the ghosts floating around him, and trying to find a grip—something to hold on to. Duty had been the blacksmith who forged him and the altar to which he devoted himself. Duty to his family, his brother, the crown, the throne, even Alys, yes. For all her riddles and stumps of prophecy, he wanted her. He wanted that son.

But here, he had no high purpose to serve but himself. Stripped of all honors and many more curses, he fell into a daylong stupor, made of blood, humiliations and silent cries for revenge.

Until one day, the rope went taut.

Vhagar burned away the stupor. She had found him. For the second time, she had been his salvation. And on her back, he found a fragment of who he was, but who he was supposed to be remained a distant thing, clouded in smoke.

He flew south, over the ruins of Old Valyria, and then east, crossing all of Vaes Dothrak to the Red Waste, and by the time he realized he should've veered north or south, it was too late.

He was in the middle of the widest and driest desert on the eastern continent.

The Garden of Bones, as they called it, and with good reason. For in those few times that Aemond decided to land to allow Vhagar to rest, all his eye could see were sand, devilgrass and bones. But he didn’t care about the thirst, the dry and cracked lips, the white tow his hair had become.

Vhagar was his only concern. She was starving. She could not fly too high in the skies. And so, along with all the misery and humiliation, came the dread. For if Vhagar died, the last rope, the last tether, which had perhaps kept him alive up to that point, and perhaps kept her alive, would break.

But then, just as it happens in some book of adventures, or simply in dreams, a mirage, a true oasis in the middle of the desert, surrounded by the highest walls ever built in the history of men, guarding the greatest city that ever was and will be: Qarth.

“Hmm” she ponders, pursing her lips. “I’m not sure about this one. What do you think, Nyla?”

The young maid stops her morning chore and blushes. “I think it would match your skin wonderfully, your Highness.”

She hears giggling behind her shoulders, where two of her most trusted maids are braiding her hair after oiling them with mirrh and cinnamon. “You hear that, Nyla? They’re questioning your candor.”

“I am not, your Highness.” says Dora, one of the giggling girls. “But if you were looking for a less partial opinion, let’s say a more objective one...you should have asked me or Mysha.”

“Well, as it happens, I was looking precisely for a partial opinion. Look at her. She’s changing my chamber pot and still, she thinks that shade of purple would suit me wonderfully. Oh Nyla, I think you will soon become my favorite.”

“Is that a yes then, your Highness?” the merchant wastes no time to ask, standing in the center of the room with silk drapes of several colors resting along his arm.

“Yes, Jorio. Two yards of that purple silk.”

The merchant nods swiftly, too swiftly she notices. The man is acting awkwardly since the moment he stepped into her private rooms. Usually, he’s a big talker, a true born seller. He could make believe one could heal from Greyscale if they just wrap themselves in the soft embrace of his silks. But not today. He seems in a hurry. The exhibition of his goods too quick and excited. And then the sweat, lumped in a wet sheen around his bald head.

“Anything else, your Highness?”

Her forehead creases, acknowledging a thought, new but not quite, as if it has always been there. “Perhaps something green?” she ventures.

“Green?” inquires Misha “That’s a first.”

She shakes her head in a dismissing way. “Must be my father’s sorcery.”

The shadows, kóri, they speak to you.

“What do you have in green, Jorio?”

The merchant fumbles with his silks, a turmoil moves his hands clumsily until a few drapes of fabric flutter on the ground. He stoops to pick them up, only to drop the others still clinging onto his shoulder in a chaotic rainbow of colors on the white marble floor.

“Jorio, what is the matter with you today?”

“I—Nothing, your Highness, my apologies...”

“You know if you have problems with your trades, the Salt King and I would be more than happy to help you.”

“It’s not that—no. Must be all the fuss in town.”

“Pirates again?”

“Uhm—no, it’s the…beast outside the walls.”

“The beast? What beast?”

The man swallows, visibly. “A dragon, your Highness. A huge dragon, higher than the city walls.”

“But…that is not possible...” Misha tries.

“I’m telling what I saw with my own eyes. The Thirteen gathered outside the walls. I saw the Spice King along my way here. He said they were about to parley with the Milk man, see through his reasons.”

"Milk Men don’t ride dragons.” she corrects, standing from the soft cushions piled and spread on the ground. “This man’s hair…what color are they?”

“White as midday sun.”

"Your Highness! Come..."

The Salt Queen joins Dora on one of the brightly sunlit balconies overlooking the Route of Trade. There is indeed a great bustle in the town, a motionless bustle however, gazing with open mouths and bewildered eyes at the small procession moving up the street. The City Guard is leading, with their shields and spears to protect The Thirteen, rulers of the most important trading city in the world. They are all dressed in bright colours and precious jewels embroidered in their silk tunics, hanging from their necks, wrists and fingers.

If she narrows her eyes, The Salt Queen can swear she can see the gold ring her husband wears on his nose. What catches her eye though, is not gold or any other bright color, but black, and then white.

There is a man walking down the street with the thirteen, a tall man with plain dark clothes and a mantle of silver hair, white as midday sun.

“Wife, may I introduce you to our noble guest?”

A woman comes forward to greet him when Aemond enters a lavish hall with several windows adorned with colorful drapes of silk. He is sure he has never seen so much marble in his life, feeling even more inappropriate given the state of his clothes and his whole demeanor, shamefully far from the clean, soldierly appearance that left mouth agape.

“Prince Aemond of House Targaryen, from Westeros.” The Salt King declares as the woman stops just before him. He stands tall and imposing, no matter the misery of his shabby clothes, the state of his disheveled hair falling in silver tangles down his back. He is still a Targaryen, his chin is high and proud.

“More like from the Old Valyria.” She says raising an eyebrow, and sizing him up and down. “He seems to have just emerged from the Doom, miraculously unscathed.”

The Prince does nothing but seethe his teeth behind his dry lips, a distant shame in his eye that quickly turns into a focused and unblinking rage.

“Welcome to Qarth, my Prince. I’d trust your journey was uneventful but…I can see the Red Waste takes its toll, even on Valyrian beauty.”

Aemond takes a good, long look at her, inevitably lingering on her chest, dressed as the common Qartheen fashion dictates: one breast exposed. But a lot more of her is exposed. Her shoulders, her arms and legs, a glimpse of her hips, all crossed by swirling bundles of lilac silk.

If any married woman in Westeros dressed like that in the open, he’s sure any husband would lock her up. At least he would.

“You must excuse my wife, Prince Aemond, or rather, get used to her habit of speaking her mind.”

“Come now, Xavos. Surely Westerosi women can voice their thoughts?” she moves, walking past Aemond and her husband to reach a small table inlaid with gold to pour some greenish beverage into a cup. “I had a maid once, she was from…Rich Garden?”

“High Garden.” He sternly corrects her.

“Ah, yes. A delightful creature, always smelled so good.” She says distractedly “Anyway, she fled from your lands because she liked girls and not boys and she didn’t want to devote her life to being a brood mare sucking a flaccid cock until her hair had gone white.”

Her maids snicker somewhere past Aemond shoulders, stiffening his posture at the liberties those commoners are granted. “I should hope you Westerners listen to your women more than you do your horses.”

Aemond watches as she takes a sip and laces his hands behind, slightly tilting his head for a moment. “Where I come from, women do not possess such a sharp tongue. Furthermore, and fortunately, most of them have manners. They know how to address a Prince of the Realm.”

She turns to leave the cup on the same table and glances at Nyla. “Oh, he bites.”

“This is not Westeros, dragon prince.” She says turning to face him with a righteous smile “I don’t need to ask your permission to speak. The Salt King is my husband, that is why you will hear my maids and everyone else address me as Your Highness. So, you may lower that chin and stop waiting for me to bow down to you because technically my rank is higher than yours. You might say the only one meant to bow in this room were you.”

The silence that follows is so stark that the air the Prince quickly exhales through his nose sounds like thunder, alerting the Salt King. "Come now, wife. Don't wake the beast.” he says lightly, stiffening a smile “And I mean it quite literally. You should see the size of Prince Aemond’s dragon.”

“I heard.” she acknowledges “Jorio said he’s higher than the city walls.”

“She. And twice, than your city walls.” The Prince corrects her again, just as sternly. “She’s the largest dragon alive in the known world.” His chin remains high and haughty, simply because he can. Because she knows he could raze the entire city to the ground just by snapping his fingers. So, she looks down and says “Since you will be our guest, it is my duty as matron of this house to make you feel welcomed. If you would be so kind to follow me, your Grace.” She forces her tone to be as much as corteous, but then she smiles “Is my tongue acceptably sharp to your liking now?”

“Where are you taking me?” he asks as he follows the Salt Queen along one of the corridors, made of the finest marble with high arches of white stone and gold glittering under the midday sun.

“Down and down, to throw you in the dungeons.”

Aemond stalls for a moment and she does the same. “I was joking.”

He gives her that stern, distrustful look she starts to think he has etched on his features since his first wail and huffs. “God, have you lost your humor in the Red Waste?”

She resumes her walking, and Aemond follows, glancing around as they pass through many people, some of them are dressed like maids and servants, some others with long tunics of silk and jewels embroidered in the fabric. They speak to one another, he notices, as equals. But they stop altogether upon seeing a living Valyrian walk among them.

“God?” he asks “Which one?”

“Whichever you want. R'hollor, the Many Faced…I’m not picky. It helps me sleep better at night to know I didn’t dump all my sins on one God only.”

He is sure from his education and his mother’s faith that religion doesn’t work that way, but he has more pressing matters at heart. “Will you meet my requests?”

“About your dragon?” she asks stopping before a large wooden door closed. “Can’t she hunt on her own?”

“In the Red Waste? In these barren lands? Perhaps you should put your pretty head outside the city walls and see with your own eyes how big she is.”

The woman smirks, seizing him up and down and furrows her brows. “You seem very keen on emphasizing how big your dragon is. I should hope it’s not a compensating factor for the lack of something else.”

She pushes the door open, not bothering to wait for Aemond who just stands there for a moment, a little dumbfounded by the salt of which the Queen's tongue seems to be made. His bewilderment is only destined to worsen as he crosses the threshold and looks around.

Right in the middle of the palace, amidst all that marble and white stone, stands a wild courtyard, wild and beautiful in its unspoiled nature. Climbing plants and fruit trees grow undisturbed around a large square pool, decorated with mosaics of a thousand colors, harboring the most crystal-clear water he has ever seen; small clouds of steam rise from the surface, pinching his nostrils with the unmistakable smell of sulfur.

There are people bathing together and, obviously, much to his dismay, naked.

“Do you not take baths in Westeros?” the Salt Queen asks, faking true curiosity at the puzzlement she can read on his face, slowly turning into repugnance as he looks at her with a cutting answer.

“We have decency, in Westeros.”

She does not bother to disguise the long sigh blowing through her lips and then she turns to clap her hands vigorously, three times.

“My friends, apologies for the interruption!” she announces as everyone in the pool and outside turns to look at her “I must ask you to leave the pool for the time being. Our…prude guest demands a little bit of privacy.”

She can feel the Prince glaring but ignores him altogether to stop one of the servants.

“Priya, fetch some oils. And some silks, fitting for a prince.” She turns her head to look at him from head to toe, as if valuing a new drape of silk or a new sculpture to put in the Hall of Trade, but then she creases her forehead, as she often does when knowing. “Blue perhaps? To match the sapphire.”

The constant scowl seems to leave his features and she hears his question before he utters a single word.

“My father is a warlock. Magic runs thick in his blood, he says, as well as in the blood of his blood. Sometimes I sense things, bits of knowledge, and sometimes they happen to be right. But you don’t need to be afra—”

“I’m not afraid of sorcery.” He cuts her, his tone flat, his features stoic as ever and she looks at him, curiously, perhaps wondering what lies behind all that stone.

“Very well. Sapphire blue for Prince Aemond.” his name slips into his ears in a strange, liquorous way; vowels are more open in this part of the world.

When they’re left alone, she signals towards the pool. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

He hesitates for a moment, but it is not as if he has never undressed in front of one of his old servants. And frankly, he is too eager to get those filthy clothes off to be bothered by a foreign woman watching.

He throws everything on the ground without too much care, and she watches without too much shame, because that's not how things go there. Bodies, both male and female, they are not something to hide, but something to be displayed and worshipped.

Her eyes linger on scars, old and new, on a lithe body that once belonged to a prince and a soldier, now marked by misery, dirt and hunger.

“Everything.” she says at one point, when he’s left with only his battered cotton pants on.

Aemond thinks he heard wrong. But she only blinks, keeping her face blank.

“Is this the common way to welcome guests here?” he scorns.

“Actually, it is. At least after the incident with the scorpion.” she doesn’t bother to wait for a question or an eyebrow rising. “My husband’s great grandfather hosted a merchant from Yunkai once. He came here with gifts of all sorts among which was a poisonous scorpion, hidden in his clothes. The old Salt King died but so did the merchant. Fell face down in his chamber pot while taking a piss. Quite ironic, don’t you think? You have to be careful when handling such vicious creatures.”

He only looks at her, and she's the one to raise an eyebrow. “I could turn away if you like.”

Aemond sighs loudly, moving his cutting jaw at the umpteenth humiliation and then lowers his pants. She stares into his eye and surely, surely he thinks, she wouldn’t dare to wander down.

But a moment later her eyes sink past his snatched waist, and she smirks.

“I believe I owe you an apology.”

“What for?”

“Questioning your…natural gifts.”

Aemond blinks, running on the verge between scowling, raising his eyebrows and huffing a laugh. Certainly, it never happened to him to talk so bluntly about his cock with any highborn lady barely met, let alone a supposed queen.

“I’ll leave you to your bath, dragon prince. The Salt King and I have much to discuss.”

“Such as?” he deadpans, not really interested while he dives into the clean water.

“Well, a Targaryen Prince is not an everyday occurrence.” She says following his every move, the way water glides on his skin, silver hair floating on the surface like moonblooms. “We’ll make sure to have a feast worthy of your noble taste this evening.”

“And then talk behind my back about what to do with me?”

“Undoubtedly. And I will tell him the truth.”

“Hmm.” He hums, settling on one of the underwater steps of the pool, resting his shoulders against the rim. His mood instantly improves, so he pins her with his eye and looks her up and down. “Do you believe to know my reasons? You’re quite sure of yourself…your Highness. Unless your father’s sorcery allows you to read minds, I dare say even rather pretentious.”

“I don’t need sorcery to know that you, in the first place, do not know what you’re doing here.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

She sees that chin tilting, lifting with a hint of challenge. And she takes it. She has the truth, and indeed, she doesn’t need sorcery.

“Because Qarth is still standing.”

She gets no answer, just that diffident stern look to which she darts the faintest of smirks and then leaves the pool, under his watchful eye that stays on the door for a moment longer, before he lets his head sink underwater.

The Salt Queen gives instructions for the most sumptuous room to be given to Prince Aemond. She sees to it that he is provided with several silk suits and that food is served to him immediately when he has finished bathing. She has observed his body with pleased eyes, so scrupulously she knows the Prince has not had a decent meal in weeks.

“Did he settle?” Xavos asks when she enters his private room.

“In time, I’m sure he will. Valyrians have an impressive disposition to make their own what does not belong to them, do they not?”

She hears him murmur something in return from where he stands, on the balcony threshold that overlooks the city and its massive port. The Queen sits on a soft armchair and starts to twirl her hair around one finger, curling her mouth into a thoughtful pout. “I was thinking goose for dinner. Or salt beef? We should save goats and pigs for the beast. Apparently, poor thing is starving.”

In the silence that follows, she turns to her husband. “Xavos?”

The Salt King turns with one shoulder and a half-bitter smile. “We have a living threat who could burn us all to the crisp walking within our palace and our city, and you speak to me of geese and pigs?”

“It’s useless to cry over spilled milk. You let him in. You let greed lure you all like a piper with a flute. I’m wondering, on which tune did he make you dance?”

He walks to her with slow feet and looks at her after a long sigh. “Dragon eggs.”

“I should’ve known.”

“Cyril began talking of an opportunity of a lifetime. Of the Greatest City that ever was and will be becoming even greater. Think about it. With dragons…Qarth might become the center of the whole world. A newborn Valyria. If we play our hand right—”

“Quit the fancy words. What exactly are you asking of me, Xavos?”

She knows he is asking for something. She has known him for more than ten years, and he has asked, has demanded, a lot of her. She knows that when his voice drops a note, he wants something, as if whispered, it becomes less degrading.

He trails his index finger on her chin and lifts it. “To make him dance to your tune.”

“You overestimate me, husband. I cannot reason with a tiger when my head is in its mouth. Besides, he might be easy on the eye, but he’s as agreeable as a plant of spikes.”

She speaks smoothly—not a flinch or a blink at her husband's hand sinking between her lilac’s folds, and then between her inner ones. “Since when you are so reluctant about who’s allowed in your bed?”

“Don’t confuse me with yourself.” she says lifting her chin to look at him, unbothered by the circling his finger draws on her dry bundle. “I fuck who I want for pleasure, rarely out of boredom, but never to prove a point.”

Abruptly, he slips his finger deep inside, hurting her. “I should have taken your tongue as well.”

“And still…” she forces a smile over the painful grimace twisting her mouth “it would not have given you what you so desperately seek in every hole.”

His unwanted touch leaves her and he straightens, pacing lazily behind her seat. “He’s young. He’s had a rough time. Surely, he must’ve missed the intimate company of a woman.”

“For that kind of company, there are pleasure houses.”

“Don’t play dumb, now. You saw how proud he is. How do you think he will take it if we send a whore to his rooms?” Xavos grips the back of the chair and leans down slowly, speaking to her ear. “Listen to me. Cyril is right. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We must make him feel…important…coddled, even.”

“Even if you shackle his feet with gold, you cannot turn a dragon into a lamb, Xavos.”

The Salt King sighs impatiently, and his tone drops just as earlier. “Do as I say.”

Young Nyla interrupts her masters as she enters the room, and the Queen turns her head. “Nyla, what is it?”

“We have escorted Prince Aemond to his rooms, your Highness.”

“Good.” Xavos says, and then looks at his wife with a pointed stare. “Make sure he has everything he needs.”

The Salt Queen barges in and halts on the door, bewildered upon seeing her trusted friend Mysha on the verge of tears, staring at the ground as if she’s waiting for an execution.

“My deepest apologies, my Prince, I meant no disrespect.”

“What happened?”

“Uh—Prince Aemond asked for some herbs, your Highness. An ointment, for his eye.”

“Aye. I did ask for that, not for you to fucking touch me.”

The Prince is snarling, his eye wide and menacing like a hound on the brink of defense yet hunting for flesh. His face is clean now, the Queen notices, shaven; his hair is damp and pulled back, leaving his chiseled features, that infuriating chin, and high, prominent cheekbones in plain sight. Stupid as it may sound, she can't help but think of one of those marble sculptures she likes to buy from art dealers.

“You may go, Mysha. I will assist the Prince.”

“I don’t need assistance.” He hisses with threatening calm. “Leave.”

He caved in the pool, but he will not suffer another humiliation in front of these foreigners. At least not with something so delicate and private as his eye. But of course, he realizes with annoyance, this woman will not falter at any of his empty orders.

“Are you dismissing me in my own Palace?”

He looks down, sighing and fuming, and she beckons Misha to leave the room.

“You must understand, servants here are treated differently. They’re granted more liberties.”

“I see. As the ones you so generously grant to slaves.” he mutters, and starts to fidget with a tray offering ginger roots, turmeric powder, and eucalyptus leaves.

“Oh, spare me. Of all people, you Valyrians are the least entitled to give a lecture on morals.” she counters, watching his long, tapered fingers hover without touching anything. Clearly, he was used to servants doing it for him.

“May I?” she offers, but doesn’t wait for his permission to make room next to him. “There are no slaves in this palace.” she tells him "How can you expect loyalty from someone you bought with something as cheap as gold?”

“Cheap as the golden ring your husband has stuck in his nose? He looks like a fucking boar.” he says as his eye trails on her profile.

“My husband is an imbecile. This city did not become the greatest that ever was and will be with gold. Trade is our currency. We call it antallagí. Exchange.”

“A true-born merchant’s wife.”

“Or a boar’s one?”

He huffs, and she turns, feigning shock at the faintest of smirks curling his lips. “So you’re not made of stone after all.”

She studies him for a few moments—more than is deemed proper for a married woman, in Westeros at least—but she can't help it. She wonders how it is possible that exile and moons of misery have not bent this man; what drives that rigid posture, whether it is too strict an education or it is all a lie, masking an effort to keep control, to impose it on others but perhaps more on himself.

“Ointment is ready, your Grace. It may burn a little, ginger is a godsend, but it’s tricky. I could help—”

“I need no help. Leave.”

The stone is in place once more. But she won’t have it.

She raises her eyebrows, biding all the time in the world.

Aemond chews thorns as he looks at her, swallows them, and tastes them again, piercing his tongue. “Please.”

“That must’ve cost you a lot. But it isn’t so hard, is it?”

His lips flatten in a thin line, and she smiles. “You are a second son, are you not? That’s the reason for that stubborn chin. You must stomp your feet to make anything yours.”

“Careful, woman. I’ve taken tongues for far less.”

“Why? Did you not see eye to eye with them?”

He moves like lightning, invading her space until he is a breath away from her face, and his mouth breathes fire. “Listen to me. I care not who the fuck you are or which title you make your slaves call you. I am not here to allow you to make a fool of me, Queen or no Queen. Mock me once more, and I’ll carve the word please on your vicious mouth.”

He waits for the fire to catch on, even though flames do not seem to touch her; she's unwavering and solid as marble.

“Get out.”

“I don’t—” she chokes on her words, on his hand seizing her jaw; cold fingers, leaving embers on her skin.

“I said, get out.”

That evening, the already lavish palace of the Salt King was polished and decked out duly to honor the foreign guest. The walls, lit by braziers of fire, stood like a beacon amidst a sea of marble and white stone roofs. The Hall of Trade was a treasury, crammed so full of gold that it looked like a pirate's dream. Pillows were piled on the floor, long tables held food of all kinds. A huge bowl of wine welcomed the guests, who were given a goblet they had to dip into the large bowl and drink, otherwise they would not be allowed inside. It was tradition, a sort of good omen.

It pinched Aemond's nostrils when he brought the cup to his mouth and, thankfully, drank it in small sips. Despite his prudence, by the second he felt his tongue on fire from how spiced it was. By comparison, Arbor Gold was wastewater.

He wears the sapphire blue silk tunic, with a silk belt cinching his narrow waist, but his hair is different. Mysha learned the lesson she asked, and when he gave his consent, she got to work and braided his silver hair. Most of them are loose, falling down his back in a curtain of white. Others are laced in one, two, three braids, softly meeting at the back of his head.

If he thought the Salt Queen’s hospitality was somewhat a little too forward and a lot more intrusive, he had to reconsider when he found himself cornered as soon as his silver head caught the eye of every guest. Men and women, old and young, flocked to him with eyes full of wonder, as if the Salt King had captured some wild and rare creature and called all his friends to make them look.

But they didn’t just look. They talked openly and freely, voicing thoughts that, in Westeros, would have stayed inside one’s head.

“Look at his hair! They seem like moon rays!”

“And the skin! Whiter than milk!”

“What happened to his eye?”

“If only my wife were here…she always wanted to see a Valyrian!”

He had just gotten there, and his teeth were baring.

“My friends, please! Let our noble guest breathe!” the Salt King chuckles as he comes forward among the bewildered audience, looking like the loot of some theft, for all the gold and diamonds and emeralds sewn on his orange silk tunic. “Come, my Prince. The first taste is yours.”

Aemond catches a movement on his right and there she is, the Salt Queen, in a crimson red sparkling like a bloodied dew given the little, tiny red stones woven in her silks. Her hair coils into an intricate bun crisscrossed by a paper-thin gold chain that crowns her forehead with small, rough rubies, like grains of salt.

For a moment, he’s so enthralled by her figure, and her eyes, even more piercing because of kohl, that he fails to notice the clay plate she’s holding, filled with fruits. Some he has never seen, except in books, but he has no time to take a guess.

“Your first taste, my Prince.” she chimes. “Sweet or tart?”

His gaze falls back to the plate, but not before stopping, again, for a blink, on that absurd fashion of one bare breast. “Tart.” He says tightly.

She smiles, as if she knew, and puts the plate down. Aemond watches her bejeweled fingers pluck off a grape and turn, her hand in midair but not quite outstretched toward him. He nothing but give her a pointed look, one that translates only into a stern and irrevocable I can eat by myself.

“My Prince. My wife means no offense.” the Salt King explains “In Qarth, it is deemed a great honor, given and taken, and an excellent omen for the guest's stay, if said guest is fed by the matron of the house.”

His throat bobs and the Salt Queen can’t quite decipher if the dragon prince is more humiliated or angered by the prospect of being fed by a woman like a baby who just teethed. At last, he sighs and leans in, but her hand withdraws a little, leaving him with his mouth slightly open, stretched forth like a beggar waiting for charity. It is not Aemond who bites the grape, but her who finally, after another straight stare into his eye, lets it drop into his mouth.

The crowd erupts in a cheerful clapping, as does The Salt King who goes to stand just between his wife and the Dragon Prince, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder “You see, Prince Aemond, this is one of the extraordinary gifts of Qartheen women. They know exactly how to hold...and when to let go.”

Aemond does not bother to look at him, he is too absorbed, annoyed and deep down, without him knowing it yet, enticed by the tranquil smile that curls her mouth and at the same time curls his pride, mocks it, strips it bare and outright laughs at it, goading everyone else to do so.

Behold, the pink dread!

“Without further ado, let the feast begin!” The Salt King announces joyfully and in the same moment, a delicate and sweet melody fills the room, while Aemond chews what’s left of that grape, tasting his own bile.

An hour later, Aemond is fuming. Fuming because ruling the most important and influential city in Essos, he should’ve known the Thirteen were aware of everything that went on and was currently going on in the West. Perhaps even more than he knew. Did they know something about his mother?

He banished that thought from his mind just as he trained himself to do in all this damned existence.

They knew about the Dance, they knew about Aegon the Usurper, they knew of Rhaenyra the Cruel, the Storming of the Dragon Pit. They knew the kingdom was dreadfully impoverished and in the hands of a young boy.

But they spoke about it as if they were discussing the weather. Qartheens cared nothing about what was going on outside their impenetrable walls; whether it was a new king on a throne far away or a war that had killed thousands and thousands, it was all tittle-tattle to kill time between one cup of wine and the next. He was asked about this battle or the previous one without thinking that he had lived through that war; he made it, he carried it and perhaps he still carried it within him.

He was fuming for this, he was fuming for how women, and even men, gawk at him, for their bizarre custom of hosting a feast without a decent place to sit and eat like normal people do. He was fuming because no matter how much he tried to ignore it, a spool of crimson would always catch his eye.

Grabbing one more cup of wine, he decides to take a breath outside, standing on one of the marbled balconies of the Palace. Air does good to extinguish his fires, but it does not clear up his mind. Perhaps he should blame the wine, perhaps his head is still smoky.

Because you, in the first place, do not know what you're doing here.

As much as he loathed to admit it, the Salt Queen was right. He tricked himself into thinking the main reason for his coming here was Vhagar. She was weak, due to the wing's injuries as well as the old ones, and most of all, she was hungry. But with the promise of goats and pigs, came the clarity and the knowledge that he had no reason, no plan. He only knew he had leverage—a dreadful leverage made of talons and fire on these merchants and their city. But what to do with it?

He hears voices somewhere near, and once more, crimson pollutes his sight. The Salt Queen and her husband are talking behind a tall white pillar. He can’t quite hear what they’re saying, but she catches his stare almost immediately. The talking ceases, and Aemond knows they were talking about him, of course they were.

Xavos comes out of his hiding place with a placid and benevolent expression, walking right past him without a word. But she stays, and she looks, and then she walks to him.

“That will go to your head.” She warns as he empties the cup “I didn’t see you touch any food.”

The spiced wine burns his throat, makes his tongue sour and impatient. “Is your husband aware of your excessive concern about your guests? Or is it a thoughtfulness he has ordered you to reserve only for me?”

“I’m just being considerate since you’re a foreigner and not well acquainted with Qartheen tastes.”

“How exactly am I supposed to eat? Standing?”

She huffs a laugh and shakes her head trimmed with gold and red as she gives him a bemused, though genuine, look. “Good God, how spoiled you are? I thought misery made men humble, but clearly not men of House Targaryen.”

His jaw moves annoyingly, and he leaves the empty cup on the marble, but he doesn’t let go, holding it by the edges in a white-knuckle grip. She notices it as she leans against the marble, with her back to the city, and gives him a long, inquisitive look. “After all the misery you suffered, I thought you would’ve liked the attention…perhaps you do…perhaps…you want more.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” he asks boringly, and just as sourly, staring at the city.

“I must say, I’ve hosted so many people, from so many different parts of the world, and yet…I’ve never found myself before a face so full of contradictions.”

His eye pins her. “Need I remind you how you left my room earlier?”

“With your hand around my neck, because you couldn’t take a joke.”

“I don’t like being mocked. And I don’t like being played like a pawn. So, unless this is another one of your absurd customs, tell your husband to stop parading you around me like a whore. It looks bad when you insist on others calling you queen.”

“We all play parts, dragon prince. Sometimes, they blend. But in the end…it takes little to know the real you.”

Aemond chokes on his breath as her hand slips between them like water, cupping his crotch with a grip of steel, and fire, burning from her fingertips through the fabric. She holds it like a weapon, and his defense is low. She sees his throat bobbing down once, and twice, rejection curls his mouth, but not strongly enough to shove her hand away, to not start to harden against the flames of her fingers, brushing all his length until she cups it once more.

“Whore or queen?” she whispers, brushing his parted lips “Someone in there doesn’t seem to care.”

His grip on the cup loosens, a tremor runs down his spine, and he dawdles in the sensation, one felt before, elicited by other hands, and yet new. It’s been so long. The surge to touch, to clutch, to taste, drains his head of blood. But she eludes him, tilting her head to the right and then to the left to avoid the vise of his lips; her grip loosens, running the back of her fingers against his cock in a feathery brush, touching without touching.

He grinds his teeth to choke a whimper, but then she’s cupping again; she feels him go completely hard for her, and the knowledge washes over her like tongues of fire prickling down her back and between her thighs. The soft, slippery silk allows her to unleash her lunges more fiercely, to easily close her hand around his cock, and that same silk helps her to glide her hand deliciously up and down.

He's breathing hard, almost panting, brushing the tip of his nose against hers; her eyes are open, basking in the sight, the little twitches of his mouth as bends to pleasure, the breathing turning heavier and heavier, his hand that starts to flex. She imagines how those slender fingers would feel between her folds, how easily they would slip inside, and why, why is he not touching her?

“Do it…” she breathes. “Do you want me to say please? I would…there’s no shame in begging, dragon prince….it only makes you free…”

“Your Highness, my apologies.” Nyla calls her Queen suddenly, and she stops her wicked ministrations, abruptly bringing Aemond back to his senses.

“The Salt King sent me after you.” The young maid says, apparently unfazed by what she clearly witnessed. “We’re playing kottabos.”

"Ah, yes, of course.” she tries to regain some control, although she was panting on the sole anticipation, and goes back inside.

Aemond stalls, taking a long sigh in the fresh air to try to stop the blood from boiling. And he follows.

Kottabos, he discovers, is quite a tricky game. The rules are simple: one has to throw the last drops of wine inside their cup to hit a white plate balanced atop a bronze pole. It requires a bit of dexterity, because the player must put the index finger through the handle of the drinking cup and throw the drops while sprawled on pillows, laying on their elbows.

The Salt Queen, it seems, is quite adept at this game. It takes her only two tries to hit the plate and she’s rising from the pillows, bowing her head to thank the cheerful audience. Aemond's eye bends as the crimson veils bend with her every movement; he slips between them and lets them wrap around him, even though he should not, even though he reproaches himself for letting the blood, the wine, the flesh, that has been starved of other flesh for too long, win.

“My closest friends know I’m very fond of sweets and cakes but…on such a special occasion, I choose a special reward.” She announces when the crowd has quieted down, and before she even turns around, he feels her gaze on him as if she had two more eyes on the back of her head. “A sweeter reward…or perhaps tarter.”

She moves towards him, and every step she takes barefoot on the marble is an unmasking. With every step she takes, it seems to him that she is touching him, as she did just before, and more; he feels like her fingers are slipping under the silk, setting fire to his skin.

She stops in front of him and yet, he still sees her moving, feels her moving like a sea creature and her thousand tentacles of crimson silk.

Maybe he should put the wine down.

Wine is not for you, brother mine, your mind’s too heavy. It’ll soak like a sponge and you'll fall into your own vomit.

What she does not put down is her aim, moving her hands diligently as she grabs his face and draws him close to kiss him on the lips, and tilt her head back to look at him, so close she’s breathing his breath. “This…is your first taste.”

“Good! The Queen has chosen her reward. Let us play another round, shall we?”

Again, Aemond does not bother to look at the Salt King, he looks at her and the faint twitch between her lips at her husband's words.

“Come.” She says taking his hand, and he doesn’t know what drives him to follow her, whether his mind is too soaked, or his flesh is crying out to be fed.

What is certain is that now her bare feet tread the marble of his rooms and he is closing the door.

“I hope you don’t mind if we do it here. I don’t take men into my rooms.”

“Why?”

“I’m jealous of my things.”

“Liar.”

“What?”

“So used to play parts and yet, you look down before lying. Disappointing.”

“I’m surprised you were able to look at anything above my cleavage.”

This time, he lowers his gaze, but not to lie. He knows he has looked, many times, and the excuse of not being used to such a custom starts to creak. She walks up to him and looks at him with that knowing smile that makes him want to clamp his hand on her mouth and wipe it off her face, and maybe stick his fingers inside.

“Are you a virgin, my Prince? Did you have a wife in the West? Children?”

He swallows, and her eyes fall on his throat.

“Is that guilt you just swallowed? Or sorrow?”

“Why don’t you listen to your father’s sorcery while keeping your hole shut?”

“I told you, I am no witch. Qarth is the center of the world. Do you think we don’t know what happens in the East, West, North and South?” she angles her head and whispers in his ear “We know everything… Kinslayer, Terror of the Trident.”

She speaks his war titles in that liquorose way, opening the vowels as if she is casting a spell, but he hears the mockery. It is the same that loosened the tongue at the Strong bastards, the same one perpetuated by Alys. But Alys' mockery was different. She spoke in riddles, visions and flames. This woman speaks in truths.

“Do you regret it?” she whispers, and her tentacles thread their way through the silk “All those innocents you have burned…all the ones you have lost.” lazily, she pulls at the laces of the blue tunic and he stiffens, flaring his nostrils. “See? I don’t need sorcery. The more you stiffen, the more cracks reveal.” She straightens her head to look at him with eyes darker than tar, wandering over his face and he feels branded. “I can see them around you…ghosts…why don’t you set them free?”

“What is your fucking game?” he wants to seethe, but she’s so close to him it comes out as nothing but a hiss.

She smiles again and this time the victory is full. "The game is over, your grace. I won, and you're my reward. I will admit I never had such a pretty one...care to show me that sapphire or are you still keen on playing the prude bashful prince?”

Aemond has no qualms about touching her, grabbing her face with nails digging into her cheeks as he pulls her close, turning her chin to spit anger and all his tumbled restraints into her ear “Perhaps I should shove my cock into your mouth to make you shut it, hmm? Is that what you want? What your husband wants? That I fuck you like a whore?”

She stiffens, thrashing in his hold that she may not have expected, and manages to turn her head just enough to look at him, scoffing. “Is this the only way you know to use your hands?”

A taunt, another one. It turns his eye pitch black and he leans closer to her lips, almost baring his teeth, almost as if he wants to bite the words—the mockery, the victory—off her mouth. But once more, she eludes him, tilting back and so, any reason burns and dies into his head.

“D’you want to play games, don’t you? Let’s play, then.”

Still gripping her cheeks, he roughly pushes her into the room, letting her go for only one fleeting instant of freedom, just long enough to grab her shoulders and force her to turn around. A gasp escapes her lips, but the next moment she’s bending on the table, he’s forcing her to. A thrill spills into her blood, making her insides clench with anticipation, and dread.

He traps her, planting his feet between hers to stop her from closing her legs. She tries to pull herself up with her back, but he scowls, pushing her head down to keep it firmly glued to the table. She whines as his long fingers pull at her hair, tearing the gold and red chain off, and she can hear him fumbling with the silks, the other hand hiking her crimson gowns up.

“My Prince, please—”

“Begging already?” snarling, he spits into his palm and gives a few quick tugs to his cock, hard and aching “I wonder who’s coming from. The whore or the Queen. Either way, you’ll get your reward, your Highness.”

“Wait—” she whimpers as she feels the head of his cock teasing against her folds, something coils in her belly, and something else, something cold, grips her heart. “Not like th—”

She chokes on her tongue as he slips inside her, easily but painfully, all the way in. Hissing, his hold on her hair tightens, a coarse exhale coming out of his parted lips as he adjusts to her walls, hot and wet, but tense. She’s tensing all over.

“Why are you fighting me?” he pulls her up by the hair, leaning his face close to hers “You wanted this, did you not? You have been teasing and mocking me since I set foot in here.”

“I—”

“No. I’ve had enough of your talks and taunts. Here’s what’s going to happen, whore queen. You will keep quiet and take it. And if I want to fuck you again later, I will. You are not in charge here—not you, not your husband, not all the fucking Thirteen. So don’t fucking push me, unless you want to die with fire skinning you alive.”

Without too much grace, he forces her back on the table and starts a relentless pace, fisting the crimson fabric and pulling to keep her low back flushed to his crotch. His pants mix with flesh slapping harder and faster as he tries to pour on her, and into her, the grief and rage, the misery and fire he’s made of. She writhes beneath him, arching and crumpling against the wooden with violent gasps; she feels like burning but inside, she’s torn in two.

She clamps her hand on the wood to grab onto something, just like that evening. She feels her, and his, arousal coating her thighs, just as blood did that evening.

The little girl wants to run, but the Salt Queen doesn’t want him to stop.

She’s sinking in her mind, but burning in every corner of her body and soul.

She can only moan, her mouth agape and dry, leaking saliva on the surface as her head bounces at each wild rut, hitting that inner spot over and over.

“Look at you, hmm?” he taunts her with purpose, perhaps vengeance “Fucked so good she lost her wits.”

Look at you, little whore. Bet you like it, eh?

Squeezing her eyes shut, she finds a raw voice hidden somewhere. “Harder—”

“What?” he slurs with a heavy-lidded eye, the braids are almost loose, dangling on his face at each thrust.

“Harder—” she pleads with her eyes still shut.

“Greedy wanton thing—” hips start to snap brutally, in a hurtful way, just as she wants, even if it’s hard to even breathe. Pleasure overwhelms her, drives her up towards the peak. But she finds she cannot climb; her mind is holding her down.

He grunts with each snap and curses in some foreign language she’s not aware of, and she doesn’t care; she’s too focused on letting herself burn. But it’s like sitting in front of a fire and barely feeling the flames.

And then his hips jolt faster, once, twice, and he halts, gripping her hips firmly, coming inside her with a long, satiated groan.

Completely spent, he slumps on top of her, resting his head on her shoulder blades to catch his breath. However, she is quick to slip from the scorching alcove, to slide out the door with her mind drowned but her heart pounding out of her chest.

"Your Highness!" Dora wakes from her slumber, and reaches for her Queen.

"Nothing, Dora." she says in a voice still hoarse, almost scratching. "Draw me a bath, please. And fetch mint and wormwood." Moon tea.

She starts to undo her silks and feels a distant smell of smoke sticking to her skin. Like one who has bathed in fire.

The morning after brings no clarity, because truthfully, Aemond does not need clarity. Everything is drastically simple. He is no coward. However his mind was less clear than usual, he could never blame wine for how he behaved a few hours earlier. And why would he?

Whether she was acting on her husband’s orders or not, she wanted him. And he wanted her. He could concede that he'd acted in a harsher way than usual, that he’d let rage and grief guide his purpose. It was not the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. But it all worked in his favor. A demonstration, a shift in whatever power game the Salt King and the other merchant Kings thought to play out. He only made it clear that he was not some precious pet to be coddled and ridiculed.

She had teased and mocked him at any occurrence. He’d only showed her the price of playing with fire.

His blue silks are fresh and clean when he sits down to have breakfast with Xavos; his long silver hair is tied up in a single low braid that starts from the center of his head and gathers lazily down his shoulder.

He has yet to get used to this strange Qartheen custom of sitting on pillows to eat; at least, however, he regains his appetite when he is served dishes once familiar to him, and less exotic.

"I took the liberty of having you prepare a breakfast akin to your old habits.” Xavos says chewing bread with olives “Ham, cheese, venison. And we have fresh fish every day. Blessed be the trades."

The Prince is sincerely grateful, though he would be a lot more grateful if the Salt King were able to shut his mouth when the sun is not even high in the sky. He goes on and on about the supposed trades, and then about the salt he so proudly sells to every corner of the world. He is just about to go on another monologue about the Thirteen and their hopeful wish to receive the Dragon Prince in their Palaces when he stops, frowning at the young maid clearing the place set next to the king. “What are you doing?”

“Apologies, Your Highness, but the Queen will not attend breakfast. She feels indisposed this morning.”

Immediately, Aemond glances up at her and she’s brave enough to hold it for a bunch of seconds before looking down and making her way to the door.

“Maid?”

She halts upon hearing the Prince and turns around.

“Tell your Queen I was promised something. She said she would see to it personally. And I expect her to keep her word.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“Wait.” he stops her again, his tone almost bored, and slips a hand into the folds of his blue silks, pulling out a gold and red chain. “Take this. She left it in my room last night.”

He throws the jewel on the table and resumes his knife and fork, not bothering to look at anyone, certainly not at the Salt King who is indeed looking at him, looking as pleased as ever, like the cat that caught the mouse.

The Salt Queen did not in fact forget her word. She promised him she would see to Vhagar’s condition, ordering to save goats and pigs to feed the beast, put them on carts and send someone with the Prince to reach the desert, where the dragon was resting.

However, she should've probably assumed that such an apparently simple task would've turned out to be a lot harder to carry out.

She’s just about to finish her late breakfast with Mysha and Dora, when Nyla breaks into the parlor with quick feet.

“Your Highness—uhm—Prince Aemond is at the door, he asks to be received.”

“What is it now? He doesn’t like how the sun rises here?”

Mysha and Dora giggle, but the Queen stays serious and turns to Nyla. “Tell the Prince he will have to wait. I am sure that even in Westeros, barging in during meals stands for bad manners.”

Nyla leaves, but it’s with even quicker feet that she returns to her Queen in barely a minute.

“My Queen, Prince Aemond is quite adamant on being received immediately. He…also says that…keeping guests at the door is a synonym of bad manners in Westeros, as he is sure, anywhere else in the world.”

Tapping her fingers on the table, it takes her a minute to sigh loudly and stand up, throwing the kerchief on the table.

“My Prince.” She greets him as she stops at the door.

In his usual soldierly stance, he looks past her for a moment before locking her blank gaze. “Still adamant on not letting me in?”

“You were not that drunk last night. I believe you heard me just fine when I told you I don’t take men into my rooms.”

“Hmm. But you did take me, and quite eagerly, if memory serves me right. Are we not past such formalities?”

“Gloating like some common man is not very royal of you, your Grace—"

“Tis’ not gloating. And I might say, not very royal of you either to beg me to fuck you harder, your Highness.”

“You’re right. Fucked me so good I didn’t come.”

The proud mischievous smile that kept stretching his mouth vanishes in a blink, and she has to sigh to stifle her own. “What is it, my Prince?”

“You gave me your word.”

“Indeed. And I kept it. What is your complaint now?”

“Your slaves refuse to escort me in the desert.”

“Well, I can’t blame them. Can’t you feed your dragon on your own? Or are you too humiliated by the prospect of carrying a cart of dead pigs?”

From the way he is staring at her, and having already tickled his pride when the sun is not yet high in the sky, she knows he will not yield on this matter.

“Fine. I’ll go with you.”

“My Queen, it is not safe.”

“Do not worry, Dora. I’ll take the Sorrowful Men.”

Aemond almost laughs to himself as he stands on the left edge of an enclosed inner courtyard of the palace, resembling the training yards of Westeros. There are men intent on training with spears and swords, dressed in strange uniforms made of blue drapes and a strange golden mask on their faces. The carving makes the mask weeping, with a single tear embossed on the gold.

Aemond has no idea how they can see, as there seem to be no holes in those eyes of gold. But his gaze returns at once to the Salt Queen, talking to one of those men, with a large turban on his head. Some kind of commander, he assumes.

He bows to her and then six of these mysterious men march forward and surround the woman.

The Prince glances at each one of them, standing tall and proud as ever with his hands laced behind, seeming unperturbed by these safety measures. In fact, he says “Truly there’s no need to trouble these men, your Highness. What do you expect me to do? Feed you to Vhagar as soon as we are in the desert?”

“These men are not a safety measure for me, but for you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. To prevent you from having certain…Targaryen ideas.”

“Six armed men against the largest living dragon seems like a somewhat unequal battle.”

Narrowing her eyes, she watches as the same placid arrogance bathes his features, but she thinks now it’s the right time to wipe it off, and she knows exactly how to do it. “Sorrows bring sorrows.”

All at once, the Sorrowful men move, drawing their spears with impressive speed and aiming the sharp points at the prince. His whole demeanor changes, becomes menacing, she notices, but he does not flinch. She walks among the weeping men avoiding the spears until she stands in front of the prince and snatches the mask off his face, to wear it herself.

“Listen to me. These men live to serve me. They were slaves once, bought with something far more valuable than gold: freedom. And they chose to stay by my side. If I told them to take the only eye you have left, right now, they would do it. If I told them to cut your cock and bring it to me right now, they would do it. A shame, I will grant you that. So, you’re right, you may be in charge here…but if you push me…you will be dead before you have the chance to say Dracarys.”

Whatever cutting remark the prince has in mind, he does not have time to say it, as he is suddenly distracted by a strange sound, a whistle, like the cry of a bird.

Aemond turns his head and the Queen does the same, recognizing that sound at once. The Sorrowful Men lower their spears and a man steps forward, dressed in a strange purple robe. Aemond stares at him warily, wondering why, in the name of the Seven, this man’s lips are blue, like a corpse.

“Father…” the Salt Queen greets him, taking Aemond by surprise, but sounding a little surprised herself to see the blue-lipped man.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t answer to his daughter, because he can’t. He starts to move his hands in strange signs, circles and lines. And Aemond is grateful for his strict education, for he knows what that man is doing. Sign language. He is either mute, or tongueless.

Unfortunately, he cannot understand what he’s saying, but his daughter can.

“Kóri. Will you not introduce me to your noble guest?”

The Salt Queen sighs, casting a brief look at the Prince, and then she introduces him. “Father, this is Prince Aemond, of House Targaryen.”

The blue-lipped man looks at him with wide eyes, charmed to the point of looking unsettling. And then he bends into a long bow. Not even when Aemond sat on the Iron Throne, someone had bowed so low before him.

He tilts his chin down to greet him, and sees the warlock’s hands moving. “On behalf of the Warlocks of Qarth” the Salt Queen translates “I welcome you, your Grace. It is a great privilege to see a descendant of Old Valyria in the flesh. Your blood is as ancient as our beloved great city.”

Aemond cannot stop his eyebrow from raising, nor his tongue. “It seems at least one member of your family knows good manners.”

“You must excuse us, father, we have to go.” she hastens to say, but as soon as she takes one step, her father grabs her arm.

“Don’t run from me, kori. You have been knowing, yes? More than usual.” and then his hands rise and fall once more. “Trees wail. Leaves are bleeding. The doom, kori. The doom is near.”

PART 2

thank you so so much for reading!! 💕 💕

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koit626 · 2 months

Text

"And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,

In her sepulchre there by the sea—

In her tomb by the sounding sea."

#umineko #beatrice #myart #fanart #my art #うみねこのなく頃に

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fandomfics · 1 month

Text

So Soft, so Beautiful

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Plus size mutant fem reader, Scott Summers x Plus size mutant fem reader

Description: you don't give a single shit about the man that's obsessed with you, in fact, you have eyes for someone else, but he doesn't feel the same. Maybe you can get under someone else to get over him.

Masterlist

⚠️Warnings⚠️

Au, Jean and Scott aren't together , not proof read

Kind of stalkery behavior, light fat shaming, jealousy, angst, Fluff, smut unprotected p in v.

Smut under the 🔥

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"Why does he act so weird around you?" Ororo asks.

"I don't know, maybe he has a little crush on me?" You shrug your shoulders. "Ever since Scott and I went on that mission together he's been lingering around me more...kinda seems like he even goes out of his way to just....stand around, maybe say hi."

"Kinda creepy."

"Eh, I think he's just socially inept." You wave off her concerned look. "And anyways, the professor has taught me to hone in on my skills, I can reach into his mind and stop him from using his powers if he becomes dangerous. Though, I doubt it would come to that."

"Okay...just talk to the professor if he's getting any weirder, alright?"

"Sure thing Ro." You give her a small smile before bounding out of the kitchen and to your room.

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You sit in your classroom with your students, reading from a book of poetry.

"Annabel Lee

By Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

I and my Annabel Lee—

With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsmen came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

Went envying her and me—

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee."

As you continue to read you see Scott Summers in your periphery, he leans against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest, watching you intently.

"But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we—

Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in Heaven above

Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,

In her sepulchre there by the sea—

In her tomb by the sounding sea." You look up to your class, carefully avoiding Scott, "the assignment is simple, create a piece inspired by this poem. Any media you wish, sculpture, painting, mixed. I really look forward to seeing what you come up with!"

You dismiss your class and begin shuffling papers trying to look busy. You know Scott's about to walk up and talk about nothing in particular with you, something likely work related, uninteresting as usual.

"Ah, man..." He stretches and exaggerates his exhaustion. "That was a depressing poem." He sits at a desk kicking up his feet.

"How was your day?" You say making friendly conversation.

"Ya know, the usual, angsty kids, boring classes." He goes on to tell a mind numbing story about a kid that pulled a prank and how he handled it. You nod and hum through the story, feigning interest.

"Wow," you say raising an eyebrow, "that's wild."

"I know right?"

"Well, nice chatting with you Summers, I've gotta get going." You begin to make your way out of the room when he cuts in front of you in the doorway, blocking your exit.

"Before you go, I was wondering," he looks down at you with a smile, "You want to go check out this new bar with me some time?"

"Uh, yeah sure." You say noncommittally as you smile and push past him. Logan is walking through at that moment and you fall in line with him, hoping to start a conversation to keep Scott from following you.

"Hey short stack." He says with a smile.

"Hey grouch." You elbow him returning the smile as you tilt your face up to look up at him.

"Got any plans for the weekend big guy?"

"Not a damn thing," he sighs, "got kid duty."

"Me too!" You squeak excitedly. "I switched with Jean so she can spend the weekend with her new guy."

"Of course." He grumbles, clearly agitated. He's always opted to hang around her, he was friendly with you, but never got too close.

The most you got was some friendly banter, and hang outs in group settings. None of these facts stopped you from developing feelings for the gruff man, much to your dismay. He is head over heels for Jean, and you've accepted it, but it still stings, especially when he's like this.

"Well, maybe you and I can watch a movie, I'll even let you pick!" His smile comes back and it makes your heart skip a beat knowing it was because of you.

"You might regret that." He says with a laugh.

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You sit in the dark, a bowl of popcorn in your lap on the opposite side of the couch from Logan. The glow of the TV is all that illuminates the room, and you're enthralled with the images that flash across the screen. He picked a horror move that you have found particularly disturbing.

Suddenly you're startled, you jump with a small scream and some of your popcorn scatters around you. Logan chuckles from the other end of the couch and you shoot him a dirty look.

"Why did you choose this?" You ask, genuinely curious, "I'd think you would hate this kinda stuff."

"Sometimes I hope the nightmares will be about something like this instead of..." He trails off. He turns to see the look of sympathy on your face, "Eh, forget about it, Come're." He lifts the arm closest to you, inviting you to lean into him.

"What? I don't bite." he announces after seeing your face change to a look of confusion before quickly morphing to one of hesitation. "Come on, we're friends right?"

There's the sting. Friends. The desire to be bundled under his strong arm, even just this once, sounds nice. You take the invitation and scoot close to him, his arm rests around you and let out a content sigh.

You know it's gonna hurt when you think back on this knowing you can't have it again, but for now you can pretend. His warmth and the scent of musk and tobacco that invades your nostrils is comforting. You use every ounce of will power focusing your attention on the movie, faltering at every jump scare when he feels you jerk in surprise and tightens his grip momentarily to soothe you.

"Okay, well that was terrifying." You say when the credits start to roll.

"I told you that you'd regret letting me choose." He chuckles as he squeezes you again.

"Nah, I enjoyed this!" You stumble to correct yourself, "the movie!"

The lights suddenly flicker on and you're blinded momentarily. Logan immediately leaves the couch, claws extend with a snarl, as Jean enters the room. His face softens to a nervous smile and his claws retract.

"Heya Jean," his hand reaches up to rub the nape of his neck, "thought you were supposed to be gone the whole weekend."

You take this as your que to leave, the sting of rejection settles in your chest as you quickly exit the room, avoiding eye contact with both of them.

"Wait, it's not what it looks like..." You hear Logan say.

Once you've made it into the hallway, you allow tears to fall as you walk as fast as your legs will carry you to your room.

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The following day Scott finds you taking a walk around the grounds, "Hey, I was looking for you!" His greeting is strangely overenthusiastic.

"What's up Scott?"

"I'm going to that bar tonight, join me?"

You take a beat to think it over, the events of the previous night fill you with a dread you want to forget, so you accept. "Yeah, that'd be nice."

"Great, be ready by 7." He says before he begins walking back to the mansion.

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You make your way to the front door, your makeup and hair done in your signature styles, wearing your favorite outfit, that one that boosts your confidence and makes you feel absolutely amazing.

Your decent on the stairs is interrupted on the landing when you see Logan coming your way. He stops just a few stairs below you, poised to say something.

"Hey Scotty!" You wave past Logan and hurry down the stairs with a smile plastered to your face, determined to show that you weren't impacted by the previous night.

"Ready to go?"

"Yup!"

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The bar is lively, the music is loud enough to drown out Scott's monotonous chatter, and the drinks are strong enough to help you lose yourself. The night blurs together in a haze of drinks and dancing until you wake up in your bed next to Scott. You don't know how much time you lost or how you got here, but you're thankful for the chance to forget Logan for a bit.

You and Scott are still fully dressed, laying on top of the comforter. You both look like disasters, and you feel like you were hit by a train. You get up and get some pain relievers and a glass of water to begin the process of your tried and true hangover routine.

Scott stirs and slowly comes to, clearly feeling the same, "Here, take these." You say as you hand him a couple pills and your glass. "Then we're gonna need some greasy food."

He grunts in agreement before taking the pills.

"Do you remember what happened last night?" You ask.

"I remember the beginning of the night..." He laughs lightly.

After a short time you and Scott start to leave, but when your door swings open you see Logan standing there, hand up, ready to knock. A look of surprise briefly crosses his face before hardening into a serious expression.

"We need you, now." He states quickly, "one of the students is on the verge of a meltdown and Jean and the professor aren't here."

You nod and follow Logan as Scott calls after you, "I'll make us breakfast!"

"About the other night-" He starts.

"Don't worry Logan, it was nothing. Just hope it didn't upset Jean." You put on your best smile. He looks a bit confused but you're unable to explore why as you've made it to the student in question.

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When you finally return to the kitchen Scott has a plate laid out for each of you.

"Yum." You say trying to hide the disappointment in your voice as you look over the egg white omelette stuffed with veggies and turkey bacon on your plate.

"My special hangover cure." He beams.

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A few weeks pass and you've spent more time with Scott. Walking the grounds, being his sparring partner, having casual sex. He's boring and the sex is mediocre, but you just need something to fill the ache in your chest.

One evening you sit with him in front of the TV watching a movie, "ya know, I used to know someone that looks just like her." He points to the woman on the screen before continuing, "ugh, I usually don't tell other people about this, but damn, she was stunning. Perfect boobs, ass. She was fit too. Worked out. Too bad she was married."

You scoff at him as you get up to leave the room.

"Can I stop by to fool around later?" He calls after you completely oblivious to his own stupidity.

Through laughter you tell him no and make your way to your room. It all makes since now. Every time he's asked you to go out with him it's for some sort of physical activity, meals he cooks for you are always the grossest healthy shit, he doesn't show physical affection when others are around but always had his hands on you when you were alone.

He's obsessed with you but ashamed of liking someone that doesn't fit conventional beauty standards. He's trying to make you fit the mold.

You're lost in thought at the absurdity of it as you crawl into bed with your favorite book.

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A knock on the door startles you awake and your book flies from your hand to the floor. You sleepily open the door to find Scott standing there with a half wilted bouquet of flowers that you had seen sitting in the kitchen the day before.

"I don't know what I did wrong but I'm sorry!" He says I'm a clear attempt to get back in your pants. From the corner of your eye you see Logan walking down the hall and immediately slam the door closed to avoid both men.

"You're done Scott." You yell through the door.

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You are overjoyed at the prospect of having the whole mansion to yourself for a few days. Everyone will be on a field trip with the kids, no one to avoid, no one to play pretend with after Scott's bullshit the night before. You are free to do what you want.

You decide to make yourself your favorite meal, you sing along to the music that plays in the background, dancing around the kitchen while you work. You whip around, spatula in hand as a microphone and sing along to part of the song especially loudly when you notice Logan smiling as he leans against the doorway. Mortified you stop, eyes wide, "How long have you been there?"

He chuckles, "Not long."

"Aren't you supposed to be with everyone else?"

"I, uh...heard what Scott said to you last night." He looks to the floor. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay. If you want me to leave you alone, I will. I can go meet back up-"

"No, it's okay Lo, you're a good friend. Thank you." His expression is unreadable as you continue, "would you like to have dinner with me? There's plenty!" You say before you can regret it.

He pauses before answering, considering the option. He doesn't answer quickly enough before you blurt out, "It's okay, you don't have to if you don't want to!"

"No, sorry, no....I'd-I'd like that." You both smile gently before his eyes light up, "Just a sec, let me get something."

He leaves for a few minutes before returning with a bottle of whisky.

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After eating and a couple of glasses of whiskey you and Logan are still sitting at the table talking. You're happy he's here, in your tipsy state you promise yourself to stop avoiding him, maybe even try to really be friends again, make an effort to shove your feelings down and enjoy his company without pining over him.

"He didn't deserve you..." He says as he looks you in the eye.

"No he did not. I was just trying to fill a void, take my mind off of things, ya know. The person I really wanted is not... available." You look into your glass swirling the amber liquid around, "I just needed to forget a bit. Never really cared for Scott to begin with, he was just there."

"I know the feeling." His eyes are pained when they meet yours.

"Jean would be lucky to have you. It's her loss." You say, taking a swig of your drink

His face is confused again, "Jean?"

"Yeah, I've seen how you're always around her, how you scurried away from me when she got home after that movie...how you said you could explain when I was leaving." The sting in your chest is back.

"I didn't say that to her, I was talking to you."

It was your turn to be confused now. "What are you talking about?"

"You didn't stop so I assumed you didn't want to talk to me...and then you kept avoiding me. So I didn't push it."

"What were you going to explain?"

"That I was so focused on how close you were to me that I didn't hear her coming until the light came up. That's why I jumped out of the seat, I was ready to fight. I thought maybe you had felt something that night, but then you left so quickly..."Your eyes probe his as he continues, "Jean stopped me from going after you. She kept telling me that you weren't interested in hanging around me so I let it go."

"What did you want me to feel?" You keep going, hoping this is what you think it is, consequences be damned if it isn't.

"I wanted you to feel the same way I do about you. But I know you don't, it's okay."

"Do you....love me?" You ask cautiously, tears pricking your eyes, ignoring the fact that Jean erroneously spoke for you.

His eyes meet yours and he gives a small nod, "It's okay, nothing has to change. I don't expect anything from you, I-" all the emotion pent up in your body bursts through and tears stream down your face. You're happy, you're pissed, you're hurt, you can't control the tears.

"I'm sorry, I'll go." He's gone before you can blink and you try to follow after him.

"Logan, wait!" You hear him bound up the stairs towards his room. You follow as quickly as your feet will carry you and pound on his door. When he doesn't answer a sob wracks your body. You sit on the floor outside his door and try to stop crying so you can speak.

"Lo, please. I love you too." You say weakly.

The door opens slowly and you look up at him, you didn't expect to see him crying too. He kneels down on the floor next to you and searches your eyes.

"I love you." You whisper. He sweeps you up in his arms and carries you into his room, laying you on the bed and climbing in with you.

He pulls you tight to his chest and presses his forehead to yours as he wipes away a tear, "I have loved you for so long. Since the first time I laid eyes on you I was hooked."

You tilt your face up, lips barely brushing his before fully pushing forward. You smile into the kiss and feel your heart flutter. One of his hands comes up to your neck and he deepens the kiss. It's tender, but hungry.

"Why would Jean tell you I wasn't interested in you?" You say after finally pulling away.

Realization comes over both your faces, "she's in love with you too."

"Well, I only have eyes for you." He smiles down at you. Blush rises in your cheeks and you bury your face in his chest, inhaling his scent deeply.

"Can we just...stay like this for a while"

"Whatever you want darlin'." He kisses the top of your head, "you want something more comfortable to wear? I could get you something from your room...or you could have one of my shirts." He offers.

"I'd like one of your shirts, please." You say shyly. His face breaks into a wide grin.

He retrieves a flannel for you, "you should get more comfortable too." You smile sweetly.

He turns away and changes into a pair of sweats and removes his shirt, respectfully keeping his eyes turned away as you remove everything but your boy shorts and slip the flannel on. It's baggy, the sleeves hang just past your fingertips, and the hem at the mid thigh.

You turn to see he's still facing away and immediately move to him. He hears you coming towards him and turns his head a bit. You wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze him tightly as you rest your face against his back, breathing him in.

He turns in your arms and looks over you in his shirt. "Perfect."

You take his hands and lead him back to the bed, urging him to climb in with you before snuggling back into his chest. As he holds you his fingers gently trace over your plush curves in admiration. You lay in each other's arms until you fall asleep, happy.

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Soft beams of light filter through the blinds, the sound of Logan's deep breaths and the rise and fall of his chest at your back reminds you that last night's events weren't just a dream. He stirs behind you with a happy hum, you feel the rumble in his chest as he squeezes you.

"Mornin'."

"Morning Lo."

"I don't remember the last time I slept that well. Guess I'm just gonna need to hold you every night." He burries his head in the crook of your neck with a kiss and you giggle.

"What should we do today?

"This."

🔥

"I see have a better idea." You say turning to him, you tilt your head up to plant a soft kiss on his lips. His breath hitches and you deepen the kiss. Your hands weave into his hair and you pull in closer, swollowing the moan he lets out. His hand moves down from your waist to your thick thigh, hoisting it up on his hip and palming it just below your ass.

You push forward, flipping him on his back and straddling him. You kiss along his jaw, down his neck, you feel the rumble of a gutteral moan in his throat when your lips hit his pulse point and your hips involuntarily grind against his hard cock.

"Fuck, sweetheart." His hands rove your body, from your thighs, your ass, your soft tummy, "you're so soft, so beautiful." He sits up and crosses his legs beneath you and guides your legs to cross behind his back. Your full weight rests in his lap and you feel supported in a way you never have before.

"Every time I heard you with Scott I wanted to break down the door and show you how you should be treated..."

"I should have guessed you'd hear..." You pause to look in his eyes, "Were you jealous?"

"So god damn jealous." He growls. "You deserve to be worshipped. Respected. Heard. Seen as the perfect woman you are." He punctuates every point with a kiss across your neck and collar bones.

When he's finished you press a searing kiss to his lips, funneling in every ounce of your being.

He flips you onto your back and breaks from the kiss when you both need air. "Let me take care of you." His gravelly whisper caresses the shell of your ear.

"Yes, please." Your reply is breathy, full of need.

He unwraps your legs from him and begins to kiss down your body. He pauses at the top button of the flannel and looks up to you, "Can I take this off?"

"Yes."

He unbuttons the shirt at an agonizing pace, after each is released he kisses the newly exposed skin as his free hand kneads the plushness of your love handes.

When the last button is undone he opens the shirt completely to reveal your breasts and tummy, looking at you as though you are the most beautiful and fascinating thing he's ever seen.

His hands drag along your skin up to your breasts, he takes a nipple into his mouth and teases it with his teeth and tongue as the other is pinched between his thick fingers.

You arch your back, pressing them further into him with a small moan, "that feels so good Lo."

He hums happily at your approval and brings his free hand down to rest on your inner thigh.

"Please, touch me." You gasp.

"You're gonna have to use your words sweetheart. Tell me exactly what you want."

"I want your fingers....your tongue...your cock..."you squirm under him as he continues his worship of your breasts."burried in me Lo. I need you."

His hand moves up and the pads of his fingers find your clit over your underwear and you buck your hips up to get more friction. His touch is feather light over your clit, your body twitches in anticipation, another whine escaping your lips.

He sits up on his knees between your legs and grabs the hem of your underwear, yanking them off in one go. He lays flat and pulls one leg over his shoulder with his arm threaded under your knee and hand on your stomach and spreads the other one open, keeping his hand on your inner thigh.

He wastes no time devouring you, his tongue explores every inch of your folds until he settles on your clit, alternating between sucking, nibbling, and flicking it as his hands knead your soft flesh. The hand on your thigh finally starts moving towards your opening, slowly he inserts a finger and crooks it as he starts to pump it in and out of you, dragging the pad of his finger along your sweet spot.

"More, please." You beg.

He adds a second finger and you run your fingers through his hair before taking fistfuls and tugged his head further into you with a roll of your hips. He moans loudly, sending a wave of pleasure vibrating through your clit.

"I'm so close..." You gasp with another tug of his hair.

He dutifully continues working you until you scream out in ecstasy as your orgasm tears through your body. He skillfully draws it out until it's run it's course and your left panting above him.

He works his way back up your body until he's face to face with you again. His hand cups your face and he lands a loving kiss to your lips. You reach between you and grab his member and he moans into the kiss as you guide him to your entrance.

He languidly rolls his hips as he seats himself inside you fully, taking his time, making sure you're comfortable. He pauses when he's fully inside you and looks into your eyes deeply.

"I love you." His eyes are full of reverence, adoration, need.

"I love you too Logan."

He begins moving again, slow purposeful thrusts, his eyes still glued to yours. The intimacy of the moment is intoxicating. He reaches one hand between you and circles your clit, heightening every sensation.

"You feel so good Lo." You manage to gasp out as he brings you closer and closer to to your peak.

He sits up on his feet and continues drilling into you as his fingers circle your clit. The new angle hits your sweet spot just right and you cry out in surprised pleasure.

"Almost there, I want you to cum with me..." You whisper as you arch your back.

"Where?" He says breathlessly.

"Inside me, please....I want to feel you." Soon you feel the rush of your orgasm wash over you, pulsing and contracting around him, pulling his own release from him. He continues working you until you're both spent, when he stills he falls to your side and pulls you into a blissful kiss. Everything feels right.

#fanfic #mdni #wolverine #logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #logan howlett x you #logan howlett smut #wolverine smut #x men #xmen smut #hugh jackman

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staygoldsunshine · 6 months

Text

I think sleeping for a few hundred years in a sepulchre down by the sea would fix me actually, in a tomb by the sounding sea.

#edgar allan poe

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starberry-cupcake · 5 months

Text

I shouldn't be making another one of these because I didn't even give you enough time to catch up and I'm sure you're tired of me (I'm probably losing mutuals over the length of these) BUT I FINISHED ACT II and I think this is the right place for an update recap. I'm so sorry.

previously, in harrowlana the ninth (reference I might explain one day):

this happened

currently, chapters 20 - 22 (END OF ACT II!!!):

we start with a killer epitaph from harrow for her own grave that I absolutely 10000% need in a tshirt yesterday

"Here lies the world's most insufferable witch"

alleged gideon the first, here known as ortus the first (but I am so sure about this one) has tried to kill harrowbeanie 14 times

I honestly don't know how harrow is going through this without outright telling emperor johnny man to go and insert this entire planetary situation right in the center of his bolthole

we're over here working overtime for you and your sorry ass of a plan that is probably terrible for everyone who isn't you

and we have to put up with zombies (we'll get there), the terrible attitude of your remaining lyctors, very questionable food, very questionable decor, very questionable non goth fashions, and also a man who tries to kill harrow at every turn

this is the worst

at least in canaan house we had gideon's humor and camilla's perfection

ANYWAY

emperor john tells alleged gideon the first (if I'm wrong about this, these are going to be embarrassing looking back on) "she's your responsibility, not your punching bag" to which alleged gideon the first answers "I find the responsibility a hard one"

I'm not sure if this is alluding to baby lyctors in general or harrow in particular, or if anything related to the gideon-involvement narrative I'm imagining has anything to do with it

emperor johnny boy tells harrowbean that this guy's problem is that he made a pact with an "authority he has no power to gainsay" to protect emperor johnny john and that alleged gideon the first thinks harrow is a danger to the emperor

I SURE HOPE SO

I SURE HOPE HARROW KILLS THIS MAN

I HOPE ALLEGED GIDEON THE FIRST IS RIGHT

harrow then mentions how she's "lyctor lite" and emperor john of nottingham says he doesn't think harrow fucked up the lyctor thing

he says only one person fucked it up and it was nasty

it was the ninth lyctor, Anastasia (and a song someone sings, once upon a december)

the vacant room harrowbean has taken residence in was meant for her, but she never made it there

she asked emperor john the asshat to kill her and he said no because he's that kind of a person

"she had much more to give"

I hate this guy

he also says "I had a body and I needed a tomb"

harrow asks the question everyone is asking themselves

aside from where tf are gideon and camilla

"God, who did you bury?"

he gets all vague and cryptic so he can avoid taking about what the fuck he's doing

and he quotes Annabel Lee

edgar allan poe's Annabel Lee

this is a bit more in my wheelhouse than shakespeare

to which harrow notes "Who was A.L.?"

now, I have SEVERAL THINGS TO SAY

first, and most importantly, I HAVE BEEN SAYING THIS

THAT ICE CUBE BARBIE MIGHT BE A.L.

I HAVE BEEN SAYING THIS, FAM

here's more magic knight rayearth art of the vibes I get from them to celebrate

second of all, Annabel Lee

I do have Annabel Lee in one of my EAP books, but not the one with the pretty Lacombe illustrations

so here are some Ligeia illustrations from it that have the vibe we're going for, as a treat

now, not to be all ortus over here, but I'm gonna be reciting some poetry

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea.

gonna put that in the 3d model

in the middle of it, like a centerpiece

let's bring back the barbie

this man is doing the whole wife/madwoman in the attic gothic trope but instead of an attic it's a tomb in pluto

another madwoman archetype to add to the list, we've got a whole collection

CHAPTER 21

we have summoned ortus by reciting poetry, because we're back in the gideon-less version of canaan house

so, the sixth is dead in this version

the sleeper or random rifle carrying person shot them in the face a bunch of times

what I wanted to do to not!dulcinea

harrow mentions not having seen camilla or palmolive much in this gideon-less version

devastating for her not to have met camilla

so then protozoa and dulcinea come in

notice I didn't say not!dulcinea

that's because this is the real deal dulcinea and the alive non zombified protozoa

we can know this by their descriptions (especially the hair), the fact that dulcinea knows who tf palmolive is, that she has a breathing tube that palmolive designed for her (this guy istg), that she can identify them and calls them "cam" and "pal"

I was so caught up on this book I forgot to read the short story that came before it btw

anyway, we also know this because protozoa speaks, but we'll get to that

before that, ortus calls the sleeper "the waker" and it's giving me the vibes of the citadel deck

wait, I'm gonna take a pic of some of the cards that give me the correct tlt vibes, so you know what the hecko I'm talking about

(I'm going on unplanned tangents but maybe someone appreciates them)

(we've moved from 3d models to me fetching books and decks from my shelves, what has palmolive done to me)

so, as previously established, protozoa speaks, which is how we know he might be the real one and not the zombie version

he then proceeds to recite poetry

ortus is feral about this

I thought initially that they were gonna have to make room for protozoa in the polycule ortus is in with the fifth, but he doesn't like protozoa coming for his gig

abby says "we're all in this together" which reminds me I did make a high school musical connection with magnus before, so it's funny that it turned out that way

abby asks real dulcinea, aka "dulcie" to her, to bring in mayonnaise uncle because he'll listen to her

why is everyone always into her in all the aus, idk

this one is less bad than not!dulcinea though, but the bar for that was on the subsoil

magnus (who is very much in love with his wife and he's pointing it out every chance he gets) is in charge of looking for martita

harrow is in charge of regina george twin (and yandere twin)

abby thinks regina george twin is the most relevant one

apparently also they're flooded with the rain

which was me last week, so I feel you fam

and we get our traidtional quote, this time by real dulcinea

"Is this really how it happens, Lady Pent?" "No. It's not" "Does it get—better than this? Do you know?"

real dulcinea is saying goodbye to palmolive and the love of my life, who I refuse to accept is in any way harmed in any timeline

and harrow "felt something in her core, though she did not know precisely what it was"

palmolive had a filmsy and we love flimsies because they have what I have started to call "harrow texts"

or "texts which can only be read by harrow"

OP is still ranting, a continuation of the egg rant

I'm gonna transcribe all of it and bold the new part, for my own access, even though everyone who has me in their dash will hate me and block me

The eggs you gave me all died and you lied to me so I did the implantation myself you self-serving zombie and you still sent him after me and I would have had him if I hadn't been compromised and he took pity on me! he took pity on me! he saw me and he took pity on me. And for that I'll make you both suffer until you no longer understand the meaning of that goddamned word. Him I'll kill quick because she asked me to and because that much he honestly deserves but you two mummified wizard shits I will burn and burn and burn burn until there is no trace of you left in the shadow of my long-lost natal sun

could the self-serving zombie be emperor john? could gideon the first be one of the people alluded to? has Annabel Lee anything to do with any of this? since OP mentions a long-lost natal sun? who's "she"? has gideon's mom anything to do with any of this? is this totally not related? is this the actual present? does 'mummified wizard shits' stand for lyctor? because I kinda live for that

ortus, on the other hand, sees an S

ortus in this timeline knows how his dad died, apparently

and we end this part with harrow and ortus finding rusted pipette needles

CHAPTER 22

harrow has killed 13 planets in this practice, which is insane and nobody's asking any questions about it

she was dreaming with ice cube barbie annabel lee and she told her to wake up

harrow mentions the sword sleeping next to her in a loverlike position and it reads like a gideon body pillow to me

remember when I said we should have flushed not!dulcinea into space?

GUESS WHO WAS RIGHT

nobody ever takes the not!dulcinea threat seriously but me

I have to do everything around here

she's a zombie now, which is protozoa's revenge from behind the veil

there's a moment in which she trips but still looks at harrow and it's very creepy and well narrated but I can't help but think of the dracula dead and loving it scene with hypnosis

"it was as though a magnet were stuck in the meat, a magnet that craved some polar force within you" wonder what THAT is about

much like the sleeper/waker, not!dulcinea can pass through wards apparently

harrow goes to wake up yandere twin and says "septimus is walking"

yandere twin doesn't understand at first "the name that had never been cytherea's" and later says "tell her I want my arm back"

which relates to the fact that I've been thinking

if real dulcinea is there in the gideon-less ver

how was not!dulcinea even involved?

because harrow seems to have memories of killing her, of fighting her, of her doing damage in some way, of her being a threat, of her doing it to lure emperor johnny boy to canaan house

so we have some big missing link between the gideon-less canaan version and the emperor's bolthole timeline

she can't be the sleeper/waker, because harrow wouldn't call her "septimus"

so harrow remembers not!dulcinea posing as real dulcinea, which does not happen in the gideon-less version, as far as we can tell atm

AGAIN, DON'T TELL ME ANYTHING, LET ME BE IN DISTRESS

last but not less important

remember not to hint me anything at all and thank you for being patient with me all this time ♥

#luly reacts to tlt #harrow the ninth #harrow the ninth spoilers #the locked tomb #tlt spoilers #the locked tomb spoilers #long post #gif cw

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andromerot · 1 year

Text

her: you better not be my darling –my darling– my life and my bride when i get there

me in my sepulchre there by the sea — in my tomb by the sounding sea:

#big fan of this format we need to stretch it until it means nothing anymore

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apoemaday · 1 year

Text

Annabel Lee

by Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee— With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me— Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— Of many far wiser than we— And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea.

#poetry #edgar allan poe #annabel lee

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anonymousewrites · 8 days

Text

Pearl of the Sea Chapter Eighteen

Found Family! PoTC Cast x Teen! Reader

Platonic! Will Turner, Elizabeth Swann, Jack Sparrow, Tia Dalma x Reader

Chapter Eighteen: Meeting Sao Feng

Summary: (Y/N) and their friends need a map to Davy Jones's locker, and that means venturing to Singapore.

Two months later…

(Y/N) sat behind Elizabeth as she punted them downstream in the waters around Singapore. The song had recently reached the pirates, and the pair sang it quietly. (Y/N) sang it for all the people who had lost their lives as the East India Trading Company’s reign of terror began.

“Some have died, and some are alive,” they hummed quietly. “Others sail on the sea. With the keys to the cage, and the devil to pay, we lay to the Fiddler’s Green. The bell has been raised from its watery grave. Hear its sepulchral tone.”

(Y/N) watched as British soldiers stalked across bridges in search of more innocent lives to destroy. They caught pirates daily, yet they were the ones colonizing, pillaging, thieving.

“A call to all, pay heed to the squall, turn your sails to home. Yo ho,” sang (Y/N). “Haul together. Hoist the colors high.”

Elizabeth stopped the longboat and tied it.

“Heave-ho.”

They stepped out.

“Thieve—”

“Thief and beggar,” said the guard of the secret entrance to Soa Feng’s pirate lair.

Sao Fang was the leader of the Singaporean pirates and the latest person they needed to contact in order to have a way to reach World’s End, the Black Pearl, and Jack.

“Never shall we die,” finished the guard. “A dangerous song to be singing for any who are ignorant of its meaning. Particularly a woman and a child.” He smirked. “Particularly when they’re alone.”

“What makes you think they’re alone?” Barbossa walked down to the canal.

“You protect them?” snapped the guard.

(Y/N) grabbed one guard, and Elizabeth grabbed another. They lifted knives to their throats.

“We don’t need protecting,” said (Y/N).

Barbossa grinned. After returning to life, he had worked with the crew of the Pearl to find it again. He had found that Elizabeth was a formidable pirate (especially after she threatened him with a sword to cut his throat if he tried to touch her, Will, or (Y/N) again). He had also discovered that (Y/N) was as dangerous as they had seemed fighting alongside Jack. In fact, he had become a little fond of (Y/N) (if only to hopefully piss of Jack a bit that his protégé could also be taught by Barbossa). All in all, he was enjoying the expert crew of the Black Pearl.

“Your master’s expecting us,” said Barbossa. “And an unexpected death’d cast a slight pall on our meeting.”

All the pirates looked at each other and hesitantly lowered their weapons warily.

“Pick those feet up!” said a British soldier. “Eyes front.”

The pirates retreated to the edge of the canal to avoid being spotted. Sao Feng’s guards led the way to the grate and into the underground tunnels of Singapore.

“Have you heard anything from Will?” asked Elizabeth.

“I trust young Turner to acquire the charts and you to remember your place in the presence of Captain Sao Feng,” warned Barbossa.

“What’s he like?” asked (Y/N), not promising anything.

“He’s much like myself, but absent my merciful nature and sense of fair play,” said Barbossa.

Wonderful, thought (Y/N).

The guards walked up to a lock door and spoke a password. It was unlocked and opened to reveal a new passageway. Several guards held out their hands, and Barbossa began handing over his weapons. (Y/N) grumbled but handed over their sword, pistol, and daggers. Elizabeth, on the other hand, somehow procured over a dozen weapons from her person, hidden in places no one would think of except for her (even some unsavory places).

Finally, though, they were let into Sao Feng’s chambers. It was a sauna full of pirates being served by women with drinks and drugs. The heavy smoke of opium hung in the air, and (Y/N) wrinkled their nose.

Sao Feng himself stood on a dais, clad in leather armor with ornate embellishments. A large scar extended across his face, and he looked down his nose at the group. While Barbossa enjoyed the riches and glory of captaining and Jack adored the very act of being on the sea, it was clear Sao Feng loved the power he commanded in a room.

Barbossa bowed to appease his ego. He gestured to Elizabeth and (Y/N). Elizabeth bowed, and (Y/N) suppressed a roll of their eyes before bowing. Their skin itched. For two months now, every time they had to do something they didn’t wish to or had to obey another’s wishes that went against their own, the itch returned. The restless energy was deep in their body, in their heart.

“Captain Barbossa, welcome to Singapore,” said Sao Feng. He glanced at his servant. “More steam.” Water vapor pumped into the air. “I understand that you have a request to make of me.”

“More of a proposal to put to ye,” said Barbossa. “I’ve a venture underway, and I find myself in want of a ship and a crew.”

“Hm. It’s an odd coincidence,” remarked Sao Feng. His tone, however, suggested he knew more than he had so far revealed.

“Because you happen to have a ship and a crew you don’t need?” said Elizabeth, raising a brow.

“No,” said Sao Feng. “Because earlier this day, not far from here, a thief broke into my most revered uncle’s temple and tried to make off with these.” He picked up a roll of maps. “The navigational charts. The route to the Farthest Gate.”

Elizabeth, Barbossa, and (Y/N) exchanged looks. Those were what Will had been searching for.

Sao Feng threw the charts to a guard. “Wouldn’t it be amazing if this venture of yours took you to the world beyond this one?”

“It would strain credulity at that,” said Barbossa.

(Y/N) nearly rolled their eyes, and they glanced warily around.

Sao Feng nodded to a pair of guards by a steam bath. They raised a log to reveal arms tied to it. Will gasped for air as he was raised from the scalding water.

“This is the thief,” said Sao Feng casually. “Is his face familiar to you?”

All three shook their heads “no.”

“Then I guess he has no further need for it,” said Sao Feng, rearing back to stab Will.

“No, no,” gasped Elizabeth, unable to stop herself.

Sao Feng stopped and turned around slowly. He had trapped them in their lie. “You come into my city, and you betray my hospitality.

Barbossa stood straight. “I assure you I had no idea—”

“That he would get caught!” interrupted Sao Feng.

Around them, Singaporean pirates stood and surrounded the group.

“You intend to attempt the voyage to Davy Jones’s locker,” said Sao Feng matter-of-factly. “But I cannot help but wonder…why?”

(Y/N) shifted, and Barbossa and Elizabeth both put a hand out. If (Y/N) were to speak up, it wouldn’t be polite, which wouldn’t end well. (Y/N)’s skin itched, and they shifted with unused energy.

Barbossa tossed a coin through the air in response to Sao Feng. He caught it, bit it to test it, and stared at it.

“The song has been sung,” said Barbossa. “The time is upon us. We must convene the Brethren Court. As one of the nine pirate lords, you must honor the call.”

Sao Feng narrowed his eyes. His hand curled into a fist. “More steam.” The words held all the frustration he wished to express. Nothing came, and he whirled on his servants. “More steam!” he bellowed. Still none.

“There is a price on all our heads,” continued Barbossa, distracting Sao Feng from what was most likely their crew interfering.

“Aye. It is true,” said Sao Feng. “It seems the only way a pirate can turn a profit anymore…is by betraying other pirates.”

Oh, bloody hell, thought (Y/N). It was a suspicious turn of phrase, even if he seemed to be addressing Will’s predicament.

Barbossa continued. “We must put our differences aside. The First Brethren Court gave us rule of the seas.”

(Y/N)’s gaze flicked to him, and their hands clenched at their sides. The seas weren’t to be ruled by anyone. They were free, wild, untamable. Like m—

“But now that rule is being challenged by Lord Cuter Beckett,” said Barbossa.

“Against the East India Trading Company, what value is the Brethren Court?” said Sao Feng derisively. “What can any of us do?”

“You can fight,” snapped (Y/N), their words breaking free. Sao Feng’s sharp gaze landed on them, but they did not cower. “You are Sao Feng, pirate lord of Singapore. You’re a commander in an age where brave captains still sail free waters, despite those waves being measure in fear and not feet.” Their stormy eyes flicked over Sao Feng, and it was as piercing as a needle. “And yet you would just watch such an era come to an end.” They met his eyes. “The most notorious pirates from around the world are uniting against our enemy. Their names will be remembered in legends.” A soft sneering smirk spread across their features. “Yours will be drowned in the bathwater you cower within.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened, and Barbossa closed his eyes and cursed Jack for teaching them to be so mouthy (not that it had come from him. It was natural to (Y/N), and their natural self broke free more and more every day).

Sao Feng stared at them and stepped off the dais. (Y/N) refused to flinch or back away. Sao Feng circled them like a shark, gazing at them quizzically.

“(Y/N) Swann,” said Sao Feng. “There is more to you than meets the eyes, isn’t there?”

(Y/N) followed him with their eyes as he circled them and returned to the front.

“But I cannot help but notice you have failed to answer my question,” continued Sao Feng. “What is it you seek in Davy Jones’s Locker?” Barbossa opened his mouth, but Sao Feng held up a hand. “I want the small one to answer.”

That must be me since I’m the kid.

�� “They seem to enjoy speaking.”

I’d prefer fighting. Thankfully, (Y/N) kept that thought to themself. “A friend.”

Sao Feng narrowed his eyes. “That is not an answer.”

“It is,” said (Y/N).

Elizabeth fought back a sigh as (Y/N) decided to be sarcastic and play tricks with the pirate lord of Singapore.

“Jack Sparrow!” declared Will, breaking in. “We seek Jack Sparrow.”

Laughter erupted throughout the sauna.

“He’s one of the pirate lords,” said Will, speaking over the derision.

(Y/N) watched Sao Feng run a hand over his head. They noted the slight tremble with curiosity.

“The only reason I would want Jack Sparrow returned from the land of the dead is so I can send him back myself!” he hissed.

It seems Jack left his usual impression on people on Sao Feng.

“Jack Sparrow holds one of the nine pieces of eight,” said Barbossa. “He failed to pass it along to a successor before he died. So we must go and get him back.”

“So you admit…you have deceived me,” said Sao Feng slowly. “Weapons!” He drew his sword.

All the pirates let out a shout and grabbed their weapons.

“Sao Feng, I assure you, our intentions are strictly honorable,” said Barbossa.

Through the slatted boards, swords flew up into the air. Barbossa, (Y/N), and Elizabeth each caught one. Barbossa caught the extra for Will. He coughed as Sao Feng narrowed his eyes. Obviously, their intentions had been honorable with a heavy dose of “just in case” dishonesty.

Sao Feng grabbed a Singapore man and held a sword to his throat. “Drop your weapons or I kill the man!”

(Y/N), Elizabeth, Will, and Barbossa wore identical expressions of confusion.

“Kill him,” said Barbossa. “He’s not our man.”

Now it was Sao Feng’s turn to look confused as he stared at the nervous man.

“If he’s not with you, and he’s not with us…who’s he with?” said Will.

“Beckett,” breathed (Y/N).

Bam!

The doors broke open the moment the name left them. “Charge!” cried the British. Muskets fired, and the pirates ducked and attacked as best they could.

Will used the pole he was tied to in order to rush into several men before they could fire. (Y/N) wove through the crowd and slashed through his bindings. Barbossa tossed him a sword. Elizabeth expertly dueled several soldiers at once, and (Y/N) handled their own crowd. They swept through the British, dancing through the attacks aimed at them. They flowed like water from one stab to another parry to a slash to a duck to a kick to a pivot to attack after attack.

From within the platoon, a familiar face emerged. Mercer stepped out, clad in black, and looked across the room of fighting pirates with his sharp, cruel eyes. They landed on (Y/N), and he raised a gun. It was not a pistol, though. This one contained a small dart to incapacitate its target. Of course, Mercer had a proper pistol at his side. If the child resisted…Well, Beckett said controlled or killed.

Bang!

“(Y/N)!” Elizabeth tackled them as she saw the shot.

It flew over their head and hit the wall. Will ran to their side and hauled Elizabeth and (Y/N) up. Barbossa and Sao Feng cut down several attacks, and the group found themselves fighting side by side. Unfortunately, the British were closing in and had their muskets ready once more.

“Ready?” said Mercer, preparing another dart.

(Y/N)’s gaze flicked to it, confused but frightened at what it meant for them.

“Fire.”

Boom!

Instead of the crack of rifles, the floor exploded. The British collapsed back into the hole. The pirates shouted a war cry and stormed onward. Sao Feng grabbed the charts as they ran. The Black Pearl crew ran out from beneath the sauna, fired their pistols, and drew their swords. It was Singapore and Pearl pirates versus the East India Company.

The fight spread into the streets of Singapore as the pirates fled the British, and shops and carts were overturned as their keepers joined the angry brawl—fists were as much weapons at this point as muskets or cutlasses.

(Y/N) leapt over a table and slid under another. With a flick of their wrist, they cut through a soldier’s ankle, and he collapsed. Without being able to stand, (Y/N) ended him in another stab before jumping onto another table to gain the high ground. A soldier ran at them, and they jumped to avoid him. They grabbed the tent’s supporting pole, swung forward, and kicked him in the head. (Y/N) landed and darted towards the canals.

Behind them, a group of soldiers aimed to fire, but the cart behind them exploded. They fell dead and hurtled into the river. (Y/N) grinned behind them, knowing Tia Dalma stood smirking at her plan working.

They ran beside the canals, waiting to spot another friend to regroup.

Boom!

This time not according to plan, a building exploded with a hundred unplanned fireworks. It was right behind them, and (Y/N) flew through the air. Their vision spun between dark and light, and they splashed into the water. They submerged, and their mind cleared. They pushed to the surface and took a deep breath.

Grumbling, they pulled themself to the walkway.

“Goin’ for a swim at a time like this?”

(Y/N) looked up, unamused, at Barbossa. “Putting on a firework show at a time like this?” they retorted.

Barbossa chuckled and pulled (Y/N) out of the water. Tia Dalma stood next to him and gazed at (Y/N) with a smile.

“How do you feel?” said Tia Dalma.

“Wet,” said (Y/N). “But fine.” They had only been temporarily disoriented.

“I’m sure,” said Tia Dalma.

Will appeared from round the corner with a group of pirates.

“You have the charts?” said Barbossa, eyes locking on the bundle in Will’s arms.

“And better yet,” said Will. He tossed the charts to Barbossa and gestured to the Singaporean pirates behind him. “A ship and a crew.”

“Where’s Sao Feng?” Elizabeth joined the rendezvous with the rest of the Black Pearl crew.

“He’ll cover our escape and meet us at Shipwreck Cove,” said Will.

Barbossa nodded. “This way. Be quick.”

(Y/N) looked back at the fire still burning in Singapore as they sailed away. The water rippled around them as the ship moved smoothly over the water. They held the edge of the ship tightly. They had a way to Jack. They’d find him, the Pearl, and a way to stop Beckett. Freedom would win. It had to.

“There seems to be a lot on your mind,” said Tia Dalma, joining them at the side of the ship.

“I’m worried about Jack. What it must be like in the Locker,” said (Y/N).

“Jack is a man of no constancy, coming and going with the tide. But he is also one of great passion for what he cares for—adventure, life, freedom…” Tia Dalma looked at (Y/N). “But the Locker cannot take his heart. He will lose nothing but his mind.”

“Which was lost a long time ago,” said (Y/N) with a smile.

“Then you have nothing to fear,” said Tia Dalma, reaching out and touching (Y/N)’s hand. It was clear (Y/N) was attached to Jack, though how deserving he was of it remained to be seen.

(Y/N) hummed, and they glanced back at Singapore. “Do you think Sao Feng will answer the call now that it is clear he can be found wherever he hides?”

Tia Dalma’s expression grew grim. “I cannot say. There is an evil on these seas that even the most staunch and bloodthirsty pirate have come to fear.”

“We should hope someone will face it instead of fearing it, then,” said (Y/N).

Tia Dalma looked at (Y/N) with a mysterious glint in her eye. “We should hope.”

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