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starryeyed-seer · 1 month

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What Lurks Within: 99 whispers and what they might mean

The 6th Coil of the Labirynth of Tigers is full of Mystery but some of the most intriguing are found in the rare occurrence of the sealed door. Investigating it reveals one of 99 texts depending on random chance. They're a mix of everything, from deep lore to literature references to invitations to join a monstrous polycule.

Below the cut, I'm going to look at all of them and some thoughts as to what they might mean.

Spoilers for everything.

I've sorted them by topic, aproximately, so we're starting with the coil and moving out from there.

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The Story of The Sixth and Seventh Coil

A lot are clearly snippets from the love affair of the seventh coil, and the tiger keeper too. These get a shoutout for being unabashedly Pretty Horny in a perfectly monstrous, sensual way. Congrats whoever wrote those.

Once a tiger prince and a finger king fell in love, the tiger welcomed the fingerking to live inside him and they became a new entity, the Seventh Coil. Everything about the union was forbidden, and they were locked away out of fear in the Sixth Coil.

"—two kings apart and a king together and it is only right and proper that you kneel—"

The Tiger Prince+The Fingerking are both kings, of a sort. As the shared body of the Coil, they are still a king. Being in their presence causes an inclination to kneel.

"—amusing that they thought this a prison, and not a sanctuary—"

The Labirynth might be a prison, but it is also a safe place they may be together considering their union is Very Illegal. As much as the Coil is trapped, they are together (and not fully cut off from the outside world either)

"—presence is a joy at last, after time-outside-of-time spent with a recusant court—"

"—it would have been better if they knelt of their own free wills—"

The tributes sent into the Coil exist as the 'court', and seem lost in a dream-like haze, which the liminal Is and Not nature of the Sixth Coil causes.

"—o lover, I see thee only in mirrors—"

"—the labyrinth has been so very cruel to you, dearest—"

The Tiger Keeper encountered the Coil in dreams, and fell in love. Seeing one's lover only in mirrors also can refer to the Prince/FK affair.

"—Consort dearest, your eyes will fill with scales—"

Being possessed by a fingerking changes one's eyes, but this also reminds me of eyeless skulls: the change of the nadir, where skulls will grow plating to cover the eyes entirely from enough exposure. Considering the links between light and sight, I do wonder if this is related: your vision of the world will change forever, away from that of regular vision (and the way Judgements prefer you to see the world?)

"—your devotions reached us on the dreaming airs, so sweet upon our tongue—"

"—rest among my coils. You have travelled far to be here—"

"—show me your paws; let me test thine sharpness—"

"—claws of silver and eyes afire—"

"—and of your pelt I shall make my bed—"

—pierce me, run me through, let my blood wash over your fur—

"—sip my venom; let me into your vein—"

"—and in these knots what limbs are bound—"

"—do you shiver as I bind you?—"

"—tighter and tighter until your bones collapse—"

"—and with this knot, I take thee—"

"—nothing to fear but each other—"

"—of banded fur and speckled bands—"

"—for a tiger to change his stripes—"

"—do you love what you have become?—"

"—are you sated?—"

"—there exist no two hearts that cannot be joined—"

Do I need to say anything about these.

Parabola and Dreamin'

Parabola is the home of Fingerkings, and where Tigers conduct their sacred war against them to keep the waking world safe, a duty they were raised up for by Stone herself.

—those cold seas beyond the edges of Parabola, where dreams die—

Parabola seems to be only part of the 'Is-Not', or an aspect of it. For example, Irem isn't what Is, but isn't Is-Not either. I'm not sure what this means: perhaps a link to the Slow River.

—the weeping pus of dead dreams—

—the dense dreams of the extinguished—

There's a lot of focus on dead/th dreams, and I have a theory on that I'll get to. Let's just enjoy how many there are.

—the extinguished dreams of the one they drowned—

Oh this is easy, that's Mr E------ (violently silenced by the Masters)

—the black dreams of flukes, the icy dreams of catankeri—

Many flukes are on a whole bitterly angry about the deal they made with the Bazaar long ago. While rubbery men, their creations, dream of the Sea of Spines, Lorn-Flukes (the pissiest ones) are probably in darker dreams. Cantankeri are from Sunless Skies, in the High Wilderness, very grumpy isopods creatures which attack anything they dislike (most things)

—the faceless dreams of Snuffers—

Snuffers were long ago exiled from the Garden after the first Snuffer, the Thief-of-Faces, stole diamonds from Stone's womb and created Mt. Nomad as a 'weapon to serve its hate'. We don't really know a ton about what went on here. The Thief-of-Faces made the Snuffers in the Garden, but seems to have come from outside it. What is it? What does it want? Unknown. Hate. Snuffers are shapeshifters who can remove people's faces and wear them, so their dreams being faceless is likely because they lack a 'true face'. Faces/lacking is a reoccurring theme in FL tied to identity, with one of the things the Sapphir'd King requires before consuming souls in SSkies being the removal of one's Face and Name.

—if the Sun has a skin, does the Moon—

The Parabolan sun is called The Skin Of The Sun, it was made during the second city and is a glass bulb of iron, glass, and Cosmogone light. The Moon in Parabola resembles a sleeping cat, but we know little else of it. It's never been called 'the skin of the moon'.

—the brass from which their sun was forged—

The Skin of the Sun was forged, but it's never been called brass. Brass is devil associated, you could also call the orange-ish colour of Cosmogone 'brassy', but this is an odd reference.

I FORGOT ABOUT THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THESUNTHESUNTHESUNTHESUN---

(thanks to @barnabusbarnabus for noting the dawn machine is made of brass!!)

—our caught kin in their galleries and prisons—

'Serpent Galleries' are a way of containing FKs. In stone, I think, I'm not 100% on the specifics but it's certainly a way of trapping them.

—and what blood seeps from their Boil—

The Boil of Calamities is a notable Fingerking who guards the Dome of Scales and the Parabolan Sun, AKA The Skin of The Sun. I'm not sure about it bleeding.

—to knot, to boil, to conjoin, to grow, to blister—

Fingerkings have a tendency to join together into Congregations, many FKs becoming one complicated knot-entity. The 7th Coil is knotted like this in a way.

It's notable how often this is a reoccuring theme in FL: rats have rat-kings, spiders have spider-councils, there's a lot of creatures out there who present power through unionizing into some form of joined/hiveminded entity.

—the sourceless source of the Writhing River—

The Writhing River is in Parabola, and made of snakes. (There's non-fingerking snakes in Parabola, FK may be more the 'royalty' of sneks). You travel to the source in becoming a Silverer, where you find a rock one snake at a time emerges from, silver trees, and cosmogone sap you made your glasses from.

—can tell you why the Hanging Mountains despise the Smoking Sea—

Places in Parabola, I couldn't tell you why they hate each other though.

—a banner of shed skin—

Parabola is dominated by war, banners and snakeskin, pretty straight forward.

—a hollow shell for hollow kin—

Hard to say exactly. FK can't exist in reality without a vessel, and part of their history with devils is the fact devils are hollow.

—seven marches for seven cats, along the borders of dreaming—

Stone gave cats (and tigers) a mission to protect humanity from FK and the Is-Not, watching over the borders of dreaming. Seven is the number. 7 cats specifically occurs in the dreams you get after drinking Hesperidean Cider, in the 'dreams of the Garden'

The woman stands, her work done. Seven holes in the rich, springy soil. Seven neat mounds. All seven together The woman whistles, and cats slink out of the trees. They play, tumble and purr. Seven cats. The woman is overjoyed. She embraces you. She starts gathering the cats, near the holes.

—she who gave them the spear—

—our spear went slither-slice—

—not come to bring a sword, but a spear—

Spears come up in two places, both might be related: There's the spear the cats have, which was 'liberated from the Sleeping King'. it's used in Light Fingers to crack the Skin of the Sun and is a sacred relic to them.

There's also "a sky-spear" which Might Be A Thunderbolt. I'll get to the Storm connection later but I'm mentioning it now.

Kings and reality and unreality

—Parabola, and the hypocrisies of its creation—

Oh boy!!! LET'S GO! you know how crazy I am about Judgement lore.

Parabola being a 'hypocrisy' is expressed a lot. With Judgements dictating existence and deciding what Is, they're responsible for the line of what Is-Not, and likely the reason Fingerkings aren't allowed to exist.

—admitted unreality so they would not have to fix reality—

So. In ruling reality, the Judgements may have exiled things which didn't belong in their vision of what Is, and created the idea of What Isn't as a way to deal with that. Parabola may be then a dumping ground, or aftereffect of how Judgements prune reality to suit their ideal, hidden away by Being Illegal so others won't realize the reality they control is innately flawed.

—the place where they bury their mistakes—

The Neath has been referred to as something like this a lot. The 'their' may again be Judgements, and Parabola could be where mistakes are buried.

—no king has ever made a law without wishing for exceptions—

Judgements are Kings. They present as infallible gods, but they aren't. They're definitely hypocrites.

—none live by their own rules. It is not only the Mountain's parent who sins—

An accusation that (likely) Judgements do not follow the rules they enforce on others. With that in mind, 'the mountain's parent' is almost certainly the Sun, Sol, rather than the other parent of the Bazaar. The Bazaar is a sinner, but the Sun is the one who still acts as a proper Judgement while having had a secret affair and hiding his daughter in the basement.

—the forsaken products of furtive experiments—

Similar to 'burying their mistakes'. The Neath has been referred to as the Sun's experiment, it's a hiding place of illegal Shames, it's not a far reach to suggest this might be talking about the Neath. It also may be the case Parabola is like this for Judgements.

—what Law forbids, and what dark abides—

The stars have strict laws, but you can get away with a lot in the dark.

—they war as they play, toying, feinting—

Part of other clues around the Sixth Coil is the suggestion the war between FKs and Tigers is a false one or unnecessary one. They're in an ancient, endless war serving ancient forces and grudges... but why must it be this way?

—of dream, they made a cage—

Calling the 'they' here to be Judgements. Parabola is a cage for the Is-Not. Dreams are a prison for what can never be.

—and shapes are dreams before they are born—

But where do dreams come from? What does this mean?

—the burning dreams of wayward words—

—the words afire and the words excised—

—sulphurous and thought-executing fires—

The Correspondance is a language of fire, and the language of reality-defining Judgements. There's three references here to words being forbidden, exiled, violently stopped.

There's been plenty of assumptions and guessing going on throughout this, but here's my big swing:

Thoughts, dreams, words which cannot be by Judgement law are what make up Parabola. Fingerkings themselves may be some aspect of those exiled ideas, or born of them. I keep thinking about the name Fingerkings and the fact Judgements are also kings.

Could they be at all, y'know... the fingers... of Kings...?

Stars burn without end, creating eternal light and in most cases eternal day. Do stars sleep? I doubt it. Do stars dream? Not in sleep.

Do you think stars might want things which cannot be? As much as they shape and dictate reality, they obey the law of each other (to some degree, what with the hypocrisy). What happens then, to daydreams? To forbidden desires? Perhaps those things are burned before they can be born, exiled to unreality before they corrupt the Is.

—a cracked and broken Curve—

Reality, the Is, is called the Curve. It's called this extremely rarely, with my first immediate source being one of the endings of SMEN. It makes sense though: if reality is a Curve, than the reflection is another Curve, forming a Parabola. It's not been called cracked and broken before, but especially with SSkies there's an idea of the cosmos failing and dying. The stars are dying. They can't keep this idea of reality together like they used to, no matter how hard they pretend.

I have another thought on FKs and Judgements, but it involves

Storm!?

—eldest brother, eater-of-aeons—

Storm is an Aeginae, a cosmic dragon which consumes time. He's dead. There's another aeginae in the Neath, but I doubt we're talking about Nook here. Dragons are 'mercenaries' of the stars, and specifically are said to have an 'ancient pact' with them, which is different to how most being who serve Judgements are referred to.

Eldest brother is not something I believe has ever been connected to Storm before though.

—the thunder speaks not to us, my love—

—the mouths of thunderheads—

—the invisible worm, that flies in the night in the howling storm—

The fact there's so many of these connected to Storm really interests me. Especially since I'm about to add a few more. Storm being dead makes him 'invisible', one could say, and language-wise there is very little separating Worm from Wyrm. In fact, you can extend that out a bit: Dragon=Wyrm=Worm=Serpent=Snake.

Aeginae have a shared mother, the Burrower Below, who is said to gnaw at the roots of the world, something which invokes Níðhöggr, a dragon/serpent from Norse mythology. Storm is connected to Norse motifs in other ways, like the urchin Valkyrie.

The use of 'eldest brother' above also means we can tie some of the whispers that refer to siblings and family potentially to Storm:

—pale and wriggling imitations of he who hatched first—

—a thousand thousand siblings—

—do you see me, siblings? Do you hear—

The latter is the Coil calling out to FKs, but the link between 'siblings' 'eldest brother' and 'he who hatched first' seems like... something. Especially when you consider what dragons do, which is eat time.

—a thing that eats is a useful thing, if its hungers can be directed—

In Firmament, at one point there's a bit of an illegal timeline hanging around, and it is consumed by Storm. Beyond eating time as a concept, dragon's role may be to eat forbidden timelines. What pact do the Aeginae have with the Stars? Perhaps it's a mutual one: the dragons eat and exile all timelines the stars do not approve of, leaving one Is, and dragons in turn get lots of tasty treats.

Perhaps then Fingerkings are related to this. Born of eaten timeline which can never be, meaning they can never be. Related to dragons, but never allowed to be them. Maybe up close an Aeginae is just a billion tightly wound serpents. They do have enough eyes for it.

Other Lore Bits

—clocks, maps, glass, breath, hearts—

Treacheries!! These are ways the Neath isn't quite Right, the way existence can be a bit unreliable. Basically. The treachery of maps is why distance and location are unreliable or inconsistent. The one of clocks is why you can do an action which the story says takes 3 weeks but still have it be Auguest 22nd at the end of it. There's said to be seven of them, and 'hearts' is new to the list.

—all shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well—

This is a common phrase that appears all across FL in a variety of ways. The Bazaar is often linked to it but so is everyone else. It's from Julian of Norwich

—Salt spoke to us before he left, but we do not remember—

Omg hiiii Salt!! The notion Salt spoke to the Seventh Coil is a mysterious one. How, when, and why did he stop by? Who's to say. After, he exited east out of the universe

—when the Nadir touched the Zenith—

The Nadir is the place of forgetting, full of irrigo, and part of what hides the Neath from Judgements so well. The Zenith is on the roof. I'd bet it's a place of remembering, but we haven't seen it yet. It's full of scribes. When they touched would be before the Neath was carved out of the earth.

—the cleaving-places where gravity is shorn—

Gravity is surprisingly consistent in the Neath, for being a rather lawless place. There's some idea of messing with and changing it using red science. The use of 'cleaving-places' calls to mind the roof to me, and the idea of the Nadir/Zenith once touching.

—needles to bind, bones to fold, glue to keep—

Very evocative of the Librarians in the Stacks, part of Firmament. There's much to the idea of people, timelines, realities as books, so there may be something to 'bind' and 'keep' here: laying down exactly what Is and Isn't by the process of archiving and defining it. Perhaps

—amalgamy that begat the Hound of Heaven—

Not totally sure still what happens when you 'Breed' monsters in the Labirynth, but this is how the Hound of Heaven is made: a snake that sniffs out devils. the amalgamy here is the act of creating a weird hybrid offspring, and similar to the creation of the 7th coil in that way.

—no mouth—

oh hey no-king :) This is a phrase related to the Discordance.

—from the First, a bronze mirror—

—from the Second, a dream of sunlight—

—from the Third, the taste of blood—

—from the Fourth, iron bars—

—from the Fifth, a craving of feathers—

The bronze mirror means 'the first mirrors' aka the entrance to Parabola. We didn't have perfect glass mirrors for a long time historically.

The dream of sunlight is the creation of the Parabolan Sun.

The third city is notable for being when the god-eaters and Mr Eaten occurred, though that's less Parabola related.

The fourth city was marked with a lot of conflict with Parabola. I'm assuming this is connected to that somehow.

I don't know what the craving of feathers means. I immediately think of flight, the desire to ascend, icarus, but how that links specifically to London and Parabola I'm not sure.

—pay with a little of the Will-Be rendered into the Might-Have-Been—

This is from if you take a certain Terrible Deal in Irem. Irem is 'will be',. 'What might have been' could be Parabola, could be the Stacks, could be something else.

—a lie, of course. But all lies can be made true, in time—

The division between true and false comes up often. What is true? Who decides it? A king can lie and that lie can become reality.

Literary references

Shoutout to house-of-mirrors for pointing out most of these. I. don't know my Old Proper English Literary references very well </3

—in that sleep of death, what dreams may come—

Hamlet. The dreams of the dead can be visited with Cardinal's Honey, or black honey, though those dreams seem to be unique to the honey rather than 'the dreams of people who are dead'.

—to break one's staff; bury one's book—

The Tempest. Very evocative of giving up power and leaving it behind, as it is in the original context.

—blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage—

King Leer. Also about storms and raging, like a certain dragon we know!

—vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts—

King Leer again, from the same scene. Few notable words to FL here: thunderbolts for Storm, but also courier relating to the Bazaar. (I doubt in this case courier means the bazaar though, just pointing out)

—shall I compare thee to a moonlit night—

Sonnet 18, originally is 'summer's day'. Moonlight represents possibility and dreams.

—but a walking shadow—

Macbeth.

—you have but slumbered here—

Midsummer night's dream. Link obvious.

—did he who made the Lamb make thee—

The Tyger, by Willaim Blake. Poem was referenced with the reoccurring dreams had during the Estival. Lamb like this usually means Jesus, it in full context of the poem is a line like 'did god who made the goodness of the lamb also make the ferociousness of the tiger? why?'. The poem also has a line of 'When the stars threw down their spears' which might be relevant to the several mentions of spears already covered.

EDIT:

"—of banded fur and speckled bands—"

Sherlock Holmes short story!

—the invisible worm, that flies in the night in the howling storm—

The Sick Rose by William Blake!

Other dregs

—what you think is a labyrinth may be a maze—

A labyrinth is traditionally actually a singular winding path, where a maze has branching paths and dead ends. Is the labyrinth of tigers a maze after all, with wrong ways? Or perhaps reality is not a singular winding path but one with many branches, constantly being sheared off...

(lost it when this hint came out because the labyrinth/maze idea of reality and judgements is something I'd just written into the latest chapter of my suncrab fanfic lol)

—see your heat, little mouse—

The 7th Coil is talking to us directly here as we search the coil.

—the heart is the heart is the heart—

Also the name of the play the bohemians put on during the Estival! Hearts are important. There's a lot of em out there.

—yes yes yes yes yes—

Similar to the want want want want want want text you get for Temptation's presence within the coil.

—animal that you are, little more than squirming fluid—

Probably just the Coil watching us.

—writhing in the shadow they cast—

Hard to extrapolate much specific meaning here beyond the fact the FKs exist in the shadow of reality (and the Neath does too). The use of 'they' in this has often been suggestive of Judgements, so yeah: light is needed to cast a shadow, a shadow is a place without light, certain things writhe and live there

—those things which preceded them—

I try not to be stuck with my head in the stars but also another case where I think you could read the 'them' here to be Judgements. But it's been put here in the dregs because it's another very vague one that could mean anything.

With the idea of Judgements as unjust-kings who claim to be truly divine but are as fallible as their subjects, you have the idea of what there was before Judgements. Was there a before? If the Judgements truly aren't all-gods who have always dictated reality, then there must have been. Probably.

—and I shall not climb upon the scaffold they have made for me—

A very evocative phrase I can't confidently sort!

I think it could be related to the rejection of power and the way of kings: both the Tiger Prince and the Fingerking who became the 7th coil rejected their elevated places to commit the sin of love and chose each other. 'I will not stand up there above all, though they say it is My Place'

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Anyway! These have been my many thoughts. I'm sure I'm missing stuff or a bit off or anything else... Please, feel free to talk about it with me! I want to know people's thoughts. I've held a torch for the Storm/Dragons/Snakes link for a while so seeing a bunch of hints that back me up was really exciting, but I also know I can be a bit blinded by how open to interpretation a lot of FL lore is. I see that crab everywhere....

#fallen london #fallen london spoilers #coilheart games #okay :) done

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transmascsteveharrington · 6 months

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Now I know that light guided me here

“Pretty view, huh?” a voice suddenly says right next to Steve and startles him enough that he topples over in the sand.

“By fucking Zeus,” Steve curses, his heart trying to punch through his ribcage.

He tries to sit up again, brushes the sand off his clothes. His pulse is still far too high as he eyes the stranger sitting across from him in the sand. All casual, as if he didn’t just manifest out of thin air.

“Not quite,” the guy grins and Steve’s mouth goes dry.

Gods are not always obvious to recognize. They like to disguise, to trick, to mislead. They don’t have set appearances, choosing whatever body, whatever being suits their purpose or preference. But Steve would have to be blind not to recognize the divine in front of him. The effortless beauty, the natural glow, the perfect, luscious dark curls and wide, even darker eyes.

For a second he thinks Aphrodite might grace him with their presence, knows the goddess always appears as the person you desire the most. There is the faintest hint of freckles spread over the god’s pale skin and Steve thinks how every single one is a kiss from the sun.

Then Steve snaps out of it. This is a god. Steve has been raised to fear his father, Steve has been raised to fear the gods more. But even in this state of meaningless ennui, Steve’s upbringing kicks in.

“My lord,” Steve says and shifts onto his knees in an attempt to bow. To be humble. To show his respect. To admit to his own mortal inferiority. He grits his teeth through it.

“Shit, my lord, you can cut the formalities, darling,” the god chuckles. “Though I do like seeing you on your knees.”

It might be unwise, downright idiotic given that he is sitting across from a god, but Steve can’t help but roll his eyes at the on your knees comment. Leave it to a god to be a walking cliche of horniness. But there is a lightheartedness in the god’s voice, like he is more teasing, the comment closer to a joke than an actual come on.

It kinda breaks something in Steve. Maybe it’s all the stress, the emotional rollercoaster, or a death wish. He tends to get bitchy when under duress. And being left on a beach, after having betrayed your home, your family and your brother, and getting flirted with by a god is more duress than anyone should be able to handle. Maybe it’s also just his general hatred for gods. From the stories he’s heard they are cruel, unjust, sadistic even. His own family had to suffer from Poseidon’s cruelty, his mother had to pay for the deeds of his father, a punishment born out of such sadism it makes Steve foam at the mouth.

“What should I call you then?” he asks. “Your divine presence? Celestial master? Pompous ass?”

He lets the flavor of anger unfold on his tongue, savors it, like a delicacy he was never allowed to have as a child. He wasn’t. Picture perfect prince Steve. No emotions other than a pleasing, pretty smile allowed. He wishes to be ugly for once and anger is such an ugly emotion. He isn’t cruel like his father, he isn’t monstrous like his brother, but he can spit venom and let his claws come out. If the god strikes him down the god strikes him down, who cares?

But the god just laughs and glances over his shoulder at his own ass.

“Not much there to be considered pompous, I’m afraid,” he says before he turns back to Steve, no trace of the anger that Steve is choking on found in his face. “I like celestial master, has some dramatic flair to it. But Eddie will do just fine.”

“God of wine making and pleasure,” Steve says automatically.

“Also of orchards and fruit, fertility, ritual madness, religious ecstasy and theater, darling,” Eddie does a little bow himself. “At your service.”

a steddie retelling of Ariadne and Dionysus, written for the reverse stranger things bang, based on breathtaking art by @paintedpatroclus read on ao3

#steddie #stranger things #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie fanfiction #steve harrington fic #eddie munson fic

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cosmoscrystal · 2 years

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Ire ● Aemond/Fem!Reader

Aemond/Fem!Reader

warnings; none

notes; this is a rough brief piece I wrote. enjoy.

______________________________________

Your hand coiled around the handle of your fork as you glared daggers at Aemond from across the table. The metal felt chilled in your grip compared to the pulsing heat of your palm as you slowly sipped the broth plated in front of you.

His eye was locked on your every move watching you with the focus of an artist. Gliding across every speck of your figure until landing on your vivid hues that were dancing with frustration.

His lips curved into a fraction of a smirk as he tilted back into his chair resting his hand delicately under his chin as he assessed you.

" Is the dinner not to your liking?"

You bit down on your bottom lip to stop a brash rebuttal from escaping as you loosely gazed at the man in front of you.

"It is quite fine, though the manner of company...could be questioned."

You purposely emphasized the word 'company' with venom as you took a slow sip of wine that was nestled in an ornate goblet.

Aemond gave a mild huff of amusement at your response.

" Are you saying I'm the problem?"

" Yes, clearly so!"

You were tired of the charade of pleasantries and twirling around the conversation with Aemond when the very lounging dragon prince was the ire of your anger. You firmly placed your utensils down and stood up abruptly causing the wooden chair to scrap across the floor.

The once playful turn of Aemond's lips had fallen at your reaction and he quietly edged up from his seat. Sauntering around the large table he made his way to your side. You tensed as emotions swarmed in you as you felt him approach.

The subtle warmth of his breath right by your ear and the slight pressure from his hand as he slid it along the slop of your back made your breath quicken.

" What have I done to anger you?"

His languid tone caused you to shiver as the heat from his words spread across your skin. You eyed him from your peripheral while your hands clawed into the fabric of your dress.

"You know very well what you did."

"Hm."

He hummed softly as his deft hand began to tug on the ribbon of your corset.

"Care to punish me then?"

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purplemoonabove · 4 months

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Beautiful, an Angel Dust x Husker/Husk One-Shot

One chapter only

Wrote it as a writing prompt – “Beautiful”

Inspired by that romantic scene in Fresh Prince. When Philip was describing how beautiful Vivian (the first one) was, the two standing in front of a body mirror. Such a beautiful scene if you haven’t seen it yet!

Light uses of swearing/cursing

Husk’s POV

Beautiful.

It was the first word that popped in his mind.

He would deny it out loud in avoid embarrassment, but in his mind, the truth was loud and clear.

He looked beautiful — He is beautiful.

A part of him then thought of a funny: how a common drug name, used currently for an adult film stage name, can also be how it was done.

Angel.

Dust.

A blessing from an unknown substance that’d be an irritation but actually owned an effect upon physical contact. No allergies, no congestion, no skin damages. He wasn’t sure if the latter would be possible. Decades in the current life and appearance made human skin a shedded layer for a new type to grow and life with. Angel was no different, even with multiple arms and eyes and owning a venom that was rarely exposed through a bite.

It was, as if, an amplification to the actor.

Keeping him as beautiful as he may have been when alive in his new demonic form.

Could he even call him demonic? Is ‘demon’ even a good term to describe? Before it’d be an annoyance – a mask that hid the true spider man’s nature – but now was a new direction: being a proud loser like himself.

Just more beautiful, at that.

“Kitty~”

Even his voice was beautiful, the thought expressed before blinking a return to reality. The spider sat upon his stool by his multi-lit vanity table. His breath-taking, neon-colored heterochromia eyes gazed with curiosity and humor towards him.

He smirked, the golden tooth sticking out.

“Like what you see~?”

Such a skill in teasing and enticing someone to be in his temperate possession was an act Husk would always avoid – in the past. With a soft chuckle, he rose from sitting at the side of the bed to go over.

“Can you blame me?” He returned, not even denying him. Not this time, ever since the new change of relation.

Angel giggled then waved a spared hand. “Nah, I know I’m gorgeous.”

The smirk stayed as he resumed on his powder work at the cheek. Only to waver in further curiosity, his hand slowing to a stop as clawed hands laid and held in a gentle touch on his shoulders.

Golden eyes stared at the pink through the mirror’s reflection, connected as the winged cat lowered his head.

“You’re much more than that,” Husk purred in his ear. Reaction was immediate: the back straightened, his eyes widened, a hint of red came under the furred cheeks, and the powder puff laid correctly in the container without notice.

Fucking cute.

“I see a young man right before my very eyes, who made it impossible to compare. Sweet fluff of fresh snow, with a gazing of melted pink diamonds to form such hearts. Eyes so breathlessly hypnotic through emotions and appearance. Hands to hold more than expected, feeling the love and care in every grasp. And a smile… Oh, that beautiful smile that brings just a little bit of color into this red, dark world.”

“Fuck.”

Angel broke away, turning to hide but Husk can easily see behind the covering hand the growth of said smile and redness that became a line over his nose.

“Look how beautiful you are.”

Angel didn’t turn, wanting to lower his head to hide under the table.

“Husk–”

One hand released the shoulder to grab the closest cheek, carefully turning until the red and bashful spider made contact to his reflection again.

Husk smiled, and whispered his repeat.

“Look how beautiful you are.”

The request was short-lived when Angel’s eyes shut tight.

“Argh!”

It was the only warning before Husk felt slightly winded, then adjusted with a chuckle as the spider pressed his make-up face into his bare, fluffy torso. The four arms wrapped about him as they would when cuddling, only with a grip due to the embarrassment.

“I like grumpy Husk better!” Angel complained into his chest, muffling. “I’m not used to this shit! When did you get all ‘romantified’ or some shit?!”

Husk release a long laugh that vibrated his being. One clawed hand gentle raked through the massive hair, already washed and combed before.

“I think I’ve always had it when alive and all,” he confessed, then shrugged. “Guess there was no reason for me to do it again when dead… until now.”

The arms tightened. Husk smiled.

“Do you want me to stop?” He then asked, the raking at a pause for the answer.

“… No…”

The hand moved towards the chin, lifting Angel’s pouting and red face.

Such a precious gem you are. I’m so lucky.

“So beautiful.”

Angel scrunched up his nose, the red practically burning. “Husky!”

Future complaining was forgotten once Husk sealed their lips for a well-deserved kiss. Relaxation being instant, Angel’s top arms went to wrap around his neck while the bottom two stayed put, but loosened during. With Angel soon getting up, Husk got his own arms to wrap at the small waist, their bodies held close with no desire of letting go.

At a moment of oblivious time, their lips eventually pulled away, but allowed a brushing at contact.

There, Angel whispered with a content smile.

“Thank you, Husk.”

…

I can’t get enough of these two. Weeks of them and I can’t stop! 😍

#hazbin hotel #angel dust #husker #huskerdust #hazbin hotel fanfiction #one chapter #they’re in love your honor #and I follow under the law to be unnaturally obsessed with them #fanfiction writer #little fanfic #fanfic writing #uncle phil just knew the right words to aunt viv #rip james avery #fresh prince of bel air inspired #can you just imagine with how deep Keith’s voice to say such a line like that? man I’d be blushing as hard as Angel if I was him!

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unfortunate17 · 2 years

Text

A lil fic about Wille following Simon out after the "on the table" scene about Felice in Season 2

There are footsteps behind him, quick and sharp.

There is blood roaring in his ears, nose burning from the humiliating hurt that’s no doubt splayed across his face for all to see.

Simon rounds the corner, ducks under an archway, and tries to make himself as small as possible. The shadows in this little corner of hell are deep and he allows himself to sink into the blackness for a single, blissful moment.

The footsteps at the end of the hall, pause, halting, like they’re not sure what their next move should be.

The reality of his situation is sobering: Wilhelm’s hands on someone else. Those lovely, brown eyes trained on another, gentle fingers holding them close as he smiles into a kiss.

Simon’s stomach lurches.

“Simon?”

He clenches his eyes shut, hard enough that color bursts across the back of his eyelids.

The footsteps draw closer and Simon sinks to the floor, knees curling into his chest in defense.

“Leave me alone.” The words sound too much like a plea for his liking.

“Can we talk?”

Simon swallows down the wet clutch of tears in his throat, buries his face in his knees. “What’s there to talk about?”

He feels Wille slide down the wall to take a seat beside him, the heat of his body a tantalizing edge of desire. Simon wants to press into him, lean on him, demand that Wille assure him that everything was going to be okay.

“Are you okay?” One of Wille’s hands lands on his back and Simon jerks away like he’s been burned.

Simon lifts his head, scrapes his soul for all the anger he can muster. “It would’ve been nice to have a heads up, you know,” he spits, “about Felice. Really nice to hear that at lunch.”

Wilhelm shrinks at the venom in his words. He twists to face forward, stretches out his legs. His face is stoic, though, pale and hard in a way that Simon has never really been privy to. It makes panic claw up his chest and dig nails into his throat.

For a heartbreakingly hopeful moment, Simon thinks Wille is going to apologize.

And then, Wilhelm scoffs. He picks absentmindedly at the skin of his fingers. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

Something in Simon’s chest crumbles. He wonders briefly if it’s possible to die of heartbreak. “You’re right,” he manages, “it’s not. I’m sorry.” His eyes are welling alarmingly quickly and Simon blinks rapidly to keep the tears at bay. “Can you leave me alone now?”

But Wilhelm is stubborn if nothing else. His jaw tightens resolutely. “So you can have a boyfriend behind my back, but I’m not even allowed to try and move on?”

Simon closes his eyes. “Wille,” he begs quietly, “please leave.”

“I don’t think so,” Wille shakes his head, gets to his feet. He’s breathing hard, Simon notes with a kind of numb concern, “Do you know how fucking unfair this is? You don’t get to make me feel like I did anything wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Simon tells him miserably. “I’m just being a fucking idiot. Is that what you want to hear?”

“Fuck you, you have a boyfriend.”

Simon looks up at him for a long moment. Wille’s shoulders are wound tight with hurt, heavy with whatever godforsaken title he’s been made to carry. He thinks of standing across from Wilhelm behind his house all those weeks ago.

You need to figure out what you want, he’d demanded then, so brave and stoic, as if all of Sweden hadn’t heard him beg for Wille to love him. To choose him. To want him with even a fraction of the sincerity Simon feels for him.

Wilhelm could live in a palace of solid gold for all he cared as long as he came to visit Simon in whatever rundown apartment he could afford. He could be prince, king, wizard, warlock, as long as they could spend languid afternoons and evenings together, basking in their love.

He wonders if Wille had heard what he’d been trying to really say. Figure out what you want, figure out how to fix things, then come be with me.

He wonders now, if any of it even matters.

Wilhelm thinks Simon has a boyfriend. A boyfriend that isn’t him.

The idea is laughable.

It doesn’t stop him, however, from twisting the knife. “At least Marcus accepts me for who I am. He wants to take me out, he likes it when I sing – ”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Wille’s eyes flash with a kind of anger that Simon has never seen directed at him. “And I don’t?”

The ferocity of the statement is enough for Simon to fall silent.

Wille turns in a half circle, rubs at his mouth. The laugh that escapes him then is a bitter, hollow thing. “In that case, at least Felice likes me for who I am.”

Simon jerks. For a moment he thinks Wilhelm has struck him, has reached out and kicked him in the ribs, knocking the very air from his lungs. Silence crests between the two of them as, finally, the first of Simon’s tears begin to spill over, streaking twin tracks of despair across his cheeks.

“Is that what you think?” Simon asks quietly. He needs to get to his feet, needs to dry his face, needs to gather whatever shreds of dignity that he still has. “That I don’t – that I didn’t love you?”

Wille’s mouth trembles, something raw and unreadable pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I didn’t – I didn’t mean that.”

He reaches out a hand, and Simon takes it, exhausted beyond belief. He lets Wilhelm pull him to his feet, pull him a step closer, pull him into his chest.

“I didn’t mean it, Simon, I swear. I promise I didn’t mean it.”

The words are pressed into the crown of his head, warm hands rubbing up and down his back. Simon clutches him in return, buries his face in Wilhelm’s shoulder and simply allows himself to breathe. The sweater under his pillow is but a poor imitation to this. It doesn’t capture the full dimension of what it feels like to be held by Wilhelm, the way he nuzzles Simon closer with a hand at the nape of his neck, the way his chest stutters with uneven breathing.

Simon noses up Wille’s neck, presses a kiss to his cheek, and relishes the way he shivers from the contact.

“I pretended she was you.”

Simon laughs wetly. “Don’t tell her that.”

“No, I’m definitely going to tell her that.”

Simon shakes his head, rests his cheek on Wille’s shoulder. “It’s so unfair,” he tells him, “that you get walked in on with her and it’s all like – but when it was us – ”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Simon shrugs, “it’s just how it is.”

“I’ll do something about it. I promise.”

“Okay.”

Wille peers at him. “Do you trust me?”

Simon curls closer. “Yeah, Wille, I trust you.”

Wille kisses his forehead, the motion warming Simon down to his very toes. “It was better with you,” he confesses then, a teenage boy’s honesty.

Despite everything, Simon smiles, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” a pause, “everything’s better with you.”

And perhaps, all was not lost after all.

#that was fun #young royals #wilmon #wilmon fanfic #young royals fanfic #my writing #this is most def not my best work the emotional tone is a lot of a mess but here it is anyway

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catsafarithewriter · 2 months

Text

Day 4: Superheroes

A/N: Welp it looks like I got my days mixed up and am running a day late, but no fear! This is for day 4 of this year's TCR birthday bash, superheroes. I thought I'd go with something more lighthearted today, so here is a little ficlet regarding a different way the cat kingdom could have tried to thank Haru :D

"We have decided," said the cat on Haru's windowsill, "that you must be thanked appropriately for saving Prince Lune."

"Uh-huh," Haru said. What she really wanted to say was something like, "I'm dreaming, right?" or "Excuse me, do you know you're a cat?" or even "AAHHHH" coupled with violently swinging a chair – but cats who could talk probably could do other things they weren't meant to, and she didn't want to find out if that included curses.

"Given the magnitude of our debt, the King has decreed that we shall do everything in our power to make you happy," the cat continued, oblivious to Haru weighing up the pros and cons of punting it off a first floor window. "For instance, our research has indicated that humans your age tend to struggle with low confidence, body image, and preoccupation with finding a mate."

"Uh-huh," Haru said again, for entirely different reasons.

"So, to show our gratitude, we have eliminated such problems!"

Haru stared. "...How?"

"Come to a mirror, and I'll show you!"

This had to be a dream. But now Haru was curious to see what her sleeping mind would conjure up in her reflection. She fumbled for her phone and switched on the camera. Maybe her skin would now be porcelain smooth. Maybe her hair would look effortlessly perfect. Maybe she would see entirely a different face.

She was disappointed when there appeared to be nothing changed. "Okay, cat, I'm looking."

"Open your mouth!"

She gave the cat a dubious side-eye, but did so. A maw lined with sharp feline teeth filled the picture.

Haru snapped her mouth shut.

"Do you like it?" the cat asked, with a tone that indicated this was a rhetorical question and that she could start thanking it any time now.

"You gave me fangs??"

"Canines! Fangs have venom!"

"Is that really what's importa–" She felt wood chips beneath her nails and quickly withdrew her hand from her desk. "And claws? What did you do to me?"

"We gave you the ideal body!" the cat announced.

"You gave me claws!"

"Claws are attractive! They're far better than those blunt little stumps you call nails! This way you can prove your hunting prowess and win a mate!"

"You think I'm gonna get a boyfriend because I can catch mice now?"

"Oh, Miss Haru, at your size you should set your sights on much bigger prey! Squirrels and rats, at least! Our research also indicated you were frustrated with your lack of balance–"

"This feels needlessly personal."

"–so we gave you feline grace!"

"Wait," Haru said as she realised the other insinuation of the cat's comment, "have you been watching me?"

"Yes!"

"Oh." Haru blinked. She'd expected at least a little guilt in the admission.

"If this is not sufficient thanks, I'm sure we can find other ways to improve your life–"

"No! I mean, no thank you. This is..." easy enough to hide. "This is fine. You don't need to thank me any more." This was not fine. This was so far over the line of 'fine' that it was a dot on the horizon.

"Are you sure? There was some debate over the inclusion of a tail..."

"I'm good."

"–at least on a permanent basis."

"What?"

"Don't worry, we realised that a persistant tail would require a strain on your wardrobe–"

"What does that–"

"–so we decided that you should get the best of both worlds and have it only when needed!"

A beat passed. A herd of questions hoofed through her mind. "And... the wardrobe problem?" she hazarded at last.

The cat waved a breezy paw. "Oh, don't worry about that! We've sorted it out."

Haru's mouth formed the word 'how' and then her mind thought better of it. "I don't suppose I could convince you to take it all back, could I?" she tried instead.

The cat's mouth wobbled. "You don't like it?"

Well darn it. Now she felt bad. "No, of course I like it!" she lied. "I just don't think I really need it. Or deserve it. I mean, I just acted without thinking, I wasn't being brave."

"Oh." The cat blinked, and the watery look vanished immediately. "Oh," it said again, with far too much assurance, "this is one of those adolescent lack of confidence things, isn't it?"

"I – no?"

"You don't think you're worthy of such a gift because you don't believe in yourself!" the cat proclaimed, with all the confidence of someone adding one plus one and getting three. It patted Haru's hand. "Don't worry, the whole cat kingdom has agreed that you earned this, so enjoy it! Oh, and before I forget..." With a flourish, the cat whipped a little velvet box out of thin air. "The final part to your reward."

Despite all her misgivings, Haru took the box and cautiously opened it. A beautiful silver necklace with a shimmering cat charm rested inside, its single visible eye carved out of a golden-brown gemstone. (Tiger eye, she suspected.)

"It's... lovely," she stuttered. "But I can't accept–"

"You can and you will! Goodbye!" And before Haru could fumble for any other excuses, the cat had leapt out of the window, Haru still holding the box. After a dubious moment passed, she gingerly put the necklace on. (After all, it was gorgeous. It would be a waste not to wear it.) Then she picked up the phone and was halfway through dialling Hiromi, when she hesitated.

Just what was she going to say?

Yeah, so you know the cat I saved yesterday, well it turns out it was a prince...

Look, when you see me, don't make a fuss over my teeth or my claws...

So it looks like cats are trying to help my love life...

She put the phone down. No, best to just not mention it and hope no one noticed. After all, who would jump to the conclusion that they were blessings from a cat and not just a figment of the imagination? Haru barely believed it, and her windowsill was still warm from where the cat had sat.

Then, because it was a Tuesday morning and school didn't accept sick notes for 'my entire physiology was altered by cats in the night' she dragged herself out of bed and prepared herself for the day.

It was just as she was finishing changing into her uniform that the giant rat stampeded past her front door. (Haru was fairly sure that 'stampede' was the right word for, even if it was only a single beast, it did have half a dozen feet.)

Since this wasn't an acceptable thing to see, not even on a gloomy Tuesday schoolday, Haru naturally leant of her window out to better see the chaos. She vaguely wondered if she should call the police – but rather suspected that things like rampaging rats taller than a bungaloo were probably already on the police's radar.

What were police even meant to do about unnatural megafauna? Build a giant mousetrap? Ask it politely to turn itself in? This kind of shenanigan, Haru thought, probably weren't covered in training.

Really, she continued to think, this kind of shenanigan was more the territory of comic book heroes or magical girl responsibilities.

It was as that exact thought struck, that Haru became engulfed in golden light. She felt her form shift, her hair change, and most notably, her clothes alter.

I've literally just gotten ready for school, she thought, and then she was deposited back on the floor. She looked down at herself.

What she was now wearing could best be described as a marriage between a leopard-print leotard and her school uniform. There were bows. There were ribbons. There was a sparkly tutu (and a pair of shorts, much to Haru's relief).

And, as she moved to sit down in disbelief, she discovered there was – emerging from perfectly-tailored shorts and tutu – a tail.

"Well," she said eventually, "I guess that does solve the wardrobe problem."

A/N: Gee, some of you may be thinking, it sure is serendipitous/a coincidence that the same day Haru gets 'superpowers' there appears a monster! Well, I'm here to tell you that it's less happenstance, and more like the truck driver who nearly ran over Lune is having the worst Tuesday of his life. (Don't worry, he gets transformed back with only an increase in cheese preference and a fun day explaining to his boss why he didn't turn up for work.) As far as the cats are concerned, if you reward a human by turning her into the best thing to be (cat, obvs) then you punish a human by turning him into the worst thing to be (a rodent).

#tcr birthday bash #the cat returns #tcr birthday bash 2024 #cat writes #tcr fanfic #i always feel like im missing a trick with the truck driver #tbf the cat kingdom may not have been able to identify him #day 4 superheroes

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still-a-morosexual-help · 1 year

Note

If the new characters did get brought into a paw and claws event (please devs) what animal do you think they would be?

I actually made this post here about what animals fit them in the same vein of Lucifer's being a peacock and Mammon's a crow etc.

But it's a little more difficult to match animals for the paws event for them because there those animals are a bit more random? Like yes okay there are some similarities between the animals and the characters but at the same time who would guess a giraffe for Levi?????

But here's my best guess:

1.) Thirteen

The Rosy Maple Moth

• Pink = pink hair

• Yellow = yellow nail polish

• Moths are a symbol of death in some places

• As caterpillars they can deliver a venomous sting = her traps

• Keeping up the theme of pairing her with adorable creepy-crawlies

2.) Mephisto

Thoroughbred Horse Breed

• The man likes horse so I figured I might as well give him a win

• One of the most expensive horse breeds = Mephisto being one of the richest demons

• Big and strong

• Good with kids

• Stubborn streak

• With a name like "thoroughbred" I can't stop thinking about Mephisto's thing against anyone who wasn't purely a demon.......

This ended with me going down a blackhole reading about different horse breeds....

3.) Raphael

Secretary Bird

• Looks at Raphael's white clothes and black sleeves....Looks at this bird.... hmmmmm

• Beautiful but a bird of prey = angel who is more than willing to kill people

• "occasionally prey on larger mammals such as hedgehogs, mongooses, small felids such as cheetah cubs, striped polecats, young gazelles, and both young and full-grown hares." "venomous species such as adders and cobras are regularly among the types of snakes preyed upon" = is dangerous to demons

• "A bird will chase after prey with the wings spread and kill by striking with swift blows of the feet." "secretarybird relies on superior visual targeting to determine the precise location of the prey's head" = chasing down others and attacking using spears + him the the celestial realm's hitman

• "The Maasai people have used parts of the bird in traditional medicine" = Raphael being "the Angelic Prince of Healing" in religion

• Raphael's just more or less Michael's secretary in om!

I actually want to swap what I chose for Raphael's familiar animal with his paws event animal because this one fits way better as a familiar.

Bonus Round:

4.) Michael

Bottlenose Dolphin

• Adorable

• Friendly

• Playful

• Energetic

• Intelligent

• Occasionally protects humans

• Can and will fuck you up if they feel like it in spite of the great reputation they have garnered

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skeith-platinumprincess · 1 year

Text

You ever want a list of all alt universe Spider-Person who weren't by a radioactive spider? Well here you go!

Gonna start off with my boi Kwaku Anansi. He is a Spider-god so of course he never needed to get bit to obtain powers

Pavitr Prabhakar, Spider-Man India, was not bit by a spider but instead recieved his powers from a diety

The Prince of Arachne was never bit by a spider at all. He's just a normal guy with a silly suit of armor

Mangaverse Peter Parker has no powers, he jumps from building to building with a grappling device

Not quite an alternate universe but Miguel O'Hara, Spider-Man 2099, got his powers from an experiment that fused his DNA with a spider. The results gave him venomous fangs and claws

Speaking of experiments that fuse your DNA with a spider, that's also how Aaron Aikman got his powers. He one of the fakest spider in this post you can now forget about him again.

Donald Macgargan the Sensational Spider Laird has appeared in 2 pages ever and as far as I can tell he's just a guy with webs in his guns

Spider-Rex wasn't bit by anything. He was hit by a radioactive meteorite that gave him his powers

Neith was born with her spider powers. The most recent Spider-Verse event in the comics says she was also the very first Spider-Person in lore

Mayday Parker of course also was born with her powers. I don't know how I got this far in the post without remembering that!

Turns out Tumblr app has a 10 image limit! I'll continue in another post in one second!

#spider man #Spider Rex #mayday parker #pavitr prabhakar #spider man india #Kwaku Anansi #Amazing Spider-Man #spider man 2099 #miguel o'hara #spider verse

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zeciex · 11 months

Text

A Vow of Blood - 34

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 34: There is no measure 'within reason' for women.

AO3 - Masterlist

Aemond stood just outside the entrance to Daenera’s chambers, the chill of the hidden passageways biting at his exposed chest. A thin strip of light sliced through the darkness, offering the only illumination in the obscurity. His hand clenched around the fabric of his doublet, the material crushed within his grip.

Rejection’s bitter taste was all too familiar, yet this instance seared cruelly within his chest, akin to the searing agony of a branding iron. Irritation prickled beneath his skin, intensifying his discomfort.

Most unsettling was the depth of its impact on him, a sensation that coiled and gnawed within like a malevolent force. Its presence twisted, unrelenting and acrid, as if laden with a significance he dared not explore. He had seen this coming, predicted its arrival, yet loathed himself for allowing it to burrow under his skin and sting him. The venom had seeped into his system, its poison familiarizing itself with his veins. Nowe, as it was poised to be wrested away, just beyond his grasp, he sensed the withdrawals on the horizon.

Navigating the well-known corridors, Aemond moved with practiced ease. These passages had become as familiar as his own chambers; he could traverse them blindfolded.

Upon entering his chamber, Aemond hastily donned his doublet, carelessly fastening the buttons. He tugged his shirt into his trousers and repositioned his sword belt around his hips with a hint of irritation. Every fiber of his being seemed to throb with an intense resentment. He despised her to the core.

Her quick tongue, always honed for a sharp retort, was a venom he found deceptively alluring. With a forceful grip, he snatched a flagon of wine from a nearby table and poured a glass, as if hoping to drown the acrid bitterness that had taken root within him.

He swallowed the wine, sneering to himself.

He hated her. Hated her intricate schemes and underhanded plots. He hated the tactile memory of her touch, an imprint lingering on his skin far too long. He despised how she made him momentarily forget the throbbing pain beneath his eyepatch, how she held his gaze unflinchingly even after seeking what lay hidden beneath. He reviled her smiles, her laughter, and the distinct shade of blue that colored her eyes.

Above all, he loathed how she reduced him to a semblance of weakness, a pathetic creature. Most of all, he detested the dread that clawed at him upon seeing her drenched in blood, unsure whether it was her own. And how…

With a final gulp, he emptied the wine glass, each drop a bitter elixir to numb his thoughts. Setting the glass down with measured precision, he strode to the door, his purpose driving him forward.

Having pursued her relentlessly through the labyrinthine streets of the city, they had mercilessly left their mark on her flesh. Aemond’s footsteps reverberated through the dimly lit corridors, the intermittent braziers fighting to light the darkness of night. At that late hour, the majority of the castle’s inhabitants had succumbed to slumber, leaving only a handful of servants scurrying about and guards meticulously patrolling their assigned paths.

Emerging into the hall outside the throne room, Aemond crossed paths with Ser Criston, who was engaged in conversation with a gold cloak. As Aemond approached, the gold cloak promptly straightened his stance, offering a deferential bow in acknowledgement.

“Have you caught more of the perpetrators?” Aemond inquired, his tone edged with urgency.

“Yes, my prince. Two more.They are currently detained in the dungeons for questioning,” Ser Criston reported.

“Have they divulged any information about who ordered this?”

Shaking his head, the gold cloak’s countenance grew somber, a characteristic Northern seriousness etching his features. “No, my prince. The search throughout the city is ongoing, but chances are slim that we’ll apprehended any more of them tonight. We intended to initiate the interrogation in the morning.”

Aemond proceeded towards the stairwell leading down into the bowls of the Keep. He reached out and seized a torch from its sconce, the flames sputtering and hissing as he carried it through the air.

“My prince?” Ser Criston’s voice interjected.

“I wish to see them.”

“The hour is growing late, my prince. The castle is settling into sleep, and you should do the same.”

Stopping mid-descent of the stairs, Aemond turned to confront the Kingsguard, his single eye expressing the exasperation he was feeling. “I am no child. I require no reminders about the hour, and I certainly don’t need anyone to tuck me in. Your presence isn’t necessary and is entirely optional.”

With a confident and light stride, Aemond continued up the stairs. Echoing behind him, the footsteps of both the white-cloak and the gold-cloak followed. In the lower recesses of the Keep, darkness seemed more profound, an unyielding shroud that the torchlight did its best to dispel. Without the fiery beacons on the walls, there would be nothing but an abyss of obscurity.

“To which cells?” Aemond inquired.

“Cell four,” the gold-cloak answered.

The air within the dungeon was thick with a musty dampness, each breath drawn feeling like a tangible weight. Aemond strode past the first cell, its iron bars marked by rust but otherwise secure and empty. The emptiness was mirrored in cell two and three.The fourth cell came into view, the light eating away at the darkness, dancing over a surface that appeared to be dark as ink.

Aemond’s brow furrowed at the sight. “Who brought them here?”

“I did. They were alive when I left them.”

“Notify the Kingsguard. The castle must be thoroughly searched,” Aemond ordered.

Without hesitation, Ser Criston turned and hurried up the stairs to carry out the command and to check on the King and Queen.

In the fourth cell, a grim scene awaited Aemond’s gaze. There lay three lifeless bodies. The man who had been lined up with the two Aemond had killed, leaned against the wall, his throat brutally slit from ear to ear. Dark, almost shadowy blood pooled beneath him, absorbing the light rather than reflecting it–a pool of darkness interrupted only by the gleam of the torchlight.

Two more men occupied the same cell, bearing the evident marks of stab wounds on their bodies. A question echoed in the dim confines of the dungeon. “Where are the guards?”

“Mullen should have been stationed here,” the gold-cloak responded. “They were alive just an hour ago. I swear it by the gods.”

Further exploration revealed Mullen’s lifeless form two cells away. His body was hunched over, exhibiting grievous stab wounds to his abdomen. The gold cloak retrieved the keys from the fallen guard’s body, tossing them to Aemond, who deftly caught them in the air.

With determination, Aemond unlocked the cell door and stepped inside. He crouched down beside the deceased man, observing the round on his neck. It was evident that he had been killed with a sharp, precise blade. The bloodstains tol a story of a quick death; choking on one’s own blood didn’t allow for a prolonged struggle. There was no overwhelming sympathy for the man from Aemond. He had considered extracading a confession through torture, someone had made sure the man’s voice would forever remain silent.

A sense of exasperation gripped Aemond tightly as he surveyed the macabre scene before him.

“I found the dagger,” the gold-cloak reported, motioning towards one of the men’s lifeless grip. Nestled there was a small, sinister blade.

“Did you search them for weapons?” Aemond asked, his voice cold and filled with frustration.

“I did,” the gold-cloak replied.

Aemond clenched his jaw, a growing vexation fueled by the surreal nature of the situation. It felt all too convenient. The evidence seemed to suggest a conflict among all of the prisoners that culminated in their mutual demise. They had turned on each other like desperate rodents trapped in a snare. But deep down, Aemond couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong–like a piece of a puzzle not fitting together as they should. They shouldn’t have been incarcerated together in the first place.

“How can I know you’re telling the truth?” Aemond’s skepticism was palpable.

“I wasn’t alone when I placed them here. Brant, Donnal, Eddie, and… Mullen was with me. They can vouch for it,” the gold-cloak responded, seeking to establish his credibility.

“I hope for your sake that you do,” Aemond growled, his eye returning to the deceased man. If the gold cloak’s account was accurate, it meant that someone had provided them with weapons and subsequently made them kill each other. Or, perhaps it was a simple act of murder to cover up whohad given the order for the princesses attack. The fallen guard was an unfortunate collateral victim of whatever machinations that had unfolded. His gaze shifted to the man’s clenched fist.

With a deliberate motion, Aemond crouched and uncurled the fingers, revealing a small, bronze object nestled within the palm. Still warm to the touch, it was an oddity–a tiny, metallic creature. He gingerly picked it up, scrutinizing its form. It resembled an insect–a fly, or more precisely, a firefly.

Clasping the tiny creature in his hand, Aemond straightened. The gold cloak was occupied assessing the two other bodies. Aemond discreetly stowed the evidence in his pocket, a momentary decision born of instinct.

“I leave this investigation to you. Keep me informed.”

Seated at the ornate table, Daenera rested a foot on the seat of her chair, using it to prop up her elbow as she pressed a moist cloth against the bruise on her cheekbone. Within the cloth were a mixture of witch hazel, yellow wort, and calendula –an herbal concoction meant to help with bruising.

Absentmindedly, she plucked a piece of cheese from the spread on her plate, propping it into her mouth.

The doors to her chambers swung open and in came Fenrick, his usually stalwart form now marred by a canvas of bruises and a limp that seemed to irritate him with every step. His face bore the marks of their recent struggle, a broken nose set into place, the skin discolored around his eyes.

With a tinge of wry amusement, Daenera extended a welcoming smile. “Well, it’s reassuring to see that you’re worse off than I.”

Fenrick’s own lips curled into a subdued smile, a hint of playfulness flickering in his eyes. “It is no surprise, you left me to take the brunt of it after all.”

Joyce wasn’t as amused, promptly slapping him on the chest with a reproachful glance.

But as the smile faded, Fenrick’s expression grew somber, his gaze focused on her. “I am sorry, princess. For not being able to protect you as I should have. I failed you again.”

“I am no worse than I appear, Fenrick,” Daenera reassured him. “None of us could have predicted the attack. You did everything you could. It is good to have you here.”

Fenrick’s posture subtly shifted, a distinct mixture of duty and sorrow etched across his features. “I’ll see to the proper burial arrangements for Anthor and Byren. And I’ll ensure their families are informed.”

Daenera’s voice carried a solemn note. “Please let their families know that their bravery and service won’t be forgotten. They have my deepest gratitude.”

Anthor and Byren had stood as dedicated guards by her side ever since she made the choice to come back to King’s Landing the first time. Their youthful enthusiasm and dedication were promising.

Adjusting the poultice she was pressing against her cheekbone, Daenera drew in a deep breath. She would have to write to her mother and Daemon about the attack. News would reach them soon enough, and it was better if she was the one to tell them. Nevertheless, the thought of it aggravated the pounding in her head.

In another round of unexpected arrivals, the doors once more creaked open. This time, a procession of people stepped into the room: Commander Harrold Westerling, Ser Criston Cole, Maester Orwyle, and Maester Gilbar. Daenera’s eyes narrowed slightly at their entrance, prompting her to lower her foot from the chair and tug her silk robe more snugly around her frame.

Her voice was laced with a touch of annoyance. “Quite the gathering in my chambers this early morning.”

Commander Westerling, a man of authority, offered a courteous nod as he spoke. “We came to ensure your well-being and to discuss the events that transpired yesterday.”

The clink of chains accompanied both Maester Orwyle and Maester Gilbar’s movements. The Grand Maester gestured towards her bedchamber, his expression composed if not slightly frayed at the edges, as if his motivations weren't entirely pure. “We’re here to attend to any injuries you might have sustained.”

Daenera waved off their concern. “There’s truly no need. I’ve managed my own wounds. Your teaching’s haven’t gone to waste, Maester.”

A stiff smile graced Maester Orwyle’s lips, but before he could speak, Commander Westerling’s voice intervened in a measured tone. “Perhaps we should first discuss the sequence of events?”

Daenera shifted in her seat, adjusting her hair to reveal the blooming bruise on her cheekbone and discoloration around her mouth from where she had been hit. “We docked at port, and given the arduous journey, I decided to return to the castle immediately to rest.”

Commander Westerling maintained his sympathetic demeanor, mirroring the concern on his face with his voice. “Understandable.”

In contrast, Ser Criston Cole’s expressions were measured and dubious, as if he doubted every word that would come out of her mouth, regardless whether it was true or not. Maester Orwyle shifted on his feet, his hands folded in front of him as he seemed to wait for her account before deciding whether he believed her or not. And then there was Maester Gilbar, who seemed both intent on listening and looking at her herbs at the same time.

“You separated from half of your guards,” Ser Criston interjected, a touch of accusation coloring his tone.

“I left some of my guards with my maids and belongings,” Daenera continued, her forehead creasing with remembered details. “I never anticipated an ambush by bandits.”

“Of course not,” Commander Westerling assured her.

Daenera’s brow furrowed, her eyes focused on her hands which fidgeted with the string of her robe. The fabric rubbed against the raw patches of skin on her palms, a token from the harsh fall onto the cobblestones after being forcibly pulled from her horse. Her knees bore similar wounds.

“They appeared out of nowhere,” she murmured, her voice reverberating with vulnerability. “They forced me from my horse, and Anthor and Byren… they didn’t stand a chance. I fought back, screamed, and struggled, but their grip was unyielding. Fenrick intervened just in time…”

Her words trailed off, her gaze becoming misty.

“They were too many,” Daenera resumed, blinking to clear her vision. She looked up at the men. “Fenrick told me to run, so I did.”

“What happened after you escaped?” Commander Westerling’s question held a veneer of gentleness, like a soft touch meant to pacify a skittish animal. If Daenera didn’t know better, she might have interpreted it as condescending. But she knew Commander Westerling, knew that the concern on his face was genuine.

“I encountered Aegon,” Daenera replied, her tone steady. “He assisted me in getting away.”

A chilling edge crept into Ser Criston’s voice as he chimed in, his gaze keen and frigid. “We found a body. Were it not for the fact that three of your assailants were caught attempting to dispose of it, I wouldn’t have linked it to the attack. The man had been stabbed and his throat savagely slashed. With blood on your person and your dress torn… one could surmise–”

“What exactly do you seek from me, Ser Criston?” Daenera’s voice grew pointed, tinged with frustration. Tears fell from her eyes, streaking her face flushed with emotion, her breathing becoming ragged as she writhed under the weight of his scrutinizing stare. “He seized my gown, and it tore when I fell.”

Her eyebrows lifted in a plea for belief. From her peripheral vision, she observed Fenrick’s glare at Ser Criston, while Joyce moved closer, offering a reassuring touch to her back.

“He tried to restrain me, but I managed to seize the dagger Fenrick had given me,” Daenera pressed on, her voice quivering. “I plunged it into him, slashed his throat to ensure he wouldn’t come after me, and fled.”

“In situations as dire as the one you encountered, few women react with the level of violence you displayed. Most would simply run and hide,” Ser Criston murmured, his insinuation blatant.

Daenera’s tears momentarily gave way to a fierce glare fixed on the white-clad knight. “Rest assured, most women would respond just as fiercely.”

Joyce’s voice sliced through the tension, her anger palpable as her gaze swept over the gathering of men. “Is this your approach to speaking with the victim? By insinuating that she should have extended more compassion to her attacker than he would have demonstrated towards her?”

“Absolutely not,” Commander Westerling interjected with a bite in his voice, his gaze sharp on Ser Criston. “The princess deserves our understanding and empathy. Let me be clear, we do not cast judgment upon your actions. His demise was entirely justified.”

His eyes bore into Ser Criston, a silent reprimand for his tactlessness.

Maester Orwyle interjected, his features furrowing as he posed a question. “So, there was no instance of assault?”

“No,” Daenera replied firmly.

“How can we be certain of this?” Ser Criston inquired, a note of skepticism creeping into his tone, even as the lord commander shot him another reproachful glance. “Forgive me for not taking your word for it, princess. I understand that it is an… unpleasant question, one that has dire consequences a young lady such as yourself would rather not be subject to, but it is a question that needs to be answered.”

“Ser Criston…” Commander Westerling’s voice rang out in caution.

Ser Criston, undeterred, pressed further. “The man’s lower garments were pulled down, exposing his lower extremities. One can only assume…”

“Should I have been violated, Ser Criston, I assure you I would not be in doubt.”

“The truth could be confirmed through a simple examination,” Ser Criston started with a self-satisfied curl of his lips.

“That is true,” Maester Orwyle agreed.

Daenera’s voice trembled, her face screwing up in an expression of pain and humiliation. “I apologize if I am not ready to subject myself to the touch of another man, even if he is a Maester, so soon after enduring such a violent ordeal. Have I not suffered enough?”

“I can assure you all, that there’s no evidence of the princess having lost her maidenhead,” Joyce spoke out, trying to ease the tension in the room.

Ser Criston scoffed in disbelief.

“There are no bruises, no swelling nor any tears,” Joyce continued. “And while she carries the bruises of a struggle, there’s none where you’d expect there to be if she had lost her honor.”

“I understand some would prefer if I lost my honor, and I could no longer marry Boris Baratheon,” Daenera said, sniffing as she tried to control the tremor of her voice. “Nevertheless, we shall find out come my wedding night whether it is true or not.”

“If this is true–”

“That’s enough! Outside, now!” Commander Westerling’s voice growled at the knight, his grip on the breastplate forcefully pushing Ser Criston towards the exit. Sher Criston’s dark eyes remained locked on Daenera for a moment before he finally relented and left the room. The lord commander turned towards her again. “I apologize, Princess Daenera. I will address this matter with him.”

“Have you begun questioning the captives?” Fenrick inquired.

A sheepish expression crossed the lord commander’s face. “Regrettably, that opportunity was cut short. There was an altercation overnight that resulted in the death of all the prisoners, as well as one of the guards.”

Daenera exchanged a glance with Fenrick and Joyce before speaking. “That is… unfortunate.”

“Do not worry, we will persist in our investigation,” Commander Westerling reassured her. “The City watch is sweeping the streets as we speak, searching for potential witnesses.”

Witnesses were unlikely to emerge. Whoever orchestrated this attack ensured that any traces of truth or evidence were eradicated along with the prisoners.

“I appreciate your account of the events,” the commander continued. “And I apologize that I cannot provide better news.”

“Your dedication is acknowledged, Lord Commander.”

With a respectful nod, Lord Commander Westerling departed her chambers.

Daenera’s eyes fell upon the Maesters as she wiped the feigned tears from her cheeks, taking in a deep breath in an attempt to seem collected. “You may examine me, but do not touch me.”

Aemond occupied his mother’s chambers, nestled in a chair before the crackling hearth. He methodically turned the bronze firefly over and over in his hand, lost in contemplation about the recent events in the dungeons. There had to be a connection between the Lord Confessor’s firefly and the events that took place upon Daenera’s return.

Questions swirled in his mind like a storm. Did Larys orchestrate the prisoners’ deaths to conceal his own involvement? Did he fear that their confessions would implicate himself? And was it him alone who was behind it, or did someone else have a hand in it as well? His mother perhaps?

The mere thought of his mother’s involvement made his jaw clench. It was a disturbing possibility, but not the only one.

Whomever was behind it, one thing was for certain; they did not want a marriage alliance between Daenera and Boris Baratheon.

The cast bronze bug glistened under his watchful scrutiny, its intricacies captivating him as he turned it over and over in his hand.

The doors to the Queen’s Chambers swung open, ushering in both his mother and Larys Strong. Alicent, upon spotting Aemond, momentarily halted in her stride before continuing towards him with a gentle smile. Larys, on the other hand, bore a more calculating expression, his eyes dissecting the room and its occupants.

Aemond held a reserved disposition towards him–no great affection, but loyalty held sway, and that was what truly mattered.

“I didn’t expect your visit,” his mother said, voice bearing a hint of concern.

“I assume you’ve heard about the princess?” Aemond inquired.

Alicent’s face contorted slightly, her features pinching into a scowl that made her seem older than she was. She seated herself beside him, her hands immediately beginning to fiddle in her lap. “I did.”

Larys moved with quiet tact, his cane producing soft clicks against the stone floor as he positioned himself by the hearth, leaning casually against the mantle. His gaze remained fixed on both Aemond and Alicent, a perpetual air of surreptitious inquisitiveness surrounding him. Unlike his brother, Larys seemed to possess a talent for bleeding into the background, his slender, almost scrawny frame easily overlooked.

There was something unsettling in the way his eyes always seemed to linger.

“I’ve also heard that you ventured out into the city,” Alicent continued, her tone laced with admonishment. “What possessed you to do that?”

Aemond’s gaze briefly shifted towards Larys before returning to his mother. He wondered just how much the Lord Confessor had divulged to her. “A member of the royal family was attacked–”

“So you ventured into the city?!” Alicent’s voice spiked with alarm.

“I went to retrieve my brother,” Aemond replied calmly, causing Alicent’s indignation to wane, her brows relaxing as she looked at her son. “The princess informed me that she encountered Aegon during her escape and that he was still out there. I believed it best to bring him back to the safety of the Keep. He is my brother after all.”

“Nevertheless, you shouldn’t have endangered yourself like that. You should have allowed the Kingsguard to handle it,” Alicent said, her hand gently squeezing his arm before she withdrew it. She let her hand fall to her lap, where she began to absentmindedly pick at the skin around her nails, her gaze shifting to Larys. “What do we know about the attackers?”

Larus responded, “There isn’t much to tell. There have been a few similar attacks on wealthy merchants and nobles by bandits seeking easy plunder. It is assumed they believed the princess to be a lady and easy to attack.”

Aemond pressed his lips together, his fingers rhythmically turning the firefly over and over, tabbing it against the armrest. “Unfortunately, we may never know whether the attack was random or not, as those who knew were all found dead in their cells early this morning, along with a guard.”

“Indeed,” Larys mused, his gray eyes glittering with intrigue.

“It strikes me as odd that these bandits would chase the princess through the streets, considering the risk of capture,” Aemond drawled, musing aloud. “What is even more strange is that some of them were caught trying to move the body of one of their own, presumably to dispose of the evidence. It seems that they were hired.”

“Hired…” Alicent echoed, swallowing thickly as she rubbed her temples. “Are you suggesting the attack was targeted?”

“We can’t make such assumptions based solely on the account of a frightened boy. There’s no solid evidence of this being a planned attack,” Larys reasoned.

“Nevertheless, the circumstances alone are highly suspicious,” Alicent argued, her voice rising as a tinge of panic began to creep in. She stood, unable to remain seated any longer, and paced in front of the hearth. “When Rhaenyra and Daemon hear of this, they will come… What do we know about the princess’s condition?”

“The Lord Commander and Ser Criston Cole spoke with her this morning about her account of what happened. She too is under the impression that the attack was premeditated and she specifically was targeted,” Larys answered, not a hint of worry in his tone. His cold, gray eyes bore a resemblance to scurrying rats and the depths of dark dungeons, never warming or revealing any emotion.

“They will think we orchestrated this to shatter the alliance between Daenera and Baratheon,” Alicent muttered, wrapping an arm around herself and nervously biting the skin on her thumb. “We cannot give them reason to suspect us further.”

Aemond assumed that this was exactly the motive behind the attack. It was evident that his mother had not been involved or informed about the plan. He observed her nervously wringing her hands, the deep furrow between her brows growing more pronounced with each passing thought.

Aemond rose from his seat and stepped into his mother’s path, gently reaching out to intercept her hand. He guided her trembling fingers away from her mouth, noticing the redness and raw skin around her thumb. A small drop of blood welled at the corner of her nail. Though this habit of hers was infrequent, it never failed to stir something bitter and resentful within Aemond.

Alicent inhaled deeply, a concerted effort to regain her composure. Her hands, now free from their anxious wringing, clutched Aemond’s arms for support as she steadied herself.

“What did the Maesters find?” Alicent inquired.

“The princess’s maids had already cleaned and tended to her wounds before the Maesters arrived,” Layrs replied. “Maester Orwyle wished to conduct a more thorough examination, but the princess assured them that there had been no violation. Although he couldn’t confirm her maidenhood, after examining her body by sight alone, he agreed with the princesses' assurance. She stated that the truth of her status would be revealed on her wedding night.”

Aemond fought back a smile.

Alicent exhaled and shook her head. “We must make it appear as though this was a random incident. We mustn't give Rhaenyra any cause to suspect our involvement or a cover-up.”

“They will suspect us regardless of whether we are involved or not,” Aemond remarked.

“Did we have a hand in this?” Alicent questioned pointedly, looking between her son and the Lord Confessor. “ Someone is behind this.”

Aemond locked eyes with Larys, watching the Lord Confessor’s composed demeanor. Larys didn’t flinch from Aemond’s gaze but instead appeared relaxed, unruffled by the silent accusation.

Alicent whirled on him, eyes narrowed.

“No,” Larys answered. “Not to my knowledge.”

Liar , Aemond thought, clenching the bronze firefly in his hand and holding back a biting remark. Alicent regarded Larys with an expression that seemed suspended between disbelief and reluctant acceptance. Whether she believed him or not, she chose to keep it to herself.

“There’s nothing linking us to the attack?” Alicent repeated the question.

“Nothing,” Larys assured her.

With a pointed expression upon her face, Alicent nodded curtly, accepting this answer.

Aemond placed the small bronze insect on the hearths mantle.

Perched on a hill just outside of King’s Landing, Daemon surveyed the city from afar. The wind swept across the land, carrying with it the foul odors that hung over the capital like a shroud. His dragon, Caraxes, let out a high pitched rumble, his massive head rising as he sensed the approach of another.

From the back of her horse, Daenera dismounted gracefully, the cloak she wore billowing around her.

Daemon observed her closely as she drew nearer, his keen eyes catching the telltale signs of recent injury. Yellowing bruises marred her cheekbone and crept around the corner of her lip, while a subtle swelling marked her brow. Despite the evidence of her ordeal, a fragile smile graced her lips. A disquiet expression tugged at her brows, flattening them as her eyes flickered across his expression, unsure of what his reaction would be.

With hastened steps, Daemon narrowed the space between them, immediately enveloping her in a protective embrace. His voice carried a note of worry as he asked, “Are you hurt?”

Reluctantly, Daenera pulled away, gently shaking her head. “Only as much as you can see.”

With a tender gesture, Daemon brushed a strand of hair away from her face and pressed his forehead against hers. It was a brief moment between parent and child, where he displayed his love for her. The moment stretched, and then it was gone.

“Your guards have proven themselves shockingly inept,” Daemon said, his voice hard as his eyes flickered to her accompanying guards standing with the horses at the foot of the hill. “I should have them all killed for their incompetence.”

“Enough blood has been spilled,” Daenera noted, gazing back at her men. “We lost both Bryden Garnes and Anthor Dunn .”

Daemon paid little heed to the identity of the fallen guards or even their demise. Their duty was to safeguard Daenera with their lives, and he would readily replace them all if it meant her safety. Standing on the hill, the late afternoon sun cast a warm golden hue across the landscape.

“Tell me what happened,” Daemon demanded.

Daenera inhaled deeply, her gaze drifting to the towering city. “We were ambushed. Bryden and Anthor fell during the initial assault. Fenrick fought valiantly, but the numbers were overwhelming. He urged me to flee, so I did…”

A soft chuckle escaped her lips, and for a moment, her gaze dipped before resuming its steady focus on the distant horizon. “I found Aegon my savior, of all people. If it weren’t for him, I’m uncertain I would have escaped.”

Daemon’s scrutinizing eyes locked onto Daenera’s face, sensing there was more to her escape that met the eye.

“The City Watch has been scouring the streets in search of the culprits,” she continued, her voice firm and unwavering. “Though, they’re unlikely to find anything.”

“The City Watch wasn’t the only ones scouring the streets,” Daemon noted with an arched eyebrow. He watched as her eyes snapped towards Fenrick before flicking back to the city, her lips pressing into a firm line. Her expression told him everything he needed to know.

With dismissive half-shrug, Daenera replied, “A member of the royal family was attacked, and one of them was still out in the city. No one will question it.”

Daemon hummed, then asked pointedly, “Is the one-eyed prince going to be a problem?”

“No,” Daenera responded firmly, her eyes locking onto his.

Daemon nodded, accepting her assurance. “Good.”

“I assume, since you heard of Aemond’s involvement with the search, that you’ve also heard about the prisoners,” Daenera inquired. “They were discovered dead in their cells this morning. While the Kingsguard investigate the matter, I hold little faith they’ll unearth anything meaningful.”

“What are your thoughts?”

Daenera fidgeted with the ring on her finger, absently turning it just as her mother often did when restlessness gripped her. She spoke with a tone that bore the weight of contemplation, words piercing the lingering silence.

“The attack was calculated,” she began. “Their intentions were clear. They meant to disgrace me, or perhaps even kill me…”

Daenera’s eyes turned towards Daemon, her shoulders set and spine straight as she spoke. “I killed one of them.”

A subtle smile tugged at Daemon’s lips, and his eyes gleamed with admiration as he looked upon her. “How did you manage that?”

“I drove my blade into his neck, then sliced it open.” Daenera’s reply held no trace of remorse, though her eyes flickered as she read his face.

Daemon’s approval was clear in the nod of his head as he reached out to brush the back of her head, gently patting it. The touch was one of encouragement, of pride.

“Someone doesn’t want me here, and they certainly don't want my betrothal to Boris Baratheon to proceed,” Daenera continued. “The Hightowers.”

Daemon nodded. “Indeed. The Hightowers.”

During the flight to King’s Landing, Daemon had ample time for contemplation. Anger had festered and coiled within the pit of his stomach over the blatant attack on Daenera. Even then he knew who had set it in motion, knew that it was a means to stop the wedding alliance and weaken their resolve.

While he bore full knowledge of the dangers posed within the city walls of King’s Landing, he hadn’t foreseen the ruthless extent to which the Hightowers would go. The very thought of it stroked a simmering resentment within him.

“Viserys will not take action without clear and irrefutable evidence. With all the prisoners dead and no leads, we find ourselves with nothing but conjecture,” Daenera surmised with an exasperated tone.

“If it stood to me, I would have the Hightower’s heads mounted on spikes.” If only Viserys had allowed him to do so years ago.

“Your head would be mounted alongside them,” Daenera noted.

“How do you wish to proceed?” Daemon leaned forward slightly, his piercing gaze locked onto Daenera’s, a blend of incredulity and curiosity in his eyes.

A frown etched its way across her delicate features, her furrowed brow betraying a sense of uncertainty. “What do you mean?”

Daemon’s lips curled slightly, revealing a bemused smile as he recounted the events that unfolded on Dragonstone when the news had reached them. “When your brothers heard, they armed themselves and rushed for their dragons. The dragon keepers barely managed to halt their ascent.”

Daenera let out a chuckle.

“I had to persuade your mother against taking flight herself,” Daemon went on, recalling the fury that had ignited in her eyes as she berated him. “She was adamant about your immediate return home.”

Daenera’s frown intensified, tugging at the swollen skin on her brow. Her dark hair danced as a gust of wind wrapped around them. “And what about you?”

“You know what I want. I want your mother’s birthright secured,” Daemon responded with unwavering determination in his voice. His words carried the weight of responsibility, and it seemed to settle on her shoulders. “And I am to see the Hightowers brought to their knees… But I want you safe.”

His eyes locked onto hers, watching the emotions flicker within her gaze. There was a comment there, something biting and held back. Yet, she swallowed it down, letting her silence speak for her.

“I am giving you a choice,” Daemon continued, his head tilting slightly as his eyes remained on her, observant and unflinching. “You can return home if you wish. The Hightowers have made it abundantly clear that they’re willing to harm you. I sent you here to nurture alliances, and you’ve accomplished that. Remaining would help our cause, but the risk is not mine to take. It is yours.”

Daenera turned her gaze towards the sprawling city that stretched out across the horizon, appearing deep in thought as she contemplated his words. A silence settled between them, occasionally disturbed by Caraxes’s high-pitched chirps. The dragon lifted its head and peered down at the pair, adding to the sense of restlessness in the air, which seemed to pulse beneath Daemon’s skin. He too directed his gaze towards the city, a place he hadn’t laid eyes on in what felt like an eternity.

He held no affection for the putrid city, nor did he hold any particular regard for its residents, except, perhaps, for his brother. It had been ages since he last saw Viserys, that melancholic day of Laena’s funeral. Back then, Viserys had reached out, offered him a place at his side, but how could he accept? His brother didn’t heed his counsel; he didn’t place his trust in him. To Viserys, he was just a younger sibling. Over the years, a few letters had exchanged hands, though infrequently. Yet neither he nor Rhaenyra had returned to King’s Landing.

Viserys had always been weak, his resolve easily influenced by others. If only he had heeded Daemon’s counsel all those years ago regarding Otto Hightower. Daemon was convinced that he could have rescued his brother from his own vulnerabilities, offering wiser advice than any of those sycophants surrounding him.

At this point, bitterness tasted all too familiar. All he had ever yearned for was to perpetuate the glory of House Targaryen, to safeguard their rule, and above all, to protect his brother from his own shortcomings. But Viserys remained obstinate, refusing to listen.

“I’m not leaving,” Daenera declared, her hair billowing around her face in the brisk wind. Her gaze was unyielding. “That is what the Hightower’s want, and I have no intention of granting them that satisfaction. I will marry Boris Baratheon, I will fulfill my duty.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Daemon’s lips as he stepped back slightly, observing her with curiosity. “They might accuse you of being dishonored during the attack.”

“They may try,” Daenera replied with the confidence of someone who knew she had the upper hand. A smug smile tugged at her lips and she lifted a brow in a mischievous expression. “The Maesters conducted a thorough examination and deemed me unspoiled.”

“That won’t prevent the rumors,” Daemon pointed out, testing her confidence. After all, he knew the truth of her status.

“Then our wedding night will,” Daenera retorted with an air of determined finality.

The subtle smile on Daemon’s face widened, appreciating her cunning.

As Daemon watched Daenera stand resolute against the tumultuous backdrop of the city, his thoughts swirled with a complex blend of affection, strategy, and pride.

Daenera had made the choice, he had hoped she would make– knew she would make . If anything, he admired her awareness of the situation. While she had made an inexcusable mistake with the one-eyed cunt, she understood what she had to do to make up for it.

“Give Baratheon an heir,” Daemon reiterated, his voice carrying the weight of his expectations, a request made once more, as it had been before her departure for King’s Landing, just six days past. His eyes bore into hers, unyielding.

Daenera bristled ever so slightly, the tension in her shoulders betraying her inner turmoil at the thought of carrying Baratheon's child.

“After that,” Daemon continued, his voice taking on a softer tone. “You can decide the fate of your marriage, within the bounds of reason, of course.”

A spark of defiance flared in Daenera’s eyes, her reply pointed and laced with a touch of bitterness. “There is no measure within reason for a woman.”

“You may come to love him,” Daemon suggested, though he didn’t believe in his own words.

Daenera scoffed. “I won’t.”

A subtle silence settled between them before Daemon spoke again, his voice carrying the hint of intrigue.

“Once your mother is securely on the throne and you’ve provided Storm’s End with an heir, there may be no need for a husband,” he mused, letting the implication hang in the air, a suggestion left to simmer. Daenera would be Lady of Storm’s End then– if Borros doesn’t provide another heir that was.

With a tender gesture, Daemon placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and drew her into an embrace. Her head rested against his chest, and he gently caressed her hair as he felt her warm breath seep through the layers of his riding leathers. He couldn’t help but be reminded of her mother. He hoped she wouldn’t fall into the same traps she had done.

Daenera gently withdrew from the embrace, brushing the hair out of her face. “Why don’t you come back with me to the Keep?”

“It would have the Hightowers scrambling,” Daemon mused, a slight grin on his face at the thought of the chaos that would ensue. Otto would undoubtedly attempt to have him restrained and thrown in the dungeon.

“I know Viserys would be pleased to see you.”

Daemon’s expression turned weary as he looked back at the imposing Red Keep, its towering presence dominating the city, yet it had always appeared oddly fragile in his eyes. How often had he not thought of how to tear it down. It wouldn’t take much with a dragon on his behest. “My brother exiled me long ago.”

Daenera, undeterred, challenged him with a playful tease. “Has that ever stopped you before?”

They smiled at each other for a moment, then her playful demeanor shifted to one of seriousness. “He would want to see you.”

Daemon’s inner turmoil was evident, a battle between his desire to see his brother and the stubborn pride that had taken root within him. He shook his head, a silent refusal.

“He’ll be disappointed to hear that you’ve been so close but didn’t visit,” Daenera remarked.

“If you ask Viserys,” Daemon responded, his voice tinged with resignation, “he’ll say all he’s ever been with me is disappointed.”

Daenera disagreed gently. “I don’t think that is true.”

While perhaps an overstatement, it held a kernel of truth that neither of them could deny.

Changing the subject, Daemon mentioned, “Baela will come to the wedding.”

A hint of relief touched Daenera’s features. “Good. I shall need her strength to drag me to the marriage bed.”

#aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #house of the dragon #hotd #aemond one eye #aemond x oc #aemond smut #hotd fanfic #A Vow of Blood

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novaursa · 25 days

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The Last Dragonslayer (1/2)

- Summary: When young Luke came to Storm’s End as his mother’s emissary, Aemond wasn't the only one there to greet the young Prince.

- Paring: female!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: Reader is a Dragonslayer (a warrior) that saves Rhaeyra's child and fights for her. This is based on the request below, with my own twist in it, and it's the result of the votes that ended yesterday:

- Rating: Mature 16+ (last part will be rated higher)

- Word count: 8 000+

- Next part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen is currently under construction. It will be posted once the second part of this work is out. Also, for more of my works visit my blog.

The storm rages fiercely over Storm's End, the winds howling through the stone walls of the castle like a restless beast. You stand in the shadowed alcove, your eyes tracking the young prince as he dismounts from his dragon, Arrax. The creature’s scales gleam wet in the flickering torchlight, its eyes wide with agitation. The beast feels it, the looming presence of something much older and much deadlier. You know without looking that it is Vhagar, the monstrous she-dragon that casts her shadow over the stormy skies.

Lucerys Velaryon, the boy prince, has the look of a cornered deer as he glances around the courtyard, his gaze inevitably drawn to the dark silhouette of Vhagar looming ominously in the distance. His heart beats wildly in his chest, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The dragon he rides is no match for the ancient beast that waits, almost as if it hungers for the boy’s fear.

But it is not Vhagar that makes Arrax twitch nervously, shifting its massive claws on the slick stone ground. No, there is something else—another presence that unnerves both dragons. A primal fear ripples through the air, a fear that runs deeper than any rivalry between dragonriders.

You know what they feel. It is the Banshee, your mount, your companion. She lies in the caves beneath the castle, her leathery wings folded, her shriek an unspoken warning to all dragons that a Dragonslayer is near. You’ve ridden her across the skies of Essos, and now you have brought her to this cold, storm-battered land, a place so different from the sunlit shores of your origin.

As Lucerys is escorted into the great hall, you follow silently, a shadow among the guards, your steps barely a whisper against the stone. The hall is dimly lit, the flames flickering in their sconces as the storm rumbles outside. Lord Borros Baratheon sits upon his chair, his face a thundercloud of displeasure, while Aemond Targaryen stands off to the side, his single eye gleaming with malicious intent.

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon,” Borros announces with a voice as heavy as the storm, “sent by your mother, the Queen.”

Lucerys takes a breath, standing tall as he faces the Lord of Storm's End. His voice is steady as he presents his mother’s terms, but you can see the tremor in his hands, the boy struggling to maintain his composure under the weight of the situation.

Aemond steps forward, his presence dark and threatening, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “You’re a brave boy to come here alone, nephew,” he sneers, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword. “But bravery only goes so far. You owe me an eye.”

The demand hangs in the air like the threat of lightning. Lucerys’ eyes widen, his breath catching as the terror grips him. He steps back, his hand instinctively moving to his sword, though you can see he knows it is futile.

Aemond’s voice drips with venom as he draws closer, reaching for the sapphire in his empty eye socket. “Don’t be afraid, boy. It’s a simple thing, really. Just a payment for what was stolen from me.”

Your movement is like a shadow across the floor as you step out from your place against the wall, your boots making soft, deliberate sounds against the stone. Aemond’s attention snaps to you, curiosity flashing in his eye as he sees a figure unlike any other in this hall.

“Who are you?” Aemond demands, his voice tinged with both suspicion and interest. The hall seems to quiet, even the storm outside pausing as if to hear your reply.

Lord Borros rises from his chair, turning his gaze to you, and his expression is a mixture of awe and unease. “This is the emissary from the Free Cities,” he says, his voice uncertain. “She arrived a few days ago, from across the Narrow Sea. An emissary, she claimed, from an ancient order.”

You tilt your head slightly, regarding Aemond with those eyes of yours, eyes that many have said carry the weight of ancient knowledge, of secrets lost to time. When you speak, your accent is thick, your voice smooth, yet carrying a hardness beneath it, like a blade wrapped in silk. “The boy will return to his mother,” you state, your tone leaving no room for argument.

Aemond’s eye narrows, his curiosity turning to annoyance. “You think to order me around in my own land? I am a Targaryen, the blood of the dragon. And you—what are you?”

“I am Y/N,” you say simply, letting the name hang in the air, as though it should explain everything. And to those who know, it does. “And I have no interest in your games, dragonrider. The boy leaves. Now.”

Lucerys looks at you with wide eyes, relief and confusion mixing on his young face. He knows not who you are, nor why you would intercede on his behalf, but he knows better than to question the chance at survival you offer.

Aemond, however, is less easily swayed. “You do not command me, woman,” he snarls, his hand finally gripping his sword hilt.

Your eyes lock onto his, and there is a cold, ancient fury in your gaze that makes Aemond pause, just for a moment. “Do you hear that?” you ask softly, almost a whisper.

He frowns, confusion crossing his features. But then he does hear it—a low, keening wail, barely audible over the storm, but there nonetheless. It is a sound that twists something deep in his chest, a primal fear that is older than his bloodline, older than even the dragons themselves.

“That,” you continue, your voice never rising, yet commanding all attention, “is a Banshee’s call. Do you know what it means, dragonrider?”

Aemond doesn’t answer, his grip tightening on his sword. But you see it, the flicker of doubt in his eye, the instinctive fear that his ancestors would have known all too well.

“It means,” you say, taking a step closer to the prince, “that the Dragonslayers are near.”

Silence falls heavy in the hall, the only sound the storm raging outside and that distant, eerie wail of your mount. Aemond’s confidence wavers, just for a heartbeat, and you seize the moment.

“Return to your mother, boy,” you say to Lucerys, your tone softening slightly as you address the prince. “And tell her the Dragonslayers have not forgotten.”

Lucerys doesn’t hesitate. He turns and strides from the hall, the guards parting before him. Aemond watches him go, his eye flicking between you and the retreating prince, torn between pride and the icy fear that grips his heart.

As the doors close behind Lucerys, Aemond turns back to you, but you are already gone, melted back into the shadows of the storm. The Banshee’s wail echoes in his ears, a sound that will haunt him long after this night has passed.

And in the distance, through the storm and the dark, Lucerys Velaryon rides his dragon into the night, the words of a stranger echoing in his mind as he returns to his mother—a warning, a promise, and a name that will not be easily forgotten.

The storm's fury is unrelenting as Vhagar takes to the skies, her wings cutting through the tempest with the power of a creature that has lived through centuries. Beneath her, the world is a blur of rain and lightning, the roar of the wind nearly drowning out the beat of her wings. Aemond’s eye is fixed on the smaller silhouette ahead, the young prince Lucerys and his dragon, Arrax. His pride, his rage, they drive him forward with a singular, furious intent.

"Do you think you can escape me, boy?" Aemond mutters to himself, the thrill of the hunt coursing through his veins. His grip on the reins tightens as he urges Vhagar onward, the ancient beast responding to his will, her massive form gaining on the fleeing dragon.

But then, something shifts.

It begins with Vhagar. The she-dragon, who has known no fear in over a century, falters mid-flight. Her great head swivels, nostrils flaring as if sensing something that doesn’t belong in this world. A deep, rumbling growl escapes her throat, a sound of unease that Aemond has never heard from her before.

"What is it, girl?" Aemond calls out, his voice straining against the storm, frustration creeping in as Vhagar slows her pursuit. He yanks at the reins, but the dragon resists, her great body twisting in the air as if trying to turn away from something unseen.

Then it comes—a sound like no other. Piercing, shrill, it cuts through the storm with an unnatural clarity. A cry that chills the blood, a scream not of any living thing, but of something that should never have existed. Aemond feels it like a knife in his gut, a primal fear that shakes the core of even a Targaryen prince. Vhagar responds with a bellow of her own, but this is not a sound of defiance—it is one of terror.

Through the torrential rain and flashes of lightning, Aemond sees it. Emerging from the swirling clouds above, the Banshee appears, its form massive and menacing, a creature out of nightmares and ancient legends. It is larger than any dragon, its wings long and leathery, resembling those of some dark, twisted bat. Its body is sinewy and powerful, covered in scales as dark as midnight, its maw filled with razor-sharp teeth that seem made to tear through dragon flesh. Eyes that glow with a sickly green light fixate on Vhagar, and in that gaze, there is nothing but hunger.

A hunger that could swallow the world.

The Banshee shrieks again, and this time, the sound is closer, more intense, reverberating through the storm as if the very heavens themselves are crying out in fear. Vhagar roars back, but her voice wavers, no longer the dominant force of the skies. She tries to pull away, her vast wings beating furiously as she begins to ascend, desperate to escape the horror that has locked its gaze upon her.

And there, atop the Banshee, you sit. The storm whips around you, yet you are steady, your body moving fluidly with the creature’s every motion. Your eyes are fixed on Aemond, a cold determination set in your features as you close in. The distance between the two monstrous creatures shrinks with every heartbeat, the Banshee’s speed unnatural, as if it is not bound by the same laws of the world as other beings.

"Vhagar, no!" Aemond shouts, desperation creeping into his voice as he feels his mount’s fear, her once obedient nature slipping through his control. He pulls harder on the reins, but the ancient dragon does not heed him. She banks sharply to the side, attempting to flee, the instinct to survive overpowering all else.

"Stay and fight, damn you!" Aemond roars, but his voice is lost to the storm and to Vhagar’s terror. For the first time, Aemond realizes that he has lost control. Vhagar, the greatest of all dragons, is fleeing like a hunted beast.

From behind, Lucerys and Arrax, seeing their chance, dart downwards toward the safety of the clouds below. The boy doesn’t look back, but his heart pounds with both fear and gratitude, his only thought now of returning to Dragonstone and the safety of his mother’s arms. The storm swallows them, the smaller dragon vanishing into the darkness, seizing the slim opportunity for escape that has been granted by the terror you’ve unleashed.

You see this, the boy’s escape, and though you could chase, though you could end him as well, your focus remains on Aemond. This is a message, a warning, and it is Vhagar who must carry it back.

Aemond’s face twists with a mix of rage and helplessness as he feels Vhagar’s massive body turning, wings beating harder now, not in pursuit, but in retreat. You let out a command, your voice carried by the storm, not in words that Aemond understands, but the Banshee does. She dives, a predatory speed that belies her size, closing the distance between them in seconds.

Another scream from the Banshee, and this time, Vhagar shudders violently, nearly throwing Aemond from her back. The ancient dragon, who has seen countless battles and burned entire cities to ash, is utterly broken by the presence of this creature from a bygone era. She dives desperately, fleeing into the clouds, seeking any refuge from the horror that chases her.

For a brief moment, as you pull back, allowing Vhagar to escape into the storm’s embrace, your eyes meet Aemond’s. In that gaze, he sees something that shakes him more than the sight of the Banshee or the fear in Vhagar’s eyes. He sees the cold, unyielding power of an order thought extinct, a legacy that has returned from the shadows of history.

And then you and the Banshee vanish into the storm, your form melding with the darkness as if you were never there. Only the lingering echoes of that terrifying scream remain, fading into the storm, a sound that will haunt Aemond for the rest of his days.

Vhagar continues her frantic flight, the once-proud dragon now reduced to a fleeing beast, her rider clinging to her, his pride shattered, his mind reeling. Aemond’s thoughts are a whirlwind of anger, fear, and humiliation. He came to these skies with the intent to prove his dominance, to assert his strength, but now he returns with the bitter taste of defeat and the knowledge that there are forces in this world even dragons fear.

And far below, Lucerys and Arrax race through the storm towards the safety of Dragonstone, the boy’s heart pounding with relief and terror. He will make it home, but the memory of this night will stay with him—the night he was spared not by his own hand, but by a mysterious stranger on a creature of nightmares.

The Dragonslayers have returned. And the dragons of Westeros will never be the same.

The skies over Dragonstone are dark, heavy with the remnants of the storm that raged over Storm's End. The air is filled with unease as the guards and retainers of the castle stand vigilantly on the battlements, their eyes scanning the horizon. They know who they are waiting for, though they dare not speak of the dread that gnaws at them.

Suddenly, through the mists and rain, a shape emerges. A dragon, smaller than most, with wet and weary wings straining to keep it aloft. Arrax lands heavily in the courtyard, his scales slick with rain and his breath labored from the flight. The beast's eyes are wide, pupils darting in a way that betrays its fear.

Atop him, Lucerys Velaryon sits slumped in the saddle, his small form trembling, soaked to the bone. He barely has the strength to dismount, nearly collapsing as his boots touch the ground. His hands are shaking uncontrollably, and his eyes—those eyes that should be bright with the fire of youth—are wide and haunted, filled with the terror of what he has just endured.

From across the courtyard, Queen Rhaenyra breaks from her retinue of Queensguard, her heart seizing as she sees the state of her son. “Luke!” she cries, her voice cracking with fear and relief as she rushes to him, her skirts billowing as she nearly stumbles in her haste.

“Mother,” Lucerys gasps, his voice a whisper against the wind. He’s shivering violently, his teeth chattering as the cold and fear clutch at him.

Rhaenyra reaches him, wrapping him in her arms, her grip firm and protective as she pulls him close, heedless of the rain that soaks through her own clothing. Her heart pounds in her chest as she feels the tremors racking his small frame. “Gods, what happened?” she whispers, her hand cupping his face as she tries to meet his eyes, searching for any sign of injury, any indication of what has terrified her son so deeply.

Lucerys buries his face against her shoulder, his breath hitching as he tries to find the words. “I—I saw him, Mother,” he begins, his voice shaking as badly as his body. “Aemond was there… at Storm’s End. Vhagar was with him.”

Rhaenyra stiffens, her blood turning to ice at the mention of Aemond and his dragon. “Did he harm you?” Her voice is fierce, though a mother’s terror lies just beneath it. “What did he do to you?”

Lucerys shakes his head frantically, clutching at her arms as if grounding himself in her presence. “He… he wanted to take my eye, Mother. He said… he said it was a debt. But…” His words trail off, his breath catching as he struggles to explain the horror he witnessed.

Rhaenyra’s grip tightens, her eyes narrowing with a mixture of rage and fear. “But what, Luke? What happened?”

Luke pulls back slightly, his wide eyes meeting hers, filled with a confusion that mirrors his terror. “She… she saved me, Mother. A woman… a stranger. She stopped Aemond.”

Rhaenyra blinks, her mind racing. “A woman? Who was she? What did she look like?”

Luke swallows hard, his voice trembling as he continues, “She… she wasn’t from here. She looked… different. Like no one I’ve ever seen before. She had an accent I didn’t recognize. Lord Borros called her an emissary from the Free Cities.” His voice drops to a whisper, as if saying the next words might summon the creature back. “And she had a… a beast with her. Not a dragon, but something else. It was… it was terrifying, Mother. The dragons, even Vhagar… they were afraid of it.”

Rhaenyra’s heart pounds faster as she listens, trying to make sense of her son’s words. “A beast? What did it look like?”

Luke’s eyes glaze over slightly as he recalls the image burned into his mind. “It was… huge, bigger than any dragon I’ve seen, with wings like… like a bat’s. And its scream, Mother… it was like nothing I’ve ever heard. It made the storm itself seem quiet. And she was riding it… commanding it.”

Rhaenyra’s blood runs cold, her mind racing through the possibilities, but nothing matches the description her son gives. A creature that could frighten Vhagar, the largest and oldest of the Targaryen dragons? It sounds like a nightmare given form, a horror from ancient times.

“Are you sure of what you saw, Luke?” she asks gently, her tone softening as she brushes his wet hair from his face. “Could it have been… something else? A trick of the storm?”

Luke shakes his head vehemently. “No, Mother. I saw it. I heard it. She told me to go, to return to you. And when I left… Aemond was chasing me, but then the creature came after him instead. Vhagar fled, Mother. She was terrified.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widen, a shiver running down her spine at the thought. If Vhagar, the mightiest of all dragons, could be driven to flee… what manner of beast had her son encountered? And who was this woman, this stranger who had saved her child from a fate worse than death?

A feeling of unease settles over her, a realization that something far greater and more dangerous than she had anticipated is at play. The knowledge that ancient powers, long thought to be myths, might have returned to the world shakes her to her core.

But for now, all that matters is her son. She pulls him close again, holding him tightly as if to shield him from whatever darkness lies out there, whatever force has set its sights on the Targaryen bloodline. “You’re safe now,” she whispers, trying to convince herself as much as him. “You’re home, and you’re safe.”

But even as she says the words, her mind is already racing ahead, planning, fearing, wondering what this new player on the board means for the future of her house, for her claim, and for the survival of her children.

The night is still and heavy with the remnants of the storm, the winds howling softly through the dark corridors of Dragonstone. Rhaenyra is deep in a restless sleep, her mind troubled by the events of the day, her dreams haunted by the image of her son, drenched and trembling, speaking of a beast that defied all she knew of the world.

But suddenly, her sleep is shattered by a sound so primal, so raw, that it feels like the earth itself is tearing apart. The roar of dragons, rising in a cacophony of fear and fury, echoes through the stone walls of the castle. It’s not just any dragon’s roar—it’s the sound of dragons in terror. Rhaenyra bolts upright in her bed, her heart pounding in her chest as the walls seem to tremble around her.

She hears another roar, louder this time, unmistakable in its ferocity—the Cannibal. The ancient, wild dragon’s scream is so powerful that it seems to shake the very foundations of Dragonstone. The deep, guttural sound reverberates through the castle, making the torches flicker as if the flame itself is afraid.

And then, cutting through the night like a blade, comes another sound—a wail, high-pitched and unnatural, unlike anything she’s ever heard. It’s the cry of the Banshee, echoing through the skies above the island, a sound so filled with dread that it makes her blood run cold.

Rhaenyra leaps from her bed, pulling on a robe as she rushes toward the door. Her heart races, a mix of fear and adrenaline driving her forward. She flings open the door, her voice breaking the silence of the corridor. “Daemon!”

As if summoned by her cry, Daemon Targaryen appears, already dressed and armed, his face set in a grim expression. He doesn’t need to ask what’s happening—the screams of the dragons and the wail from the skies tell him all he needs to know.

“They’re afraid,” Daemon says, his voice rough with tension as he strides toward her, his eyes blazing. “The dragons are terrified, Rhaenyra. Whatever it is, it’s here.”

Rhaenyra nods, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she hurries to follow him. The two of them rush through the castle, Daemon’s men falling in around them, their faces pale as they hear the screams that fill the night. The ground beneath their feet seems to tremble as if the very earth is trying to recoil from the presence that has arrived on its shores.

They reach the courtyard just as another roar shakes the air, but this time it’s different. This time, it’s a sound of submission, of retreat. In the distance, high atop Dragonmont, the dragons that make their home in the ancient volcano are pulling back, their massive forms retreating into the dark, smoke-filled caves, away from the open sky. Even the Cannibal, the most feared and untamed of all the dragons, has gone silent, its defiance turned to fear.

Rhaenyra’s eyes follow the direction of the retreating dragons, and there, near the rocky coastline, she sees it—the Banshee. It stands on the blackened sand, its vast wings partially spread, casting an ominous shadow that stretches out over the churning waves. The creature is even more terrifying than she had imagined from Lucerys’ description, a monstrous form that seems to absorb the darkness around it, its eyes glowing with that sickly green light that cuts through the night.

And before the Banshee, standing with an air of calm command, is the woman—Y/N. She stands tall, her presence as formidable as the beast behind her, her eyes fixed on the castle. Even from this distance, Rhaenyra can see the confidence in her stance, the ease with which she controls the horror at her side.

Daemon’s hand moves to the hilt of his sword as he stares at the woman and her beast, his eyes narrowing in a mix of fury and awe. “Is this the creature the boy spoke of?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

Rhaenyra nods, unable to tear her gaze from the sight. “It is,” she whispers, her voice tinged with fear and a growing sense of foreboding. “And that… that is the woman who saved him.”

Daemon takes a step forward, his gaze shifting to Caraxes, who is visible in the distance, his great head peeking out from the entrance of his cave. The Blood Wyrm, who has faced down dragons and men alike, recoils, his body pressed low to the ground as if trying to melt into the rock itself. He refuses to come forward, his instincts telling him that this is not a foe he wishes to face.

Rhaenyra watches as Daemon's knuckles turn white around the hilt of his sword. “Even Caraxes is afraid,” he mutters, almost to himself. “What manner of beast is this? And who is this woman?”

Before Rhaenyra can respond, Y/N takes a step forward, moving with a grace that belies the danger she embodies. Her voice carries across the distance, strong and clear despite the howling wind. “I come not as an enemy, but as an emissary.”

Rhaenyra feels a shiver run down her spine at the sound of the woman’s voice. There is something in it, an authority, a power that feels ancient, something that commands respect and fear in equal measure. She steps forward, placing a hand on Daemon’s arm to still him, her eyes never leaving Y/N.

“You saved my son,” Rhaenyra calls out, her voice steady, though her heart is pounding in her chest. “Why?”

Y/N’s gaze meets hers, and for a moment, Rhaenyra feels as though she’s being weighed, measured by a force that sees far beyond the physical. “Because the time has come for old debts to be paid, and old alliances to be rekindled,” Y/N replies, her accent unfamiliar, each word carrying an air of inevitability.

Daemon steps forward, his posture rigid, every muscle coiled with tension. “What are you?” he demands, his tone edged with suspicion. “And what do you want from us?”

Y/N regards him calmly, her eyes as unreadable as the stormy sea behind her. “I am the last of the Dragonslayers,” she says, her words cutting through the air like a blade. “And I seek what was lost to time—an alliance, forged in blood and fire, that will reshape the fate of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Rhaenyra’s breath catches at the mention of the Dragonslayers. The name is one of legend, spoken of only in whispers, a myth more than a reality. Yet here stands proof, undeniable and terrifying. “An alliance?” she echoes, her voice a mix of intrigue and caution. “With whom?”

Y/N’s gaze sharpens, and a ghost of a smile touches her lips. “With House Targaryen,” she says, the name carrying weight as if it alone could alter the course of history. “If you will accept it.”

The words hang in the air, filled with promise and threat alike. Rhaenyra and Daemon exchange a look, the gravity of what is being offered sinking in. The roar of the dragons has died away, leaving only the sound of the wind and the waves crashing against the rocks.

The Banshee shifts behind Y/N, its wings rustling like the ominous whisper of death itself. Rhaenyra takes a deep breath, stepping forward, her voice firm as she speaks. “Come inside,” she says, a queen’s command, but also an invitation. “We will speak more.”

Y/N inclines her head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment, before turning to her beast. With a simple, fluid motion, she mounts the Banshee, the creature responding to her touch with a soft, almost affectionate growl. “I will come,” she says, her voice carrying across the distance. “But know this, Queen Rhaenyra—what I bring is not just an alliance, but the power to change the very destiny of your house.”

With that, the Banshee lets out one last, bone-chilling wail that echoes across the island. The creature takes to the skies, its massive wings beating against the wind as it rises into the air, carrying its rider away from the shore and into the stormy night.

Rhaenyra watches as the dark silhouette disappears into the clouds, her mind racing with a thousand questions, her heart heavy with the knowledge that whatever comes next, it will be like nothing Westeros has ever seen.

Daemon stands beside her, his eyes still fixed on the sky where the Banshee vanished. “We must be ready,” he says quietly, his voice laced with both determination and unease. “Whatever she brings, it will not be easily controlled.”

Rhaenyra nods, her gaze steely as she turns back toward the castle, already thinking of the steps she must take, the alliances she must forge, and the preparations she must make. “Then we shall be ready,” she replies, her voice firm with resolve. “For House Targaryen will not be brought low, not by dragons, and not by beasts.”

Together, they walk back into the heart of Dragonstone, the weight of their decisions pressing heavily upon them, the storm outside now a mere whisper compared to the storm that is yet to come.

The great hall of Dragonstone is eerily quiet, the only sound the occasional crackle of the fire in the hearth, its flames dancing in the dim light. The storm outside has settled into a steady, rhythmic beat against the stone walls, as if the very island holds its breath, waiting for what comes next.

Daemon Targaryen stands by the fire, his eyes fixed on the flames, deep in thought. The warmth of the fire does little to chase away the cold unease that has settled in his bones since the arrival of the stranger and her beast. Rhaenyra sits at the head of the table, her posture regal and composed, though her gaze is sharp and searching as it rests on the woman before them—Y/N, the self-proclaimed last of the Dragonslayers.

You stand before them, calm and composed, the flickering firelight casting shadows across your face. Your expression is inscrutable, your eyes reflecting a depth of experience and knowledge that stretches far beyond the walls of this ancient castle.

Daemon finally speaks, his voice low, but filled with the weight of old memories. “When I was a boy, I used to sit at my wet nurse’s feet as she told me the tales of old Valyria. Stories of dragons soaring above the world, of their might and majesty… and of the terror that once threatened them.” He turns his gaze from the fire to you, his eyes narrowing slightly. “She spoke of the Dragonslayers, warriors from an ancient order, born from the fear and hatred of those who had no other means to fight back against the dragons. It was said their beasts were as fearsome as the dragons themselves—monstrous creatures that could strike terror into the heart of even the most battle-hardened Targaryen.”

He pauses, his lips curving into a wry smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “But those were just stories. Tales meant to frighten children and remind us of our place in the world. When the Doom of Valyria came, the Dragonslayers were said to have perished along with the dragons. Swallowed by the same flames that consumed the Freehold.”

Daemon’s smile fades, replaced by a hard, calculating look. “So you must excuse me, Lady Y/N, if I find it difficult to believe that I now stand face to face with a ghost from those old tales. A Dragonslayer, here to negotiate with the very people her kind once hunted. It seems… unlikely, doesn’t it? Like a dragon holding court with a woman who eats dragons.”

Rhaenyra watches you intently, her fingers lightly drumming against the arm of her chair as she waits for your response. The tension in the room is felt, the air thick with unspoken questions and unvoiced fears.

You meet Daemon’s gaze without flinching, your expression unreadable as you consider his words. When you finally speak, your voice is steady, carrying an authority that demands attention. “You are right to be cautious, Prince Daemon. The tales of the Dragonslayers are shrouded in myth, and much has been lost to time. But make no mistake—those tales were born from truth. My order existed long before Valyria rose to power, and our purpose was never simply to destroy dragons.”

You pause, your eyes flicking between Daemon and Rhaenyra, measuring their reactions. “Our purpose was—and still is—balance. The world must be in balance, or it risks falling into chaos. The dragons of Valyria were a force of nature, powerful and wild. But when they were allowed to spread unchecked, to conquer and dominate, the balance was threatened.”

Rhaenyra leans forward slightly, her brow furrowed in thought. “And now? What is your purpose here, in Westeros? You say you seek balance, but what does that mean for my house? For my children?”

You turn your gaze to her, your expression softening slightly as you consider your words carefully. “The balance is delicate, Queen Rhaenyra. It is not my intention to see the dragons of Westeros wiped out. That would tip the scales too far in the other direction. The dragons are a part of this world, just as you are, just as I am. But if they are allowed to overwhelm this continent, to destroy all in their path, or if they are allowed to die out entirely, the balance will be lost. And when the balance is lost, it is not just the dragons that suffer—it is the entire world.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow as he considers your words, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, though he makes no move to draw it. “So you would see yourself as some kind of guardian, then? A protector of the balance? And what if that means turning against the very dragons you claim to protect?”

You meet his challenge with a steady gaze. “If it comes to that, Prince Daemon, then so be it. But understand this—my purpose is not to hunt dragons for sport or to seek vengeance for old wrongs. My purpose is to ensure that the world does not fall into chaos. If that means working with the dragons and their riders to maintain the balance, then that is what I will do.”

Rhaenyra exchanges a glance with Daemon, her expression one of deep contemplation. “And what would you ask of us, then?” she inquires, her tone thoughtful, though there is a note of steel beneath it. “What role do you see House Targaryen playing in this balance you speak of?”

You take a deep breath, your gaze steady as you address both of them. “House Targaryen is at the center of the storm that is coming. The dragons you command are both a weapon and a symbol, and their power must be wielded wisely. I offer you an alliance, a way to ensure that power is used to preserve the balance, rather than disrupt it.”

Daemon raises an eyebrow, his skepticism still evident. “And if we refuse?”

You smile faintly, a hint of something ancient and knowing in your expression. “Then the balance will be lost. And I will do what must be done to restore it, with or without your cooperation.”

Silence falls over the room, the weight of your words sinking in. Rhaenyra’s eyes flicker with a mix of emotions—fear, determination, and something akin to respect. She finally rises from her chair, stepping toward you, her gaze unwavering.

“You speak of balance, but know this—we are not easily swayed, and we do not take threats lightly,” she says, her voice strong and clear. “But if you are truly here to preserve this balance, then we will consider your offer. For the sake of our children, and for the future of this realm.”

You incline your head slightly, acknowledging her words. “That is all I ask, Queen Rhaenyra. Consider my offer, and know that I am not your enemy. Not unless you make me one.”

Daemon watches you closely, his hand still resting on his sword, but for now, he remains silent, his thoughts unreadable.

Rhaenyra turns to him, her expression one of quiet resolve. “We will speak more of this, Daemon. But for now, we must be cautious. This alliance may be what we need to ensure the survival of our house.”

Daemon nods slowly, his gaze still locked on you. “Very well,” he says, his voice low and thoughtful. “But know this, Lady Y/N—if you betray us, if you threaten what is ours, you will find that dragons are not so easily tamed.”

You smile slightly, a knowing glint in your eyes. “Nor are Dragonslayers, Prince Daemon. But I hope it does not come to that.”

With that, the tension in the room begins to ease, though the underlying unease remains. The fire crackles softly in the hearth, and the storm outside continues to rage, a reminder that the true storm has only just begun.

The night has settled over Dragonstone with a profound stillness, the earlier storm having finally exhausted itself. The air is cool and crisp, carrying the scent of the sea, and above, the sky is a vast canvas of stars, twinkling like distant, forgotten fires. The castle itself is quiet, the flames of the torches flickering softly in their sconces, casting long shadows across the ancient stone.

Rhaenyra finds herself drawn to the open balcony, her steps light as she moves through the corridors, her thoughts still heavy with the weight of the day’s revelations. As she approaches, she sees you standing there, your back to her, gazing up at the night sky with a stillness that almost seems inhuman. The soft light of the stars bathes you in an ethereal glow, and for a moment, Rhaenyra is struck by your presence. There is something otherworldly about you, a beauty that is both mesmerizing and unsettling, even to one of Targaryen blood, who is no stranger to the idea of beings who are not entirely of this world.

Your figure is tall and graceful, your hair catching the faint light as it moves gently in the breeze. Your clothes, simple yet elegant, seem almost to blend with the shadows, as if you are a part of the night itself. There is an air of timelessness about you, something ancient and enduring, and it stirs a deep curiosity within Rhaenyra, a need to understand the enigma that is Y/N.

You speak before she can announce her presence, your voice soft but clear, carrying the weight of knowledge and memory. “It is said that my people came from those stars,” you begin, still gazing upward, your eyes tracing the patterns in the sky. “Long ago, when the world was young, their ship crumbled down in fire, crashing into what would become the Valyrian Freehold. Can you imagine it, Rhaenyra? A ship that sails among the stars, crossing the vast emptiness between worlds?”

Rhaenyra pauses at your words, her breath catching as she considers the image you’ve painted. The idea is both wondrous and terrifying, something beyond the scope of anything she has ever known. She steps closer, her eyes moving from your figure to the sky above, trying to see what you see.

“It’s a beautiful thought,” she says softly, “but also a frightening one. The idea that something so vast, so unknowable, could exist out there. Or worse, that there might be nothing at all. We would be so small… so insignificant.”

You finally turn to face her, your eyes meeting hers with a look that is both kind and ancient, as if you hold secrets that span the ages. “That is the truth of it, isn’t it? The vastness of the universe, the endless expanse of stars… it can make one feel so very small. All the battles we fight, all the kingdoms we build… in the end, they are but whispers in the wind compared to the forces that drive this world and all the others.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze softens as she looks at you, the intensity of your words resonating deep within her. She takes another step closer, her voice tinged with gratitude as she speaks. “I wanted to thank you… for what you did for Lucerys. You saved my son’s life. For that, I am in your debt.”

You incline your head slightly, acknowledging her thanks with a faint smile. “What I did was just,” you reply simply, as if there could be no other course of action. “The boy’s life was not meant to end that day.”

Rhaenyra studies you, her curiosity growing, fueled by the mysteriousness that surrounds you. She has faced dragons and men alike, but there is something about you that captivates her in a way she does not fully understand. “You said you were the last of your kind,” she begins, her voice gentle but probing. “Does that mean you have no family left?”

You turn back to the sky, your expression unreadable as you consider her question. “There are a few others of my order,” you say after a moment, your voice touched with a hint of melancholy. “They are scattered across the world, trying to survive as best they can. But they are not of my blood. My true family… they are gone.”

Rhaenyra feels a pang of sympathy at your words, a sudden connection to the pain you carry. She knows the weight of loss, the emptiness it leaves behind. “I am sorry,” she says quietly, her voice filled with genuine compassion. “To be the last of your kind… it must be a heavy burden.”

You nod slightly, your gaze distant as you continue to stare at the stars. “It is,” you admit, your voice softening with the weight of memory. “But it is the burden I was born to bear. The last of my bloodline, the last of those who once stood against the might of dragons. My family was everything to me… and now, they are nothing but memories and dust.”

Rhaenyra steps closer, standing beside you now, her gaze also turning upward to the stars. She feels a strange sense of kinship with you, this woman who has seen so much, who carries so much pain within her. “I understand what it is to lose those you love,” she says quietly, her voice filled with a sadness that mirrors your own. “I have lost many, and I fear I may lose more before this is over.”

You turn to her, your eyes searching hers, seeing the strength and sorrow within her. “That is the way of the world, Rhaenyra,” you say softly, your tone both comforting and resigned. “We are all bound by the same fate—loss, pain, and eventually, death. But it is what we do with the time we have, the choices we make, that define us. We must find the strength to carry on, even when all seems lost.”

Rhaenyra nods, her heart heavy with the truth of your words. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself, to find the resolve she needs to face the challenges ahead. “I will do what I must,” she says, her voice filled with quiet determination. “For my family, for my children… for the future of this realm.”

You give her a small, understanding smile, a flicker of something almost like pride in your eyes. “You have the strength within you, Rhaenyra Targaryen,” you say, your voice firm with conviction. “I see it, just as I see the stars above. You are meant to be more than a queen—you are meant to be a force that shapes the world.”

Rhaenyra feels a surge of emotion at your words, a mix of fear, hope, and a deep, unspoken bond with this woman who seems to understand her better than anyone. She looks back at you, her gaze filled with both gratitude and a growing respect. “And what of you, Y/N?” she asks softly. “What is your place in this world, now that you are the last of your kind?”

You turn away from the stars to meet her gaze once more, your expression resolute. “My place is wherever I am needed,” you say simply. “I will do what must be done to preserve the balance, to ensure that this world does not fall into chaos. Whether that means standing beside you, or against you, remains to be seen.”

Rhaenyra nods slowly, understanding the gravity of your words. She feels a deep respect for you, for the strength and resolve you carry, and she knows that your path and hers are now intertwined, whether by fate or by choice.

For a moment, the two of you stand together in silence, gazing up at the stars, each lost in your own thoughts, yet connected by the shared understanding of the burdens you bear. The night is a vast and heavy dread of what lies ahead, but in this moment, there is a sense of calm, of quiet resolution, as if the stars themselves have blessed this fragile alliance.

The morning sun has risen over Dragonstone, casting a warm, golden glow across the ancient stone walls and the restless sea beyond. The storm of the previous night has left the air fresh and crisp, with only a few lingering clouds on the horizon. The castle is stirring with life, as servants go about their duties and the guards stand watchful at their posts.

You are standing in the courtyard, the early light catching in your hair, giving it a strange, almost ethereal sheen. You are calm, composed, your posture relaxed as you watch the sea, seemingly lost in thought. The events of the previous night, the tension, and the conversations have left their mark, but you show no outward sign of it. You stand there, a figure of quiet strength, almost as if you belong to another time, another world.

Luke approaches you cautiously, his small feet making soft sounds against the stone. He is dressed in simple, practical clothing, appropriate for the heir of a noble house, but his expression is one of nervousness and gratitude. His young face is still pale from the fear of his encounter at Storm's End, but there is also determination in his eyes, a resolve to confront what haunts him.

He stops a few paces away from you, hesitant at first. “Lady Y/N,” he begins, his voice small but earnest. “I… I wanted to thank you. For what you did at Storm’s End. You saved my life.”

You turn to him, a gentle smile curving your lips as you look down at the boy. There is a kindness in your eyes that seems to ease his nerves, though the depth of your gaze still holds a mystery that he cannot quite grasp. “You owe me no thanks, young prince,” you say softly, your voice steady and warm. “I did what was just.”

Luke swallows, glancing down at the ground for a moment before looking back up at you. “But… Aemond,” he continues, his voice trembling slightly at the name. “He won’t forget what you did. He’ll come after you. He won’t stop until… until he gets what he wants.”

You regard him with calm assurance, unbothered by the warning. There is a quiet power in the way you stand, as if the threats of men and dragons alike hold no sway over you. “Let him come,” you reply, your tone even, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather. “Aemond Targaryen is not the first to seek revenge against me, nor will he be the last. I have faced dragons before, and I have survived them. If he wishes to challenge me, then he will learn that some battles are not so easily won.”

Luke looks at you with a mixture of awe and confusion, struggling to understand the depth of your confidence. He is young, and the world is still a place of fear and uncertainty to him, but your words carry a weight that he cannot ignore. “But… aren’t you afraid?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You tilt your head slightly, considering the question with a faint smile. “Fear is a natural thing, young prince,” you say gently. “But I have learned that there are things far greater and more terrifying than a man or his dragon. We are all small in the grand scheme of things, and what we fear today may be forgotten tomorrow. What matters is how we face that fear—whether we let it control us, or whether we rise above it.”

Luke nods slowly, taking in your words. There is a wisdom in them that speaks to him, even if he doesn’t fully understand it yet. He looks up at you with a newfound respect, feeling a little braver, a little stronger in your presence. “I’ll remember that,” he says softly, his voice filled with a quiet determination.

As you and Luke speak, Rhaenyra watches from a distance, her eyes flicking toward you every so often. She stands near one of the arches that lead out to the courtyard, her gaze following the interaction between you and her son. There is something in the way she observes you—a mixture of curiosity, admiration, and perhaps a touch of something more that she doesn’t fully acknowledge, even to herself.

Rhaenyra notices the ease with which you speak to Luke, the way your presence seems to calm him, to give him strength. There is a grace in your movements, a calm assurance that draws her attention, almost as if you are a beacon of light in the chaos that surrounds them all. She sees the way Luke looks up at you, his young face filled with awe, and she cannot help but feel the same pull, the same captivation.

She remembers the conversation from the night before, the way you spoke of balance, of the vastness of the universe and the insignificance of their struggles in the grand scheme of things. It had left her feeling both humbled and intrigued, as if she were standing on the edge of some great revelation, something that could change everything she thought she knew.

But now, as she watches you with her son, she sees another side of you—a protector, a guide, someone who understands the fears of a boy and can ease them with nothing more than a few well-chosen words. It is a quality that Rhaenyra cannot help but admire, and it deepens the connection she feels toward you, a bond that is growing stronger with each passing moment.

Luke takes a deep breath, standing a little taller now as he looks up at you. “Thank you, Lady Y/N,” he says, his voice more confident this time. “For everything.”

You nod, giving him a reassuring smile. “You are a brave young man, Luke. Never forget that. The world is a dangerous place, but you have the strength within you to face whatever comes. Trust in that.”

Luke smiles, a small, genuine smile that lights up his face, and then he turns to go, feeling a little more at peace with the world. As he walks away, he glances back at you one last time, as if to hold onto the strength you have given him.

Rhaenyra steps forward as Luke leaves, approaching you with a mixture of caution and curiosity. “He admires you,” she says softly, her voice carrying a note of gratitude and something more, something she does not name.

You turn to her, your expression thoughtful as you meet her gaze. “He is a good boy,” you reply. “He will grow into a strong man, one who will carry the weight of his name with honor. But he is still young, and the world is full of challenges he has yet to face.”

Rhaenyra nods, her eyes lingering on your face, taking in the details of your features, the way the light plays across your skin. There is something almost hypnotic about you, something that draws her in, and she finds herself feeling a connection that she cannot fully explain. “I can see why he admires you,” she says softly, her voice tinged with both respect and something deeper, something that stirs within her like the rising tide.

You hold her gaze, your expression unreadable, but there is a softness in your eyes, a recognition of the connection that is forming between the two of you. “And I can see why you care for him so deeply,” you reply, your voice gentle, almost tender. “He is your son, your legacy. You have given him strength, Rhaenyra, just as you will need to give him guidance in the days to come.”

Rhaenyra nods again, feeling a surge of emotion at your words. There is a bond forming between you, something that goes beyond mere friendship or alliance. It is a connection born of shared understanding, of mutual respect, and perhaps even of something more, something that neither of you is ready to name just yet.

For a moment, the two of you stand there in the courtyard, the world around you falling away as you share a quiet, unspoken understanding. The sun continues to rise, casting its golden light across the castle, and in that light, the bond between you and Rhaenyra grows stronger, deepening with every passing moment.

And in the distance, the sea continues to churn, its waves crashing against the shore, a reminder that the world is vast and full of challenges. But in this moment, on this morning, there is peace, and there is a connection.

#hotd rhaenyra #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd x female reader #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd x you #rhaenyra x y/n #rhaenyra x reader #rhaenyra x you #rhaenyra x female reader #rhaenyra targaryen

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primestartes · 2 months

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The Fox-King's Procession

“Forces of Chaos,’ the voice carried in the howling gale of perfumed winds. Every warrior that called onto the Dark Powers and been caressed by the ruinous gifts felt it touch their minds and bodies into a quivers that faltered their battle for the briefest blissful moment. All eyes were following a great being striding into this reality. ‘Bow to me.”

And they did, even when their minds commanded otherwise. Their knees were weak. Their hearts pattering and the warbands fell one at a time before the passing power. Those of the Dark Prince fell into the prostate before a great vision of their stolen god. Musclebound and intent, swaying like a courtesan among hungry nobles and soldiers to the curvaceous attraction bedazzled by jewels bouncing off bountiful thighs and tight waist. Armoured of limbs, layered by a hateful dragon yet boldly naked of chest and groin, pristine velvet-soft pelt of death’s pallor.

Its face clad by a twisted fox’s laughing sneer with the most hateful gaze, none worthy to even a moment’s glance. Those caressed by the whipping nest of tails sixfold dropped dead of cruel razor-fur, salivating maws full of teeth that shouldn’t be, or the crushing whip of disdain. Every soul plucked to give the miniscule sample of life onto the crossing being.

None raised their eyes. All forced to the dirt as they should. Nostrils bleeding with the bountiful musk that pushed through the six-limbed daemon’s pores. A smell so odorous of sulfuric poison yet demanding that they huffed again, hoping for another painful taste for that slightest hint of the pure carnality. For Pain was its commandment. The only bliss that it radiates is the freedom of the mortal coil that everyone wore, even the temporary presence of the undead.

At its heel, a great host processed behind its ruinous king. The bounding of daemonic steeds ridden by prideful knights and salacious hunters to attend its great hunt, ranks of hellplated warriors and scarred marauders, dissents and love-slaves of every race and faction behind it while daemons danced and cartwheels singing their master’s hateful motif that roused the submissive audience. Their hearts pounded and eyes wept as if they felt a wanting bounty to the Fox-King’s rage and tragedy, hundred of standards flew in a multitude of fleshly color and runes to his kingdom and god’s dominance. Even those of other gods had been transformed to that of the Dark Prince provided the moment of shade.

Oh woe, To lose his opulent kingdom and godly might to a jealous megarie, even his beloved divine stolen. How could these cretins continue to live?

Warriors of Khorne started to fall on their own blades in associated shame. Their axes maiming their beloved weapon limbs, mutated tendrils coiling their necks for rightful strangulations, nails popping eyes in sweet agonizing pleas of forgiveness, blades piercing their too-aching hearts. Those too strong under their Skull-Father lunged, allowed a moment’s present glory and fell to Slaaneshi daemons and men happy to murder them with hundreds of stabbing and tearing. A single stroke of a quick death.

This and more turned into a growing aroma into the air, distorting and twisting to a perfume that clung to the battlefield. It brought the power of the Dark Prince deeper and fuelled the daemons’ malevolent flesh. Men and women were plucked and added to the procession, seamlessly joining the mourners and bearers. The rest will be forever envious to have survived and be unchosen by the Host of the Fox-King.

And this insulted rage fell upon their new unity against the stormhost to stand in the Exalted of Daemons’ way in his Great Hunt. They threw their fury and lives to the storm of Sigmar’s Un-Men before Ludwig the Obsessed dirtied his great claws, his voice was malevolent thunder over the flesh and ears as he sung in shrieking howls and venomous cries, turning blood into lead and melancholy slugged noble warriors’ righteous swings.

Even for his size, he moved with a lightning-bolt’s passing. Four limbs startling blows that claimed scores of lives as he swirled and twirled. A blade thorned like a spiteful rose and as red in its crystalline length sliced as fine as a painter’s brush and tossed blood just as fine. The death-bolts of Anvil-casted were the drums steadied and added to the warlike music, their supplement of freemen screamed in horror a chorus swooned by daemonettes and spell maestros directing the symphony to the wind of magics.

Even as the draconiths were claiming their own bounty of ruinous mortals, their hide were plucked and hearts given as great fistful grapes by the leaping dancers of Ludwig’s following Keeper-kin attracted to his self-pity and hateful following, jeering and swooning. Praising and urging him on, some even finding loving embrace and gossip-filled whispers to one another among the chaos.

The Aspired Patron cared little. His heart was too blackened and his body urged, as if his Stolen Prince could feel it all and begged him;

Go! Keep going, my beloved pet. Hunt those who undone you. Hunt for your lust of vengeance. Even chained, I love you and adore you. Send their souls onto me for your passion. Send your lovers’ souls onto me for your obsessions. Send your pain onto me, so I may feel it carve my perfect ribs. And when their souls fill your breached gullet, let it remind me of my stolen bounty soon to return, O Precious Lap-Darling Mine.

Just the thought of those words drew poisonous tears that stained cheek and ground, Ludwig screamed as he cried out his Master-Mistress’ name and a tempest of scorning scourges spiraled around his being, claiming ally and foe both in bone-crushing coils and life-ending lashes. Their souls to be scattered and drunk, what wounds that felt like brushes of gnats closed and spurred their killer into a higher glory.

Kill! Kill! Kill!

Maim. Torture. Flay.

Kill everything denies you!

ALL FOR SLA’A’NESH!

#warhammer aos #age of sigmar #slaanesh #warhammer chaos #ludwig the aspired #myart

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i-did-not-mean-to · 2 months

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Week 3 - Gathering

Oh after accidentally posting this to the wrong account...

here we go with chapter 4 of this!

Prompt: Maedhros x Fingon, Fingolfin, Finrod

Pairing: Gathering

Words: 2 090

Warnings: Sadness, betrayal, drama, and fear

“A terrible creature,” Ñolofinwë gasped and waved his hands frantically to impress upon his spellbound audience just how tall and looming his mysterious jailor had been. “With fangs like knives and claws like curved daggers…”

He put all his failing strength into this impassionate speech for he could sense the natural disbelief in the shrewd gazes of his young kinsmen—he could not fault them for believing him to be merely overcome with delirious fatigue. Had he been in their stead, he’d also have struggled to simply accept so lurid a tale.

“It has my son,” he finished his diatribe feebly. “Help me!”

“You are the King,” Findaráto, ever eager to throw himself bodily into any interesting adventure, conceded. “And if this be your command, I shall be more than happy to follow your orders.”

Ñolofinwë smiled wearily; he heard the end of the sentence his nephew didn’t speak out of respect and caution. “Even if I don’t believe a word you say.”—the meaning was there, hovering like a foul smell in the blessedly warm and dry throne room, but the King was too exhausted to take offence to Findaráto’s potentially selfish, reckless motives when all that mattered was the retrieval of his son and heir.

“I’ll be off before morning light,” Findaráto promised. “I shall assemble the best men I can rouse on such short notice. Worry not, Uncle, we’ll bring back my dear cousin. Rest and recover!”

There was deep love and earnest pity in his mellow voice now, and Ñolofinwë sank back against the soft cushions someone had piled around him as if they were afraid he’d collapse without support.

“Very good,” he croaked. “May your road be blessed!”

Nelyafinwë had managed to ignite the damp wood in the old, draughty fireplace and was now sitting back on his haunches, strangely self-conscious of his glaring nudity in the face of one dressed in such torn splendour.

“How did you get cursed?” Findekáno asked, cautiously taking a sip of his bitter, stale tea. He couldn’t fully understand the strange and cruel fairy tale in which he’d found himself, but all thoughts of murder and escape had long since fled his mind.

How could he sustain such absurd musings when the captor he’d expected to be barbaric and brutal had turned out to be a touchingly sad youth of such exquisite beauty that the Prince couldn’t bear to avert his gaze from those long, sculptural limbs for even a single moment?

“My father angered the wrong sorcerer?” Nelyafinwë sighed. He’d agonised over that very question for too long without having come to any satisfactory conclusion, and he was sick and tired of the torturous doubt rearing its venomous head every so often. “He was an angry man—haughty, dismissive, and regrettably short-sighted at times—and he must have crossed one who sought to take revenge.”

“Was? Anyway,I don’t see how that is your fault,” Findekáno interjected pointedly. “Is there nothing that can be done? It was not mere posturing that made me claim that someone will come to deliver me…and I’m afeared for your safety.”

A terrible silence fell. Then, somewhere deep within the labyrinthine bowels of the castle, a clock chimed.

“We’ll be fine,” Nelyafinwë smiled gratefully. “You must be tired; let me show you to your quarters.”

“In the dungeons?” At that thought, Findekáno’s face hardened suddenly, and his gaze automatically sought the sword he’d cast aside earlier. It lay still where he’d left it, but a pair of scissors and a hammer had inched up to it in what he could only interpret as a pose of menacing challenge.

Shaking his head, Nelyafinwë got to his feet once more. His motions were jerky and awkward as if he was no longer used to performing such mundane, unaggressive movements.

“You’ve proven that you’re willing to keep your word; you shall be given a room. I’ll attempt to make sure that all the lighting fixtures are functional—you have my leave to explore our shared prison at your ease. I’d only ask you not to intrude upon the west wing—some secrets are better left undisturbed.”

Even though he nodded, the very picture of amiable compliance, Findekáno resolved then and there to disregard the exceedingly polite and undoubtedly reasonable request.

It was amply clear to him that his host—for Nelyafinwë had supplied much-needed warmth in the form of a blazing fire and a hot drink which warranted a change in title—was reluctant to share the whole truth.

“I’ll save you yet,” the valiant warrior thought stubbornly. He would not wait for the inevitable confrontation in which he would, there was no doubt about it, lose one way or another.

Indeed, he didn’t want to see either his friends and kinsmen or this bewitching contradiction slain before he’d exhausted every other avenue.

Many an ungenerous thing had been said about his father behind his noble back, but nobody could have ever accused him of neglecting the education of his children, so Findekáno was fairly confident that he could and would devise a solid plan to reverse this unholy curse and become a rescuer rather than a mere detainee.

If only his brother or his cousin had been with him—Turukáno’s love for lore and Artanis’s uncanny instinct would surely have cut his research and frenzied cogitation in half.

Alas, all he had at his disposal was his own intellect and a fierce heart, set aflame by the endearing beauty and charm of the tall redhead now fleeing the fire’s revealing glow to plunge into the obscuring shadows of the passage leading away from the dining room.

“Will your brothers guard me?” Findekáno asked as innocently as he could, hastening after the retreating gleam of a long, white back.

“My brothers are a harp, a knife, creaking scales, a hammer, and a pair of rusty scissors respectively,” Nelyafinwë chuckled. “They might keep a screw on you—for lack of actual eyes—but I rather think that they’ll prefer hounding me for my breach of the rules.”

Feeling the biting sting of unwelcome guilt, Findekáno was about to ask whether it would be more agreeable to everyone if he spent the night in the same cell his father had only recently vacated when Nelyafinwë asked a question of his own.

“Do you have siblings?”

Findekáno sighed. “Two younger brothers and a sister. My brothers are quite unlike in temper and tastes, and my sister cannot be compared to another living being without insulting one or the other…”

“What about you? Do you share many traits with them?” Nelyafinwë turned around. The light of a nearby window washed across his sharp collarbones and his almost elfin face in a way that made it so inexplicably hard for the mesmerised onlooker to breathe that Findekáno nearly failed to so much as understand the question put to him.

“They’re much like me in some ways,” he finally said slowly. “And completely unfathomable in others. Turukáno is smarter than I could ever endeavour to be, Írissë is so fearless and independent that she frightens the living daylights out of our parents, and Arakáno is impetuous to a fault.”

“You love them dearly,” Nelyafinwë commented feelingly.

“That I do. I wish you could meet them—they would be just as fascinated by you as I am.”

“You flatter one you barely know. However, you actually might understand better than most that I also have my own brothers’ well-being in mind in everything I do and say. Unfortunately, they’re as different from one another as the seasons or the times of day, and it’s nigh-impossible to make all of them happy.”

As he spoke those words, full of regret and unequivocal devotion, Nelyafinwë halted outside a richly decorated door. “My room is just down the corridor,” he informed Findekáno in a low voice, tinged with embarrassment. “Do not hesitate to seek me out if Káno’s mewling keeps you awake—you shan’t disturb me.”

“Will you be enjoying the fleeting pleasures of your magnificent body?” As soon as the words had left his lips and returned to his own ears in an avenging echo, Findekáno flinched vehemently. “Oh, my mother would have me take nought but bread and water for a week as punishment for that comment. I meant no offence—I don’t know why I said it…like that.”

Caressing the strange and unexpectedly stimulating visitor with an unreadable look, Nelyafinwë allowed himself to display that gentle, cryptic smile that had once driven maidens and squires alike mad with delight.

“Mayhap, it’s considered unrighteous that any living man should inhabit such a dangerously corrupting form for more than half the day—justly so, if I may be so bold—and it’s in an effort to preserve the nutrition and sanity of those around you that you’re perforce deprived of so fearsome a weapon,” he muttered under his breath.

Suppressing what could have been a groan or a fit of giddy laughter, Nelyafinwë pushed open the door. “Justice—as an eternal, immutable concept—is not for us to know or to question. I bid you good night, Findekáno, honourable son, loving brother, and astounding guest. This evening might have been the best I’ll ever have, and my raging regrets have dulled into a sense of bittersweet sadness—I thank you for that.”

With a crisp bow, he withdrew, followed by various metal objects clanking after him in the impenetrable darkness.

“Good,” Findekáno whispered, not even taking the time to enjoy the exceptional beauty of his lodgings, and slipped out again noiselessly to explore the forbidden wing.

He was sure that Nelyafinwë would have to contend with a gathering of irate weapons and instruments of different natures, and he pushed aside the pang of instinctive sympathy and solidarity.

His sister often reproached him for being too loquacious, but—in this instance—he was almost certain that all the conversations he’d prompted since arriving would ultimately lead to a happy resolution of his sensitive but stirring conundrum.

Nelyafinwë didn’t need to turn around to sense his brothers’ presence.

“We cannot keep him here,” he enunciated, trying to dissimulate the note of imminent grief in his voice. “To protect and defend you, I shall set him free come morning. Once he’s seen my bestial form, he shall be glad to leave this place.”

Angry sounds of scraping metal exploded behind him, but still, he didn’t have the heart to face the lacklustre objects. In his mind, Nelyafinwë conjured up the images of his brothers as they’d once been.

Even now, he could easily recall Kanafinwë’s twinkling eyes and Morifinwë’s characteristic blush. Of all the cursed members of this family, Curufinwë The Younger might have been the only one who was relieved to no longer glimpse echoes of their father’s glory in his reflection, but even he surely regretted having been reduced to unyielding intransigence.

Turcafinwë had been cutting in his remarks and actions, and the twins undoubtedly had ever been two blades slashing in perfect synchronicity, but they’d also been warm and funny.

Nobody, not even beings of such ruthless violence as they’d been, deserved to be nought but weapons, forever barred from touch without risking injuring another.

A slow, questioning melody threaded itself into the hum of the others’ discontentment.

“No, there shall be no forgiveness for us,” Nelyafinwë replied. “I just want to prevent any unnecessary bloodshed.”

The harp’s song became more insistent, pleading without needing words.

“Yes, I did enjoy this evening, but I cannot keep him for my own pleasure,” Nelyafinwë sighed. “He has siblings as well—I’d never bereave them of their older brother any more than I could desert you lot.”

A single note, a strident accusation, cut him short. Nelyafinwë winced—he hated being reminded of his attempt to find the one who’d cursed them. Not only had he failed to undo their misery, but he’d also risked leaving his siblings stranded and rudderless.

“I’m here now,” he said, turning to his bed and lifting the sharp-edged tools onto the soft blanket one by one. “It’s you and I, forevermore. I love you.”

He couldn’t bear to close his eyes, so he lay awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to the soft clangour of the resting tools.

Suddenly, an incongruous sound startled him out of his drifting reverie—he slipped off the bed and snuck out, counting the hours until sunrise.

Heavy-hearted and soft-footed, Nelyafinwë apprehensively turned towards the condemned wing to bravely face his oldest and most intimate fears.

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