#Starlight Elegance

[lichdolly]

In the Starlight - Eyelet Skirt (2006)

[pipskippy]

rly wish they brought the endearingly odd parts of the original revue starlight play to the anime/movies…for example like hikari’s unnerving fake smile/demeanor and junna’s hysterical laugh out of nowhere and futaba’s more aggressive attitude. also i miss maya’s white gloves. and unrelated but yeah nana should be taller she should be like 6 foot at least

[lovenikkiclothes]

Based around the top ‘Foggy Starlight’.

[rebfile]

On Azura Isle, where the waves serenade the shore with an endless melody 🌊, there wandered a maiden named Rosaline, with curls as dark as the raven's wing and eyes like pools of starlight. A single hibiscus, the isle's bloom, nestled in her hair, a splash of pink against the onyx tresses 🌺.

Rosaline was a vision in her floral bikini, a symphony of turquoise and coral that echoed the vibrant life beneath the island's waves. The fabric kissed her skin like a gentle zephyr, its ribbons and ties a dance of elegance and grace.

She walked the beach with the poise of a queen, her laughter the tinkling of glass in the wind, her presence a soothing balm to the bustling life of the isle. Rosaline, the isle's beloved, spent her days basking in the golden sun, her heart beating in unison with the rhythm of Azura's heart 💖.

Today, she collected seashells, each one a treasure more precious than the last, a token of the isle's love for her, a love she returned tenfold with every soft step upon its sandy canvas.

[vietnamguidebook]

Top 10 most beautiful cruises in Halong Bay

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[readychilledwine]

hello!! please could i request one where the reader is an OG member of the IC and very close to azriel (she knows that he’s her mate, he doesn’t) and sister-like to the rest of the IC. once feyre and her sisters come about, she often confides with feyre so they’re also close.

anyway, there’s an important event for the reader on day and she expected the rest of the IC would join her (she invited them?) but no one turned up and she’s absolutely exhausted, emotionally and physically, by the end of the day.

when she’s back, everyone is together at the house having fun and one of them notices she so dressed up but looked exhausted. maybe someone says something snarky and there’s an argument. azriel defends the snarky person so reader and azriel have an argument (hurtful words towards the reader) and that’s when the mating bond snaps for az and he’s regretful. things happen but happy ending for the reader, az and the IC. thank you 🫶🏼💗

Odd One Out

Summary - After 500 years of friendship, the last thing you ever expected was the Inner circle to miss one of your symphonies. But you know what they say, time changes people.

Warnings - I warned you all to watch out for angst, right? Elain being catty, reader feeling lonely, Azriel being an idiot

A/N - I promise Bound by Fate is still coming. I'm just constantly rereading it and not happy with where it's at. It's probably because I needed this out of my system. I hope this is close enough to what you were looking for! It wrote itself, so I'm worried it may stray too far from the ask! Please let me know if it did.

✨️ Azriel Masterlist✨️

Odd One Out pt 2

Maybe you had asked too much again. You looked to where the empty seats for the Inner Circle and Archeron sisters sat one last time before moving forward. You had worked too hard on this symphony to let this stop you. You were the last to go on stage, the conductor in her gorgeous sparkling gown and heels. You were the picture perfect face of composure as you bowed before turning and raising your hands.

You were introduced to Rhysand at a young age, and the two of you were quickly friends, so when he became High Lord, a place at his side was handed to you without question. You were eloquent, elegant, and kind. You were perfect for the position of emissary, and you single handedly won him friendships and alliances among every court aside from Spring.

He had never stopped you from pursuing passion, though. Your father had forced you into harp lessons from the tender age of 4 until his untimely death. He sat by your side for hours, teaching you to speak through letters written on a sheet that so fee could truly understand. It was an escape that turned into a career. One Rhysand specifically built the amphitheater you currently stood on for. The music you wrote woke emotion on the High Lord and all of Velaris, quickly making you one of the most popular females in the City of Starlight.

No one enjoyed your music more than Azriel's shadows, though. Nor did anyone enjoy you the way they did. How they knew you two were mates while he sat clueless and doting on Elain would never make sense to you, but the shadow turning your sheet music for you tonight was at least a small comfort, even if your family, mainly his master, was not here in their resevered High box seats.

You were exhausted when your arms lowered for the close of the show. You stood to the side, plastering a small faked smile on your graceful features as you held your arm to the orchestra, signaling for their bows before taking your own and leaving. You were the last one there, sharing thank yous and goodbyes as you musicians left. You chose to be alone for a while on the harp that sat in your sound room at the theater. You had a song in your mind, and you needed to let it speak before it left. Even if it was created from a place of raw emotion. It was near midnight when you finished, leaving the new composition to sit until you returned tomorrow.

You could hear the drunken laughter the second you walked into the old Riverhouse, the one you and Azriel made home as the mates of the Inner Circle began occupying the other houses, and signed as you removed your heels and picked them up into white tipped manicured nails. "Y/n!" Cassian's booming drunk voice slammed into you as he did. "Where have you been, baby?"

It was Nesta who gasped, looking at the clock on the wall before whispering a soft oh no as she saw your dress. Nesta who covered her mouth, eyes beginning to water as she shook her head and stared. Nesta who glared to Feyre.

"Why do you look so dolled up?" Rhys had a slight flush to his face, a wide smile as he took you in. "Hot date?"

You couldn't help but stare, shaking your head as your throat tightened. "You all seriously don't remember." Rhys knitted his brow thinking, and his face slowly fell.

"Y/n Darling, I am-"

You put your hand up to him before he could finish, shaking your head as the tears actually fell. "Save it. Spare me your lies and excuses." Cassian looked to Nesta and then Rhys, his own face falling next as he remembered.

"The symphony."

"Was beautiful, regardless of my support system deciding wine and board games were more important than the first live art performance in Velaris since our high lord was captured." Your voice was shaking as you looked up, avoiding Hazel eyes that were wide in shock as every single ounce of heart ache you felt hit him.

The bond finally snaps, his shadows hissed. We've been reminding you all day. And now you've hurt our mate. Ours. We went. Where were you?

"Maybe if you were actually good at writing music, we would have remembered." Mor's glass of wine hit the floor as your breath stilled. Rhys felt his hands fall from Feyre's lap as she audibly said Elain's name in an insulted tone. Amren was immediately held back by Varian. "Obviously, if the people who you claim you're so important to did not see making time to go a priority, we did not miss much."

Cassian heard your breath shutter. You stared to Azriel, waiting for him to come to your defense and not realizing his silence was due to shock from the bond and Elain's sudden cattiness. "Very well. I see I am no longer wanted, and I will not stay where I am not wanted," the whisper was all anyone could hear as you turned and walked away. The door shut behind you, and as if the Mother truly hated you, rain began falling softly, and you made your way back to the amphitheater.

Azriel had never shoved someone off his lap as quickly as he did Elain in that moment. But it was Rhysand who spoke, "How. Dare. You." The High lord went to stand, grabbing his jacket. "When your sister was dying, I sent her y/n's music. The mobile you play for our son every night, is y/n's music. The music that plays in Hewn City is y/n's music. She is an essential part of my circle, my family. How dare you tell her that her passion, her joy, and her career mean nothing to us."

Azriel backed away from Elain. "Your true colors disgust me, Elain Archeron." He studied her, truly studied her for the first time as the door slammed shut following Rhysand's exit. "That is my friend, my closest friend. You just hurt her like it was nothing. Cut her so deeply you will never be able to repair it."

"Well, if she mattered so much you all would have remembered."

Feyre spoke then, between heavy sobs, "I wrote down the wrong date. I wrong down tomorrow night for opening night. We were going to take her to dinner. It was supposed to be Nyx's first concert. This is my fault."

"Again, proof it didn't matter." Elain sipped her white wine as if Feyre had all but solidified her opinion.

"Get out," the growl from Azriel took everyone by surprise. "Get out of my home. You are no longer welcome here."

He was out the door, running to catch up to Rhysand in the rain, but missing the High Lord. He entered the amphitheater drenched and in silence, sitting next to where Rhysand was in the dark.

You were on stage playing violin as you always did when your heart was breaking. Every stroke of the strings had the bond growing tight before you dimmed it on your end, as if each movement of the bow, each note, was you whispering goodbye. "She told me she is leaving," Rhysand rubbed his face next to Azriel. It was then he saw the tears staining the perfect features of the High Lord. "She said this is my last performance before she leaves for Dawn."

"There's nothing we can do then?" Rhysand shook his head at the question before his head fell into his hands and his shoulders wrecked into sobs. "She's my mate."

"I know," Rhysand looked to the stars. "I've known for years. She never said anything, and now she never will. What little piece we had left is gone. Her light had been blown out by Elain's statements."

"Let me-"

"Just please stop talking and let me enjoy this."

It was the song he had sent Feyre under the mountain. A score that read of hope through pain.

And hope was all Azriel could hold on to as you stood and bowed, winnowing away as soon as you were finished.

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanagers @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr @eternallyelvish @azrielsmate3 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @meritxellao @aria-chikage @hungryforbatboys @lilah-asteria @fandomrejects

[suguwu]

WOULD THAT I: PROLOGUE

The Gojo boy doesn't have a soulmate.

When you're both children, you overhear him being referred to as inhuman, between his power and his lack of a mark. The next time you see him, you use a marker to write your name on his skin, too young to understand what it means.

You forget, but Gojo—

Gojo never does.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT.

masterlist

pairing: gn!reader x gojo

wc: 2.6k

notes: thank you to my beta, as always! especially for putting up with my bratty ass and reading this early so i could post it earlier. this has been a fun fic to get started and i hope you enjoy the prologue!

content warnings: none. see masterlist for series content warnings.

The Gojo boy doesn’t have a soulmate.

You don’t think you’re supposed to know; it’s only ever talked about in hushed voices. The clans all speak like that, sometimes, each word a butterfly’s wing as it flutters from their mouths.

The servants, however, are louder.

One of them has a voice like a lark, a sweet, trilling song. It carries. You learn to hear her coming, to recognize her shadow against the shoji. You know the edges of her by heart. Sometimes she spreads her arms out as she makes her way through the hallway; her kimono sleeves flare out behind her like wings. 

“There’s something wrong with the Gojo heir,” she sings one afternoon, her fluting voice half-muffled by the shoji. “Those eyes of his—it’s like he can see right through you. And Fujioka says he doesn’t have a soulmark.” 

Another servant hushes her. “Don’t gossip,” she chides. 

“It’s true, though!”

“That doesn’t mean you should repeat it.” 

She huffs, grumbling something too soft for you to hear anything aside from the melody of it. The other servant laughs quietly before chivvying her forward. You watch until their shadows disappear, leaving only the hallway light to filter golden through the shoji. 

You return to your coloring book.

The Gojo boy doesn’t have a soulmate, but that doesn’t mean anything to you.

Not yet. 

—

There’s a boy in the courtyard.

He’s hopping from stone to stone in the koi pond, his snow-white hair glittering under the morning sun. He moves like a dancer, each step sure and swift, never once slipping on the wet rock. When he gets to the biggest rock in the pond, he crouches down, his back to you, and drags his fingers over the surface of the water. The koi rise to meet him, firework scales flashing in the sun. 

You watch him from the engawa, peeking out at him from behind one of the columns. You’ve never seen him before, and you’d remember him, with his starlight hair. 

“Who’re you?” he asks, not turning around.

You stay quiet.

“I know you’re there,” he says. “You can’t hide from me.”

He glances over his shoulder and the world goes blue.

It’s the cold burn of a comet’s tail streaking through the velvet night. It’s oceantide, relentless and unyielding. It’s a slice of the sky brought down to earth, heaven devoured.

Then he blinks, and he’s just a boy again. 

“Who’re you?” you ask, stepping to the edge of the engawa. 

He lifts his chin. “I asked you first.”

You introduce yourself the way your mother taught you, bowing to him shallowly. 

He scoffs. “You’re not even from the main clan.”

“Are you?”

“I’m not part of your stupid clan.”

“Oh.”

He stares at you, his crystalline eyes sharp-edged, all prismatic ice. “You don’t know who I am?”

“Nope.”

He rises to his full height, unfolding like an elegant crane. “I’m Gojo Satoru.” 

You tilt your head. The servants’ humming gossip made the Gojo heir sound ethereal, a fallen star that had burned away into human form as it plummeted through the heavens. His eyes are otherworldly, and you can feel the power rippling out from his lean form, as unstoppable as the tides, but—

“You’re just a boy,” you say. 

He scowls. “Am not.”

“Are too.” 

“I’m Gojo Satoru,” he says again, deeper this time, an intonation, a promise, a curse. His eyes flash, St. Elmo’s fire, a lightning strike of blue. “I have the Limitless and the Six Eyes. I’m not just a boy.”

You would believe him, but the last bit sounded more sulky than anything else. You’re about to tell him so when someone calls your name. You glance over your shoulder, but there are no shadows against the shoji yet.

When you turn back around, there are wet patches shining on the stones in the koi pond, an imprint of the past, but nothing else.

The Gojo boy is gone.

—

Your mother is hovering. 

She smooths down your yukata, chasing creases from the thin cotton with trembling hands. There hadn’t been time to change; she’d pulled you out of your lessons and hurried you down the hallways of the estate. 

“Bow low when you meet him,” she tells you, though she hasn’t bothered to tell you who ‘he’ is. “Understand?”

You nod. 

There’s a fine layer of sweat gleaming at your mother’s nape as she kneels before the shoji. She reaches out to open it; her kimono sleeve slips down, revealing the elegant curve of her wrist. You focus there instead of the opening shoji, the slow slide of it a hissing snake, coiled to bite.

The shoji clicks, a chime of teeth, its maw wide open. You take in a deep breath and step through, your gaze on the tatami mats. Someone shifts.

“Oh, it’s you.”

You glance up, directly into the gaze of Gojo Satoru. His eyes are as otherworldly as you remember, a crisp, clear blue framed in long lashes, like a snowy-edged mountain lake. He tilts his head as you gape, his hair gleaming bone-white in the sun streaming through the open shoji. 

You blink. “What’re you doing here?” you ask, and next to you, your mother hisses in a low, sharp breath. 

Gojo shrugs. “Dunno. The clan said I had to come and they caught me when I snuck out.”

The woman behind Gojo clears her throat. “Gojo-sama,” she says, her voice like the shivering leaves when the summer breeze stirs to life, “they’re a candidate for you to train with.” 

He eyes you. “Why?” he asks. “They’re not very strong.”

“Hey!” 

“You aren’t, though,” he says. “I can tell.”

You throw yourself at him.

His eyes widen, a devouring sea, and he grunts as you make impact. He’s sturdier than you thought; he’s slight, but it’s all lean muscle, even though he can’t be much older than you are. Your mother calls out your name, horrified, but Gojo is already recovering, grappling with you for control. 

By the time the adults pull you apart, Gojo is nursing a rapidly-purpling mark high on his cheekbone. Your split lip aches; you tongue at it and wince. You can taste blood, sour and metallic. You glare at Gojo even as your mother bows deeply to the woman.

“My deepest apologies,” she says, tightening her grip on the sleeve of your yukata and forcing you to bow with her. “I don’t know what came over them.”

The woman clicks her tongue. “The child should be punished,” she says, and your mother stiffens. “I would suggest—”

“No.” 

Everyone looks at Gojo. He thumbs at a rip in his kimono, grinning widely. It bares his teeth. 

“I’ll train with them,” he says.

“Gojo-sama—”

“I said I’d train with them. Now can we go? I want a popsicle.” 

The woman sighs. “Yes, Gojo-sama.” 

Gojo sweeps by you and your mother. He pauses right next to you. “You’re weak,” he tells you, ignoring the way you bristle, “but at least you’re fun.”  

He’s out the shoji before you can respond.

—

Summer settles over Kyoto, a wet lick of heat. Even the wind seems to feel it; it ripples honey-slow through the trees, barely strong enough to stir the air. Frogs move into the koi pond in the courtyard; they sing along with the cicadas’ sawing choir. 

“Catch it!” Gojo shouts as your hands spear through the murky pond water. It gushes free from between your fingers as you come up empty-handed, the frog you were aiming for frantically disappearing further below the surface. “You’re so slow.”

“Am not!”

“Are too,” he counters, holding out his cupped hands. A plaintive ribbit sounds out from between them. “I already caught one. It was easy.”

“You’re annoying.”

He stares at you, his blue eyes icy. “You’re annoying.”  

“You’re the one who came over.”

He rolls his eyes. “We train at your estate.”

“How come?”

“How come what?”

“How come we train here? Your estate is probably better.”

He shrugs, opening his hands enough to peer down at the frog. It glistens in the sunlight, the same deep green as the lush courtyard. It makes a break for freedom; he closes his hands again, his long fingers sewing the gap shut. “I like it better here.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Why?”

“I just do,” he says, voice flat.

You don’t ask again.

—

“Why are we here?”

Gojo blinks, his long white lashes sweeping over the sweet curve of his cheek. “Why are you whispering?”

Your cheeks heat. The Gojo estate is a sprawling, massive maw; you’ve felt devoured ever since you set foot in it. Even the golden light that slants through the shoji feels cold. There are ikebana arrangements lining the halls, the leggy, deep purple irises sculptural as they rise proudly from the vases, but it still feels like a mausoleum. 

“We’ve just never trained here before,” you say, taking care to use your regular voice. “So why are we here now?”

He shrugs. “They insisted.”

“Who?”

He dismisses the question with a wave of his hand, his long pianist’s fingers cutting through the air. You roll your eyes, long used to his occasionally imperious ways. The two of you continue along the hallways, you trailing after him closely, as if caught in his gravity, an orbiting moon. 

You almost run into him when he comes to a sudden halt. You peek around him—in the last few months, he’s gone through a growth spurt, one that your mother says will come when you’re his age, and he’s too tall to peer over his shoulder—and see a servant bowing low, her ebony hair glinting.

“Gojo-sama,” she says. “Please follow me. The elders are waiting.”

He sighs, a dramatic heave of his chest. “What do they want?”

“They didn’t specify.”

“Ugh.”

“Gojo-sama—”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he says. “Go tell those geezers I’ll be there soon.” 

You wince right along with the servant. Gojo’s disdain for the elders is not new, but it still unnerves you every time, as if they will come along and smite you down. 

“C’mon,” Gojo says to you. “Let’s get it over with.”

The servant clears her throat. “Only you, Gojo-sama.”

He glares, his blue eyes burning, a comet streaking through the sky. “No,” he says. “They’re coming.”

“They cannot.”

“I said they’re coming.” 

“It’s okay,” you tell him, eyes wide. “Really.” 

Gojo looks back at you. For a second, his mouth is a wound, tender and pink, but in the next breath, it’s gone, frozen under a layer of ice.

“Fine.” 

You bite your lip, but he’s already walking away. You catch yourself before you reach for him. He disappears down the hallway, his hair glinting like exposed bone.

The servant turns to you. “This way,” she says, her voice perfectly neutral.

You follow her to an empty room; she slides the shoji shut behind herself as you settle onto the cushion at the chabudai. You gaze around the room. There’s not much to take in; it’s wealthy in a subdued way. You fidget with the hem of your sleeve and then get to your feet.

You slide open the shoji leading out to the engawa; it opens onto a huge, lush courtyard. The plush flowers are weighted down by their own blooms, their stems curving like a dancer’s back. A shishi-odoshi rings out with a hollow thud; a few songbirds scatter, their wings rustling like leaves as they soar towards the sky. 

You step out onto the engawa. It’s still early enough that the sun slants onto the wood, warming it. You sit down and bask in it, tilting your face up for the sun’s sweet kiss. You lay back, your eyes fluttering shut.

A voice wakes you.

“He’s an insolent brat!” a man hisses. “He needs to be taken in hand!”

“He’s too powerful,” another man answers. His voice is calm, but you can sense the ripples in it, the thing lurking underneath. “We can only do what we’re already doing.”

You go still. They can only be talking about Gojo. Their footsteps echo; they’re drawing closer and closer.

“It’s not enough.” 

“He’s still young. Maybe we can mold him.” 

The first man snorts. “You don’t believe that.”

“No, I don’t.” 

“There’s something wrong with that boy,” the first man says. “Those eyes—that power—and not even a hint of a mark. He’s barely human.”

Their footsteps are starting to fade; their voices become murmurs. But you still hear it when the second man says:

“I don’t think he’s human at all.”

Then they’re gone, fading from your world like malevolent spirits, dissipating on the wind. You unclench your fists and find that your nails have bitten into your skin, little half-moon curves cutting through the leylines of your palms. 

Gojo shows up a mere minute later. He slides open the shoji with a bang; his eyes find you immediately. 

“C’mon,” he says, stepping out into the courtyard. His eyes are shadowed; his lips are pulled tight, an unstitched wound. He’s heard them, you realize. You’ve never seen him bothered by other people’s opinions; your chest aches, a pressed bruise. You open your mouth to say something, but you can’t find the words. 

He grabs your hand as he passes by you, tugging you along behind him, ignoring your surprised yelp. “Let’s go before those stupid geezers find me again.” 

“Where are we going?”

“Away from here.”

“But my shoes—”

He glances back at you and you drown in blue. 

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Let’s go.” 

He doesn’t answer; he just tugs you along. You stare at the back of his head for a moment, trying to make sense of the expression you’d seen flash across his face before he’d turned around again. You can’t understand it, but you know one thing.

He’s never looked more human to you.

—

The next time you see him, you’re prepared.

You uncap the marker with your teeth. You reach out for Gojo’s arm; he pulls away before you can grab hold, as quick as a darting fish. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Give me your arm.” 

“Why?”

“You’ll see.” 

He eyes you for a moment, but gives you his arm.

You push up his yukata sleeve to expose the tender underbelly of his wrist. You start to write, laboring over each stroke of the marker, keeping it as neat as you can. The silver ink covers the rivers of his blue-green veins as it sinks into his skin, a childish tattoo. 

“There,” you say, finishing with a somewhat-shaky flourish. “Now you have a mark.”

Gojo stares at you, his cerulean gaze lit from within, the sea beneath the sun. He covers the katakana of your name with his free hand, careful not to smudge the still-drying characters. Under the shadow, they fade to gray, but they still glint and glimmer the same way real soulmarks do. 

You hum, pleased with yourself, cap the marker, and toss it to the side so you can start training. 

You don’t know it yet, but it’s your last session with him. He disappears into the dawn like a fading star, spirited off to Tokyo to continue his training. You’ve only spent six months with him. Still, it aches, a pressed bruise, but you’ve always known he would outgrow you; his power is a black hole, always devouring. 

Life, ever unmoved, continues on. 

The boy you knew fades from your memories, though you never forget him. It’s impossible, with the stories that come out of Tokyo, how he completes missions that no one his age should be able to handle. 

Still, you forget things. The tilt of his mouth; the cadence of his voice. He becomes a shadow of himself, a shade with burning blue eyes. 

You forget that you once wrote your name on the delicate inside of his wrist. 

Gojo, though—

Gojo never does.

[fauxmantiis]

The New Year’s Starlight Ball ✨

[yumeboshi]

Happy 100!! I’d love to see the nostalgic starfruit sundae :0

❝ THANK YOU FOR YOUR ORDER、 @cakeboxie .ᐟ ⟡ HERE IS YOUR RECEIPT FROM CAFÉ YUME ⟡．．

𐙚NOSTALGIC STARFRUIT SUNDAE：almost makes you feel younger。

𐙚 dish desc。．when you two were younger, he crushed on you even back then。

．。𝜗𝜚 labels。pure starry sweet fluff finally, a little non canon in aven, teen setting/late teens in aven’s, bittersweet

．。𝜗𝜚 ingredients。sunday and aven

#SྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིUNDAY

。before becoming what he is right now, he was a sweet and probably shy boy who, during your first meeting, could not utter a single word and unintentionally let Robin do all the talk 。he will feel so foreign, poor him; he has never felt such an influx of emotions. he’d stammer over his words, forgetting everything about what his family taught him about ‘etiquette’ and will always end up looking stupid because he really can’t do anything around you. 。“sunday, are you listening?” “….ah, yes. sorry, I was distracted. um, please continue.” 。i definitely see him stalking you, just like in a cute way. when you’re out doing your own business or hanging out in golden hour, he’d just stare at you from afar- probably from his estate’s window like some deprived owl, completely entranced by you- the way you smile, the way you laugh at someone’s jokes- the way your hair ripples with the wind like soothing waves— was he daydreaming again? 。it gets so bad. he’s obsessed, daydreaming, even robin knows her brother’s head is in the clouds. the dreammaster hereby then prohibited him from seeing you, because you were getting in his plans to educate him since all he’d ever talk about was you. you were his new priority- he doesn’t even care about the order anymore; making the dreammaster grumble about when he’d raised such a lovesick boy. 。but gopher wood did not foresee that the young boy would do anything daring at all, like rebuking his orders.

STARLIGHT is near and you’re already hiding under the Oak Family’s residential area where you’re probably not supposed to be inside one of the back garden’s bushes, patiently waiting for your romeo to come.

How could you refuse? He was the loveliest, the sweetest and the most handsome boy you ever met, albeit not meeting a lot of kids your age. His wings too, were so fluffy and so cozy to lean into. Your little heart could comprehend these foreign feelings as a crush.

And there he was- your young prince, quickly stepping out of the window that’s barely open, tipping to the floor like a dove that’s free from its cage. Every step he takes is already elegant and authoritative, it reminds you that you are not his class, and you should not be here.

When your face peeks out of the bushes, his expression immediately lights up as if someone had brought all the stars from the sky to his face, he immediately runs to you and laughs breathlessly. “You’re here.”

”Shhh!” You frown and put your small hand to his mouth. He looks around at that- his wings tickling your nose, and he shrugs- “—I don’t see anyone nearby.”

“But the scary old man might be—“ you break off, and your heart skips a beat when you hear footsteps. Without thinking, you quickly hug sunday and pull him into the bush out of terror.

A second has passed. Two; or three, maybe. You lose track of time because of his loud heartbeat thudding against your own. You were not sure if it was out of fright or out of this complex feeling neither one of you were knowledged in.

You snap out of it quickly, because it made your head spin as if a swarm of butterflies were invading it. The dreammaster was gone, but neither one of you were moving an inch.

It feels time has stopped. Maybe you are wishing it did, because you know all too well that this would become a fleeting memory.

#AྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིVENTURINE

。one day, after facing a similar massacre in your own planet, you are thrown into captive under a shady man. 。you are not alone, but you are more annoyed by the fact that your cellmate is an avgin. you are pretty sure your parents had told you countless stories about their wicked ways. 。kakavasha, on the other hand, is enamored by you. the way you snap back at your captor, the way you are defiant- even in such stakes. it enchanted him. it even inspired him. 。when he’s still a little kid, he’d follow you around like a little puppy despite your annoyance. 。but when you grow a little older- maybe around your teens, he hits his growth spurt, and he grows almost unrecognizable- yes, those tantalizingly beautiful eyes of his stay the same; but he just becomes so.. manly. masculine, almost mature- it’s hard to believe the quiet and puppy-like boy grew up to be such a fair.. man. 。but one thing that did not change a bit with him was the way his usually bored and dead stare would light up when he sees you. he teases you a lot, he likes to practice his tricks on you, simply because it’s endearing how you snarl in frustration at his antics. 。you are his personal pair of sky blue shades. you changed the way he saw the world forever- looking at you, he could think that the world might not be that cruel, if it doesn’t take you away.

ALTHOUGH his long awaited freedom has arrived- to the hands of an unknown woman who calls herself jade, he felt as if his world was crumbling again, all too familiar to what he felt when he was younger.

What about you? You have no clue about his release. He’d sworn to you he’d stay with you forever whether you liked it or not- he still remembers how you snorted and dismissed it with a light blush across your cheeks, scoffing that all the avgins were liars anyway- he’d laughed and told you he wouldn’t ever lie to you, ever, which earned him a glare and an embarrassed slap.

He tried to deny it. He wanted to say no. He couldn’t leave you here, no. you were his wild card, the one chip he would never, ever gamble on; because he cherished you over himself. you are the one thing he’d never risk— his only love, you have his whole world, you’re like a diamond key to his closed and broken heart.

But life was truly cruel, because he knew right now that it was his last chance to break free from the burdens of his past. His heartache will perhaps be soothed a little, after leaving those memories behind. But it means he will have to leave you behind as well.

Although his heart screamed no, that he was your one and only and he had to stay with you, his rationality whispered a different tale- echoing the woman’s promises of freedom.

And here he was, selfishly walking to the cell that held all of himself. You were there, barely awake, looking up at the sky that is too beautiful for the words he is about to say to you.

He takes in your ethereal figure underneath the twilight, your eyes are the cosmos itself, reflecting the moon inside them. He always took pride in his eyes, but nothing could be more beautiful than yours. he’d fallen in love with them the first time you two met. they are almost deceptively exquisite enough to make someone like him lose his rationale.

He is about to say something but your finger presses against his lips- you don’t turn to look at him; your eyes are fixed somewhere afar. “I know,” you say quietly.

So you knew? He hid his surprise. He had thought he did a good job acting it up. He shakes his head with a laugh- of course. This was you. You knew his every expression, the faintest of creases on his face, you could see right through him.

“Then I suppose I don’t have to entertain you with any cheesy goodbyes. Do you wish to say any more words?” He asks with his playful smile, albeit he knows you know he’s trying his best not to break down.

You hesitate, and then hold his hand gently. “Take care, kakavasha.”

At that, he could not take it anymore. He leans forward to kiss you, for the last time, and he tastes like memories. He tastes like your annoyance, your laughs, your cries, you feel like you are experiencing your childhood all over again like a broken record. Something bitter graces your mouth and you realize it is his tears.

“Always trying to act tough, just don’t do that in the outside world.” You laugh into the kiss, and you feel him smile against your lips. He tilts his head away, glancing somewhere else to mask how vulnerable he is- but you stop him, you look into his eyes that are far too distinct- they are seas of magenta, wavering each time he blinks to conceal any tears.

As his lips part from yours, he feels himself slowly dissipate. Kakavasha was no more.

[lichdolly]

In the Starlight - Heart Apron with Heart Pockets (2003)

[lizzyiii]

His Lady Love (5)

pairing | aemond targaryen x vampire!mikaelson!reader

taglist | to be added to the taglist just add your username to this DOC

word count | 6k words

summary | aemond goes to reader for comfort after murdering luke. aegon throws a feast and reader and aemond sneak out.

tags | mentions of death, angst/comfort, vampire powers, tensionnnnn, mentions of incest, SMUTTTTT (MDI), oral (f), unprotected sex, vaginal sex, p in v

note | born to give aemond heirs, forced to write fanfics about him. also I loved writing aemond's pov, though it is way more difficult than reader's. also I might be projecting with that finn incident.

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated✨

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

In the dimly lit chambers of the Red Keep, the oppressive weight of the night enveloped you. The velvet drapes fluttered slightly with the soft summer breeze that whispered through the open window, a rare moment of tranquility. However, your slumber was a mere illusion, your mind cloaked in the abyss of darkness, devoid of dreams and visions that now troubled your sleep.

But your heightened senses—bathed in the echoes of vampiric instinct—felt the air shift, heard the soft footfalls quicken in the shadows. The atmosphere crackled with apprehension, jolting you into awareness. You turned, just as the chamber door burst open to reveal a figure cloaked in night and anxiety.

“Aemond,” you breathed, relief washing over you as you recognized him despite the disarray surrounding his presence. Yet, the relief was short-lived, for the anguish etched on his face struck you like a dagger of ice.

Without a second thought, you flung the silken covers aside, the fabric whispering against your skin as you stood, a vision of natural beauty in your nightgown. It was a modest garment yet beguilingly elegant, the way it clung to your form had no intent to seduce, but it still felt unseemly for him to be here.

“Aemond,” you intoned once more, your voice laced with concern that echoed in the silence of your chamber, frantic to breach the bubbling tension, “What troubles you?”

He remained mute, his expression haunting—a specter in the moonlight. Each heartbeat that passed deepened your worry, and so you closed the space between you, tenderness guiding your hands to cradle his sharp, angular cheeks, your thumbs brushing against his skin with a gentle intimacy. You sought to anchor him within your presence, as if your connection could dispel the shadows that clung to him.

“Please, Aemond,” you urged, your voice softening with each plea, like a lullaby meant to calm a frightened child, “Speak to me.”

At your touch, something flickered in the depths of his violet eye, swirling with shock and unutterable things. “I… I did not mean to,” he stammered, his breath coming out in ragged bursts, as though each word was a struggle against a tide of despair.

“Mean to what?” Your heart raced as you searched his gaze, desperate to uncover the truth beneath the turmoil. “Aemond, tell me what you have done that weighs so heavily upon you.”

He leaned into your touch, surrendering momentarily to the comfort you offered. “I have damned myself,” he breathed, a confession laced with the weight of the world upon his shoulders.

“Please, Aemond, tell me,” you implored, your heart thundering in your chest.

Aemond shook his head violently, his silver hair cascading like a waterfall of starlight, wild and untamed. “I cannot! You will condemn me.”

You withdrew your hands from his face, your fingers intertwining with his as you drew them toward your heart, your palms cooling against his warm skin. “I could never. Please, reveal it to me, Aemond,” you whispered, your voice insistent yet tender.

His breath hitched in his throat, a harsh swallow betraying the turmoil within him. As tears glistened in his violet eye—he turned away, shame etching deep lines into his brow. “I did not mean to. I did not mean to take the boy’s life, you must believe me.”

The air froze around you, a chill creeping in as your breath caught in your throat. You slowly led him toward the intricacies of your bed, pulling him with you into the sanctuary of silks and shadows. “What boy, Aemond?” you pressed urgently, your heart aching for the truth, a desperate need to understand the depths of his torment.

His voice broke, drowning in hysteria, a stark reminder of his usual composed personality made from steel, “I didn’t mean to— I swear, I didn’t mean—” he stuttered, desperation pouring from him like the dark tides of the sea.

Frustration welled within you, sharp and biting as the chill of autumn winds crept into the chamber. You pulled him down beside you, urgency fuelling your movements as you grasped his face, forcing his haunted eye to meet yours. “Aemond,” you said firmly, your tone dripping with the magic that came naturally to one of your kind. The allure of your compulsion wrapped around him like a silken trap, gently commanding his frayed emotions to still. “Calm yourself and tell me.”

Gradually, his breathing steadied, though the tremors of his fear still lingered. You held his gaze, and through the dark storm of pain reflected in his eye, he managed to choke out the words. “Lucerys. He was at Storm’s End. When I laid eyes on him, all I felt was fury—so I chased him through the skies, on Vhagar’s back…” His voice cracked like the thunder that often heralded the tempestuous nights, and he swallowed hard, “And then… I did not know Vhagar would react so violently.”

Your heart plummeted at the mention of Lucerys—Rhaenyra's beloved son. The weight of his loss hung heavily in the air, and the grim reality sank in; Aemond had killed him. The Blacks would demand retribution, blood for blood. "Tell me you lie, Aemond," you pleaded, your voice barely above a whisper, desperation seeping into every syllable.

He turned his gaze from you, shame encasing him like a shroud. There was a slow shake of his head, and it felt as though the world around you had muted, the chaos outside overshadowed by his revelation. "I cannot bring myself to lie to you. There is no penance that could ever atone for what I have wrought."

The sadness in your heart twisted anew as you murmured his name, "Aemond," the pain manifesting in your voice like a lamentation for the boy lost beneath the weight of his rage.

In the stillness that lingered between you, it seemed he had finally drawn a breath of composure, yet he refused to meet your eyes, speaking softly as if confiding a terrible secret. "I went to Aegon first, and he laughed... whilst Mother..." He faltered, the memory flickering like a dying candle. "She looked upon me as if I were a stranger, as if I were no longer her son."

Your heart ached for him, your hands clasped in his, both a comfort and a tether to the boy he had once been. Finally, he looked up, his eye reflecting a glimmer of vulnerability. "May I stay here with you?" he asked, almost timidly, as if fearing your rejection.

In that moment, you were transported back to another time, a fleeting memory of innocence—of the boy who had fled from the ignoble raucousness of a brothel, a shadow of the boy who once sought solace in your presence. You nodded, and the words flowed freely, tenderly, "Of course."

Yet, unease lingered in the air, evident in the way he fidgeted, lost amidst his thoughts. So slowly, you knelt before him, taking his leather boots in your hands, gently easing them from his feet. He remained poised on the edge of the bed, lost in his struggles. Next, you reached for his finely crafted doublet, peeling away the layers that held the weight of his distress. He remained clad only in his trousers and a simple cotton shirt, the stark contrast highlighting the tension etched into his features.

Your fingers found their way to his tousled hair, and with a tender caress, you could sense him leaning into your touch, a semblance of solace in the storm raging within him. But when your hand drifted towards the eyepatch concealing his scar, he recoiled instinctively, shaking his head as if to banish the very thought.

“Please, Aemond,” you urged softly, noting the flicker of resistance in his eye. “Remove it; it cannot be comfortable.”

His response was a stubborn shake of his head, reminiscent of a petulant child, “No, it is… hideous. You will turn away from me, repulsed.”

A sorrowful smile etched across your face as you cupped his cheek. Your thumb traced the remnants of his scar. “I have seen your truth before, Aemond,” you promised, sincerity tethering your words. “I swear on my mother's grave, it will not scare me.”

There was a moment of taut apprehension, then, led by both fear and a flicker of hope, he slowly lifted the eyepatch. You fought against the shock that threatened to break through your calm facade, for nestled where an eye once was, a sapphire gleamed—brighter than the sky itself. It was an iridescent gem, the very one you had gifted him just before you had left.

Slowly, you led him with great care to lie beneath the sanctuary of your blankets, cocooned in the warmth of your bed. After a moment's pause, you nestled beside him, drawing him close to your chest, his face instinctively burying itself in the curve of your neck, your arms enveloping him in a protective embrace.

After a time, Aemond's voice broke the silence, a mere whisper against your collarbone. "Do you hate me?"

A heavy sigh escaped your lips, your grip tightening around him. “I could never hate you, Aemond.”

He offered no reply, but the silence spoke volumes as you held him resolutely, the weight of his unspoken thoughts pressing down upon both of you. In that moment, it felt almost surreal, how intimately connected you were to his emotions.

Gently, you began to hum, your voice weaving through the stillness like a soft breeze. The lullaby your mother once sang to you, a sweet melody birthed in the warmth of her embrace, flowed from your lips as if casting a spell of solace.

You wished, with every fiber of your being, to take all his sorrows and put it upon yourself, so he might find peace at last. You longed to envelop him fully, to draw him into the depths of your heart, to safeguard him from the malevolence and peril that lingered just beyond your chambers.

Aemond Targaryen loathed this wretched place, the shadowed halls of King's Landing, where the very stones seemed steeped in whispered betrayals and the lingering scent of ash. The oppressive weight of recent events pressed upon him like a heavy cloak; the death of Lucerys Velaryon hung in the air, suffocating him with its bitter aftermath. His beloved mother, Queen Alicent, having made her choice, had cast him aside, suspending him from his seat on the small council as if he were some wayward pup rather than the proud dragon prince he was.

Now, as the flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows upon the walls, Aemond found himself trapped within a feast thrown by Aegon — a disgraceful celebration in honor of Aemond’s brutal deed. The hall was alive with the raucous laughter of lords and ladies feigning joy, their revelry a cruel mockery of the bloodshed that had transpired. How could they toast to this, when the realm itself was a tapestry of grief and strife?

Aegon, reeking of wine and folly, reclined upon his gilded seat, a silver goblet clutched in his hand as he guffawed with a drunken abandon that made Aemond’s skin crawl. With each passing moment, the king grew more intoxicated, rejoicing in his own foolishness while the kingdom itself threatened to unravel under the weight of his incompetence. Aemond could hardly bear to watch. How could they hope to usurp Rhaenyra and her support when Aegon was unfit to rule, lost in a haze of mead and merriment whilst the fires of war devoured their domain?

As the raucous clamor swirled around him, Aemond's thoughts turned treasonous. He was the prince with blood of the dragon coursing through his veins, rider of Vhagar, the mightiest dragon in the skies; he had wrested mastery over sword and word alike. His studies had taken him deep into the philosophies of Targaryen history, strategy, and the art of war — all knowledge he wielded like the sword strapped to his side. Why must he remain the second son, languishing in the shadow of a brother who was more a child than a king?

The Grand Hall was stifling, heavy with the clamor of lords and ladies engaged in mindless revelry, their laughter slicing through the air like blades of Valyrian steel. The goblet of deep red Dornish wine— he had forced down his throat—now boiled in his stomach. He stood abruptly, ignoring the wary glances of curious courtiers, and stormed toward the moonlit balcony, pursued by a dread that felt all-consuming.

Upon stepping into the cool night air his breath hitched in his throat as his gaze fell upon you. There you stood, framed by moonlight, leaning against the aged stone balustrade of the balcony as you gazed at the stars above. In that moment, the world around him faded, the cacophony of the court silenced, as if the realm had been reduced to just the two of you—two souls adrift in the sea of night.

The moon cast a silver halo around you, illuminating your features as though the Seven themselves had blessed you. You appeared ethereal, a vision of solace amidst the tempest of his thoughts. You were an otherworldly being, a divine presence—you reminded Aemond of an angel gazing longingly at her heavenly home.

You wore a divine gown of crimson, its fabric clinging to your curves and accentuating your remarkable beauty, stirring memories of the first time he had beheld you in childhood innocence. Your hair was artfully braided, interwoven among the strands were glimmering rubies, and nestled between your breasts hung a necklace bearing your family’s sigil, a house still entirely foreign to him.

The last time his path had crossed yours was after the wretched deed had been done—when he had barged into your chambers, a storm of pain and regret in his heart after slaying Lucerys Velaryon. You had held him tight, drawing him into the warmth of your embrace, while your gentle whispers—sweet reassurances—had washed over him, as soothing as a dragon’s breath on a winter’s night. He recalled the way you had traced fingers through his hair, the delicate caress of your breath against his skin, and how he had surrendered to your comfort.

When dawn had broken and shadows had retreated, he woke before you, overwhelmed by that precious moment, and with the lingering scent of lavender and warmth still clinging to him. He had kissed your forehead tenderly and slipped away, haunted by what he had done and striving to shield you from the darkness that threatened to engulf you both.

"Are you not enjoying the feast?" Aemond murmured, his voice a soft cadence as he moved closer to you.

You turned, meeting his gaze with a fierce intensity. "Am I meant to revel in a celebration held in honor of someone's death?" With a sharp breath, you averted your gaze, a flicker of regret crossing your features. "Forgive me."

Aemond’s eyes remained locked on you, the truth like a weight upon his heart—he had taken Lucerys' life, a shadow he must now bear. “You speak only the truth,” he admitted, the gravity of his words mingling with the cool night air.

You shook your head slowly, those captivating eyes piercing through the veil of his turmoil. “It is Aegon’s folly to throw such a feast given the circumstances,” you replied, your tone laced with a mix of frustration and sorrow.

Aemond couldn't suppress the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth at your disdain for his brother's decision. "You tread upon treasonous ground," he teased, though there was an undercurrent of approval in his tone

With a resolute lift of your chin, an unbidden smile danced upon your lips, illuminating your beauty, "Do you intend to tell?"

In that charged moment, Aemond closed the distance between you, the space that once separated you now laden with tension. He leaned closer, whispering with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine, "You know I shall never."

With a soft sigh, you began to turn away, “I think I shall retire to my chambers now.” Aemond feigned indifference, though he struggled against the urge to let out an exasperated breath at your obvious attempt to distance yourself from him.

“Then I shall escort you,” he declared, a hint of determination flaring in his violet gaze. He noticed the way annoyance shadowed your features but sensed no protest forthcoming.

The two of you slipped away from the feast, indifferent to the lingering glances that followed your hasty exit. Festive laughter faded into the background as you walked side by side through the dimly lit halls of the Red Keep,

As you walked side by side, silence hung heavily between you, punctuated only by the soft rustle of your dress against the stone floor. Aemond cast furtive glances in your direction, grappling with the right words to breach the gap between you. The tension was palpable, and eventually, he settled on candor. “I wish to know more about you."

“Aemond,” you replied, and he could detect the undercurrent of hesitation in your tone as you reached your room.

With a sudden, almost frantic motion, Aemond pivoted to face you, his fingers brushing against your forearm, a firm yet gentle grip that sent a shiver down your spine. “Why do you persist in keeping yourself at a distance from me? You are like an angel I am forever barred from touching,” he implored, desperation edging his voice.

You yanked your arm away from him, your gaze fierce, betraying no hint of the storm brewing inside. “You must not perceive me in such a way! I am not the paragon of virtue you think I am.”

“Then share something,” Aemond pressed, his violet eye locking onto yours with an intensity that threatened to unravel your resolve. “Something dark, something impure.”

You scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “Is that what you seek? So you can soothe your own conscience?”

“Perhaps,” Aemond admitted with unvarnished honesty. He was, after all, a man well aware of his own self-serving tendencies, and he would not shy away from using emotional manipulation to achieve his desires. “But if you hold any affection for me, you will grant me this.”

Your eyes blazed with righteous indignation, and for a fleeting moment, he questioned if he had ventured too far. Yet, as the heat in your gaze began to dim, he felt an uneasy tension settle in the silence.

You drew your arms around yourself, a familiar gesture that he now observed closely. Your gaze fell away as you began to speak, “The Targaryens... Your customs are indeed strange. Some might even call them sinful or abominable. Yet there exists a rationale behind them, no matter how obscure.”

“There can be no justifiable reason for my desires,” you whispered, Aemond's brow furrowed in confusion as he sensed the shift in your tone. But when the next revelation slipped from your lips, it left him reeling with disbelief. “I once harbored unnatural feelings for my eldest brother.”

A surge of jealousy twisted in Aemond's chest at the mere thought of you harboring feelings for another. He cleared his throat, the taste of bile rising, and asked, "Did anything come of it?"

"A fleeting kiss—one I initiated. He loathed me for it thereafter," you murmured, your gaze falling to the ground in shame.

A grimace contorted Aemond’s features. "Loathed you?"

"He could scarcely bear to look upon me after that moment," you replied, your voice heavy with sorrow. Aemond felt a visceral urge to take vengeance upon your brother, to avenge the hurt he had caused you. "That was the moment I realized I had lost the only one who truly loved me."

"I recall you speaking of your mother’s grave," Aemond said softly.

You nodded, a glimmer of sorrow passing over your face. "She is gone," you said, and a bittersweet smile flickered briefly. "And I dare say, my family may be worse than yours."

Aemond shook his head with an amused glint dancing in his violet eye. “Impossible,” he replied, the word rolling off his tongue like the soft murmur of waves against the rocky shore. Then, in softer tones, he pressed, “Do you still harbor affections for your brother?”

“No,” you murmured, the admission barely escaping your lips, “Not anymore. Not for ages.”

Aemond studied your features, the interplay of moonlight illuminating the subtle lines of your face. A low chuckle escaped him, like the rustle of leaves in a breeze. Your brow furrowed, an indignant spark igniting within you. “What?"

“A mere infatuation does not alter the truth of my feelings, nor my perception of you,” he said with an air of certainty, the tension between you thickening as he took a step closer, almost as if the distance between your hearts diminished with every passing heartbeat.

“Then you must be a fool,” you whispered, breathless and yet emboldened, as his presence encroached upon you like the tide reclaiming the shore.

“A lovesick fool, indeed,” he replied, his lips tantalizingly close to yours, a mere heartbeat away. The memory of your last kiss flared in your mind— so in that fleeting silence, Aemond’s voice lowered, almost reverent. “May I kiss you?”

He could see the tempest of emotions raging within you, wrestling against reason and desire, your heart at war with itself. Aemond, sensing your internal struggle, began to withdraw, the flicker of disappointment clouding his striking features, but in a sudden rush of bold resolve, you seized the collar of his embroidered doublet, drawing him close, your lips colliding in a swift, fervent embrace.

His breath hitched at the warmth of your touch, and he instinctively cupped your face, anchoring you both in this stolen moment as if the world around you had ceased to exist. Tentatively, his tongue brushed against your lips, seeking entry, a question hanging palpably in the air—one you answered with the soft, desperate parting of your mouth.

Aemond’s heart raced, a primal longing igniting within him as he explored the depths of your mouth, each caress of his tongue inviting a sweet sound of pleasure to escape from you—a sound that intoxicated him, filling the air with a heady blend of passion and unanswered yearnings.

In that dimly lit hallway of the Red Keep, time lost its meaning, turning to mere whispers around you. The world outside faded, and all that remained was the intoxicating exchange of breath and soul, each sweet caress a vow sealed in secrecy and yearning. But the moment was fleeting; the distant sound of approaching footsteps pulled you both back to reality.

Without hesitation, Aemond seized your hand, urgency painting his every movement as he pulled you into the sanctuary of your chambers. You could not stifle the startled gasp that escaped your lips at his haste. Before you could utter a word, his mouth found yours again, this time with a fervor that struck like wildfire. It was wild and fervent, a collision of passion tinged with desperation.

He broke the kiss, his breath mingling with yours, heavy and frantic. "I need you," he murmured, his gaze dark and intense, searching your face for any trace of doubt.

But all resolve melted away in the warmth of his presence, and you nodded quickly, breathless and eager. "Take me, Aemond."

Though reason whispered for him to temper his passion, to shield you from the storm he bore and not taint your innocence, the dragon's need screamed louder still. His lips found yours once more, his hands exploring the fabric of your gown, tracing the soft curves beneath the layers of silk and lace.

A soft whimper escaped your throat, the sound intoxicating him as it echoed in the chamber. You tugged at his doublet, your voice a barely contained plea, “Get this dress off me, Aemond.”

A wild grin spread across his features, the kind that promised mischief and fervor. “With pleasure,” he declared, the words a fervent vow rather than mere amusement. In a swift motion, he spun you around, deftly severing the laces that bound your dress. You gasped as the fine fabric slid away, pooling at your feet, leaving you clad only in a tantalizing shift that clung to your form like mist in the moonlight.

Without hesitation, Aemond gathered you into his arms, your surprised laughter ringing like bells in his ears as your legs instinctively locked around his waist. He carried you with ease, the weight of expectations and honor forgotten in that moment as he made his way to your bed.

He laid you down gently, his gaze a blend of fierce devotion and raw desire, like a dragon surveying its treasured hoard, and he leaned closer, whispering a question that weighed heavily on his mind. “Tell me, sweetling,” he began, his voice a low rasp, “are you still a maiden?”

You nodded, your wide eyes sparkling with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. The confirmation sent a bolt of need through him, further arousing him as he hastily shed his own garments, baring himself to you. He crawled over you, a predatory grace to his movements, and as you reached out to caress his face, he halted, your touch grounding him.

"I wish to see all of you, Aemond," you whispered.

His lips twitched with a mixture of hesitation and determination. With a deft movement, he removed his eye patch, exposing his scar and sapphire. In response to his bravery, you leaned forward, claiming his mouth once more, the warmth of your kiss wrapping around him like wildfire.

As his lips trailed away from yours, they descended to your neck—his warm breath sending shivers cascading down your spine. His hands roamed freely over your body, caressing and squeezing as if memorizing every curve. His fingers brushed against the hem of your shift, lifting the fabric with deliberate slowness, savoring the moment.

As his hand ventured beneath the fabric, his fingers brushed against the delicate curls of your mound, a low moan escaping your lips, raw and unbidden. "What treasure lies hidden here? Hmm?" he murmured against your skin, his voice low and intoxicating.

His smirk deepened as your hips instinctively lifted, surrendering to the ghostly touch of his fingertips gliding over your wet slit. In a moment of tantalizing tension, he withdrew slightly, seated back as he used two fingers to part your folds, exposing your glistening cunt to his keen gaze.

He was captivated by the sight—your essence glistening, beckoning him forth like a siren’s call across the sea. His breath hitched as he lowered himself, savoring the intoxicating scent that wafted from your cunt; it was a heady blend of desire and vulnerability. With a swift flick of his tongue, he brushed over the tender bud of pleasure, eliciting a startled gasp from your lips as your hips jerked in delightful shock.

Aemond’s dark laughter rumbled softly in his chest, a sound that resonated with satisfaction at your response. He ventured further, dipping into the folds of your drenched warmth, his tongue dancing along your slit as if tasting the sweetest of wines. Each movement of his mouth sent shockwaves of ecstasy through you, prompting your fingers to clutch at the silk sheets in desperate need of tethering.

You were ambrosia made flesh, a divine fruit of the gods that rendered him intoxicated with longing. He lost himself in the act, the rhythm of his tongue reflecting the primal hunger within him, driving him to worship at your altar without restraint or decorum. There was no pattern in his movements, merely the frantic need of a man raised in the crucible of ambition, now reduced to a ravenous beast by your taste.

His low moans vibrated against your skin as your fingers tangled in his silken hair, urging him closer, deeper. Each sound that escaped your lips heightened his fervor, sending him spiraling further into a haze of lust, where only the two of you existed.

He thrust his tongue deeper, igniting fires within you that threatened to consume all sense. A tremor raced through your body, a shuddering gasp escaping as his tongue flicked over your most sensitive peak. The intensity of the moment left him breathless with longing as he stole glances at your rapturous face, seeking the delight in your face as he skillfully coaxed you towards the precipice of ecstasy.

In one final surge of fervor, he took your pearl between his lips, sucking with fervent need. Your voice rang through the air, calling his name like a battle cry as your release washed over you, your body clenching and shuddering beneath his eager mouth, leaving him lost in the euphoria of your pleasure.

Spent and quaking, you fell back onto the sheets, your chest heaving, eyes fluttering shut as the final ripples of ecstasy coursed through you. Aemond watched you with an entranced intensity, his lustful gaze drinking in the sight of your debauchery, before he positioned himself between your thighs, claiming his rightful place.

With a swift, possessive motion, he grasped the neckline of your shift, ripping the fabric asunder with a growl that echoed his primal desire. The cool air met your flushed skin, and a fresh wave of longing washed over you, eliciting a soft moan as your hardened nipples strained against the chill. Aemond, unable to resist, descended upon you, drawing one of your peaks into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue, relishing the way your whimpers filled the air. He felt your fingers weave into his silken hair, tugging him closer, urging him on with your breathless pleas.

He reveled in the contrast of your previously cool skin, now warming deliciously beneath him, the heat of your body igniting a primal fire within him. He pressed his hardness against your lower belly, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through both. “I could be so good to you,” he murmured, his voice low and sultry as he nipped at your shoulder, “So fucking good. So why do you deny the need that lies between us?"

Your breath hitched, interrupted by a soft moan as he pressed against you with deliberate intent. “I do,” you gasped, desire flaring within you as his cock pressed against your pearl. “I do need you.”

“As I need you, sweet girl,” Aemond murmured, a predatory glint in his eye as he continued to grind against you. Though he was no man of debauchery, the fiery knowledge instilled by whispered secrets and that one fleeting encounter coursed through him.

You responded to his movements with an intoxicating sigh, rocking your hips to match his rhythm, a melody of desire unfolding between them. Aemond’s breath caught as he pressed the tip of his cock against your entrance, and with a slow, deliberate thrust, he breached the sacred barrier that had kept the two of you at bay. A yelp escaped you, sharp and sweet, and he immediately softened, pressing featherlight kisses across your face, murmuring apologies as he reveled in your warmth.

Gripping your hip with a fierce intensity, he drew a sharp breath through his teeth as he buried himself deeper, engulfed in the sensations of your tight, welcoming embrace. You were exquisite—so wet, so warm, so perfectly crafted for him. Aemond began at a measured pace, savoring the glide of his cock within you, the exquisite stretch as you enveloped him, but the fire within quickly ignited into an unquenchable blaze.

Once he'd found a rhythm, he succumbed to the recklessness of desire, thrusting with urgency, the sound of your bodies colliding echoing in the chamber, a rhythmic drumbeat of passion. His hips snapped against yours with fervor, each thrust sending ripples of pleasure cascading through both of you, an unravelling of control as he sought to claim you in the way that dragons claim their territory.

Your moans echoed within the room, each sound a sweet melody, a heady mixture of fervor and abandon that filled the space with a primal energy. You had long since discarded any pretense of modesty, your voice rising like a songbird caught in a storm. His name spilled from your lips, fervent and loaded with longing.

With an urgency born from need, you surrendered yourself to him, your touch igniting a fire along his torso as your hands freely roamed, fingers tracing the hard lines of his muscles. You clung to him, wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing your body against his with reckless abandon. Your lips found the curve of his neck, the warmth of your breath a tempting promise. There was a strange thrill to your bite, and Aemond swore your teeth felt unusually sharp, as you nibbled delicately at his skin.

Yet even in the throes of ecstasy, an insatiable hunger gnawed at him, a need for greater possession. He withdrew slightly, capturing your gaze with his own smoldering gaze. His hand gripped the delicate expanse of your throat, sturdy yet tender, while his other found purchase on your stomach, fingers pressing into your soft skin. “You are mine,” he growled, the primal command taking on a life of its own as he increased the fervor of his thrusts. “Say it.”

The intensity of his possession ignited a fire within you; you instinctively pressed against his hand, urging him to hold you more tightly, to claim you wholly. “Yours,” you breathed, “all yours.”

“Good girl,” he groaned, the phrase rolling off his tongue like a hot brand onto your skin. Your body responded eagerly to his words, an electric shiver rippling through you as you arched your back, another desperate whimper escaping your lips.

It was not long before the dam broke, your body convulsing around him, the tension unfurling like the petals of a flower awakened by the sun. Your breath hitched in a final, breathless moan, and in that moment of exquisite surrender, you tightened your grip around him, pulling him deeper into the abyss of pleasure. And with a primal roar of ecstasy, he followed you into that dark, consuming void, painting your insides with his seed.

@barnes70stark @izabell26 @urdeftonesgrrrl @helo1281917 @strangefunthornqueen @hueanhdang @elenapri0502 @goest-and-fuckest-thyself-blog @caged-birdies-blog @lenavonswartzschild @writtenbyhollywood @gl4ssw1ngp1xy @goddesslilithmoriarty @filmflux @esposadomd @littybeech @gyneve @https-kokomi @void21 @baby-w3-ar3-infinite @baby-i-can-see-your-reylo

As the last waves of pleasure subsided, your smile glimmered like the stars beyond the castle walls. Reaching out, you traced your fingers along his jaw, drawing him back into a kiss that spoke of unbridled passion and afterglow—a sigh of contentment escaping your lips as you two joined once more.

[tulliok]

Found this gorgeous 30s dress and I had to draw Starlight in it.

The color, silhouette, and the elegance... so perfect for her.

[novaursa]

The Last Dance

- Summary: The Dance of the Dragons is over. You and Aegon finally find peace.

- Paring: twin!sister reader/Aegon II Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is twin sister and wife to Aegon II, and is bonded with dragon called Starfyre. These events happen right after The Searing Flame. To read all of the chapters in chronological order, or more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 5 119

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: This is the chapter that finalizes this series. That being said, there will be more twin!reader/Aegon II stories to fill the gaps.

The air is filled with the scent of salt and smoke as you stand on the balcony of Dragonstone, the sea churning below in restless waves. The horizon is cast in hues of deep purple and amber as dusk sets in, but your attention is wholly on the sky, where two golden streaks dart through the twilight. You feel Aegon’s presence beside you, a warmth against the cool stone at your back. His scarred arm is under your hand, his skin rough and uneven beneath your touch, a harsh reminder of Rook’s Rest and the countless betrayals that led you here.

Yet there’s still strength in him, a burning defiance that never faded even after all the wounds. You rest your head on his shoulder, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way he seems to hold his breath as he watches Sunfyre and Starfyre circle above. It’s not just the raw power of your dragons that grips him—no, this is something more primal. It's the joy of seeing them together again, as they were always meant to be: siblings, mates, war-dragons forged in the heat of fire and vengeance.

“There,” Aegon murmurs, his voice low, strained. He points to a shadow in the clouds—Grey Ghost. The wild dragon had stayed hidden for so long, slipping through the cracks of Dragonstone’s defenses, but not tonight. Sunfyre and Starfyre had scented him out, and now there would be no escape.

You tighten your grip on Aegon’s arm, feeling the thrill of it, a dark satisfaction blooming in your chest. The shadow resolves into a shape—a dirty, scarred creature with wings tattered from battles long lost. Grey Ghost is no match for your dragons, but he’s quick, darting between clouds, trying to outmaneuver the gleaming pair that pursue him.

Starfyre leads the chase, her silvery form a flash of brilliance in the twilight, her scales glimmering like starlight against the darkening sky. The alabaster undershine of her wings catches the last of the sun’s rays as she twists and turns, a deadly dance that lures Grey Ghost into false confidence. Her movements are elegant, fluid—every beat of her wings purposeful, calculated. The Star Dame, as you’ve come to call her in the intimacy of your thoughts, is a creature born of night and light, her presence both ethereal and deadly.

Sunfyre is close behind her, a shimmering blaze of gold that seems almost unnatural in its brilliance. The awkward bend in his healed wing does nothing to diminish his ferocity—if anything, it makes him all the more terrifying, a creature that defies the laws of nature, a king among dragons that should have been crippled but refused to be. His roar echoes across the sky, a sound of pure fury that reverberates through your chest, making your heart race.

“They hunt as one,” you whisper, awe lacing your words. You lift your head from Aegon’s shoulder to look up at him, catching the gleam of pride in his eyes. “It’s beautiful.”

Aegon’s mouth curves into a small, crooked smile, a hint of the man he was before the war marred him. “Beautiful, yes. But more than that—vengeance.” He says the last word with a bitterness that lingers in the air. Sunfyre and Starfyre had been denied their chance to fight side by side for too long, much like the two of you. But now, the skies belong to them again, as they should.

You don’t respond, letting the sight before you speak for itself. Starfyre suddenly plummets, diving at a steep angle that seems reckless until Grey Ghost veers, startled by her speed. It’s then that Sunfyre strikes, a burst of flame searing the air as he barrels into Grey Ghost from above, jaws snapping at the smaller dragon’s neck. Grey Ghost shrieks, a sound full of desperation as he tries to shake free, but Sunfyre holds on, his talons digging deep into flesh.

Starfyre swoops in, her silvery wings flaring as she joins the fray, her jaws clamping down on one of Grey Ghost’s wings. You watch as she tears through it with merciless precision, ripping membrane and bone with a single twist of her head. Blood sprays across the sky, dark and ominous, and Grey Ghost’s struggles grow frantic, but they’re futile. Starfyre and Sunfyre tear into him together, a dance of coordinated destruction that speaks of deep, intrinsic connection.

“Together, they’re unstoppable,” you breathe, unable to tear your gaze away. You feel Aegon’s fingers intertwine with yours, his grip tight and possessive. He’s watching them too, but you know he’s seeing more than just dragons tearing apart a weaker foe—he’s seeing the future, the strength you still hold, the power you’ll wield together to take back what was stolen from you.

When Grey Ghost finally falls, his body torn and mangled, he drops like a stone into the sea below. You both watch in silence as the waves claim him, dragging him under until he’s nothing more than a memory.

Starfyre and Sunfyre wheel in the air, circling each other before flying back towards the keep. The bond between them is palpable, a mirror of your own with Aegon. Sunfyre’s awkward wingbeat matches Aegon’s own struggles, while Starfyre’s radiant strength reflects the resilience you’ve both clung to, even in the face of loss. The dragons’ victory is your victory, and as they draw closer, you feel a sense of unity, of destiny.

Aegon turns to you then, his scarred face shadowed but his eyes burning with resolve. “We will reclaim what is ours, Y/N,” he says, his voice a quiet promise. “With our dragons, with our strength—we will not be broken.”

You meet his gaze, and there’s a fierce pride in your chest as you nod. “We are not broken, Aegon,” you reply softly, but with steel in your tone. “We are fire and blood.”

As the night closes in, the sky dark and filled with stars, you stand together in silence, hand in hand. Sunfyre and Starfyre land on the courtyard below, their golden and silver scales gleaming even in the dim light. They are kings and queens among dragons, just as you and Aegon are meant to be.

And as long as they soar, so will you.

The dread in the throne room is thick enough to choke on as you stand beside Aegon, your hand resting lightly on Daena’s shoulder while Baelon clutches the edge of your gown. The echo of footsteps and clinking chains resound through the stone chamber as Alfred Broome and his men drag the remnants of Rhaenyra’s forces into the hall. They are bruised, bloodied, and defeated—a pale reflection of the power Rhaenyra once held. Among them, her young son Aegon clings to her, his eyes wide with fear as he takes in the fearsome sight of the dragons looming in the distance outside, their golden and silver forms visible through the open arches.

Sunfyre and Starfyre wait like harbingers of death, gleaming in the twilight.

You feel Aegon’s arm tense beside you, a flicker of pain passing through him from his old wounds. But there’s more than just physical pain here—there’s a deep, simmering rage that’s been brewing since the moment Blood and Cheese ripped your family apart. You and Aegon have been waiting for this moment, dreaming of it in your darkest hours. And now, it’s finally here.

Rhaenyra is forced to her knees before you, her once-proud visage a mask of defiance even in chains. She looks older than you remember, her face gaunt and hollow, but her eyes still blaze with the stubborn arrogance that led her here. Her remaining Queensguard lie dead, slain by your forces as they tried to resist one last time. There is no one left to protect her.

You meet her gaze with cold satisfaction, leaning forward slightly as you speak, your voice sharp as a blade. “We have long awaited this moment, Rhaenyra. Ever since you sent those assassins to kill our sons—two innocent boys, slaughtered because of your ambition.”

Rhaenyra’s lips tremble, but she doesn’t back down. “My sons died as well, Y/N,” she retorts, her voice shaking with fury. “Jace, Luke, Viserys… you cannot know that pain.”

“You dare to compare?” Aegon’s voice cuts through the air like the crack of a whip, silencing her. He steps forward, the limp from his injury barely noticeable as his anger gives him strength. “This war began because you could never let go of our father’s lies. He promised you the throne, and you clung to that entitlement like a drowning woman clutches driftwood.”

Rhaenyra opens her mouth to speak, but Aegon doesn’t let her. “You speak of your lost sons as if their deaths were a justification for your madness, but it was your own hubris that led them to the grave. If you had shown even a hint of reason, none of this would have happened. Y/N and I never wanted the crown. We only wanted to love each other and grow old with our children. But the crown was pushed onto us—pushed by your ambition and vanity.”

Your heart twists as you think of the peaceful life you and Aegon could have had, far from the bloodshed, if only Rhaenyra had accepted the reality of your father’s death that relinquished her claims. But that was never an option for her, was it? Pride, ambition, and greed had consumed her until there was nothing left but this hollow shell of a queen.

Rhaenyra’s defiance cracks then, her eyes filling with desperation. “Please, Aegon—Y/N—my son—”

But Aegon’s gaze hardens. “It’s too late for pleas, Rhaenyra. Your choices have brought us to this point, and now they will swallow us all. Even your precious children.”

You see the flicker of fear in her eyes, the realization that there will be no mercy here. This is no place for mercy. This is retribution.

With a nod from Aegon, the great doors are opened, and Sunfyre’s golden form stalks into the throne room, his scales gleaming like molten gold in the torchlight. His eyes are locked on Rhaenyra, filled with a burning hunger that reflects the rage in Aegon’s heart. Starfyre follows him, her silvery wings brushing the stone walls as she moves with lethal grace, her pale blue undershine glowing like moonlight on water.

Rhaenyra tries to scramble back, pulling her son behind her, but she is chained, her movements futile. “No… please… not like this…”

The lords and ladies captured alongside her begin to cry out in terror as they realize what’s about to happen, but their voices are drowned out by the low, rumbling growl from Sunfyre. Aegon takes a step forward, his voice cold and resolute as he gives the command that seals his half-sister’s fate. “Dracarys.”

Sunfyre’s roar is deafening as flames erupt from his maw, engulfing Rhaenyra in a searing blaze. Her screams are short-lived, drowned in a cacophony of dragonfire and crackling flesh. Starfyre joins in, her breath cold and silver, mixing with Sunfyre’s golden flames in a mesmerizing yet horrifying display of raw power.

The smell of burning flesh and melting metal fills the air as the dragons tear into what remains of Rhaenyra, their jaws snapping and rending flesh. The lords and ladies bound beside her wail in despair, some of them collapsing to the floor as they are forced to watch the gruesome feast. Elinda Massey’s shrieks are especially piercing as she claws at her own eyes, unable to bear the sight.

But it isn’t over. Not yet.

Young Aegon, Rhaenyra’s last remaining son, stands paralyzed with terror, his small body trembling as he stares up at the dragons. You feel a pang of pity—he’s just a child, after all—but that pity is fleeting. This is the price of war, of ambition that knows no bounds. There can be no loose ends, no heirs to continue the cycle of bloodshed.

You turn your gaze away as Aegon gestures for the guards to push the boy toward the dragons. Sunfyre sniffs him, his nostrils flaring, but it’s Starfyre who moves first. She lowers her great head, her eyes glinting as she opens her jaws wide and snaps them shut around the child in one swift motion. There is no scream this time—just silence as she swallows him whole.

A hush falls over the throne room, broken only by the crackling of fire and the quiet sobbing of those left alive. Aegon turns to you, his expression unreadable, but you see the weariness in his eyes, the weight of everything that’s passed. “It’s done,” he says softly, and you feel the words settle like stones in your chest.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice distant, “it’s done.”

The war may not be over, but this chapter has ended in blood and flame. You can only hope that, when the ashes settle, there will be something left to rebuild. Something more than this endless cycle of death.

But for now, all you can do is hold your children close and hope that the fire will fade, that peace will come in its wake—even if that peace is a fragile dream, trembling on the edge of a knife.

The sun is low in the sky as your carriage finally creaks to a halt outside the Red Keep. The city is cloaked in uneasy silence—no cheers greet your return, no banners wave in celebration. King’s Landing feels hollow, as if the ghosts of those lost in the war still linger in its streets. You step out first, the weight of the crown heavy on your brow. Aegon follows, his limp more pronounced after the long journey, yet he holds his head high, his expression a mask of stoic resolve. Your children, Daena and Baelon, cling close to you, their wide eyes taking in the somber scene as they disembark from the carriage.

Ahead of you, standing at the base of the steps leading up to the Red Keep, is your mother, Queen Alicent, her face drawn with lines of sorrow and weariness. Beside her is Helaena, her once-luminous eyes now dulled by grief and loss. They are the last remnants of your family, the survivors of a war that has cost you all more than you could have imagined.

Alicent's breath hitches when she sees you, her eyes scanning you and Aegon as if needing to assure herself that you are truly there, alive and whole. Tears glisten in her eyes, and she covers her mouth with trembling fingers as her composure shatters. “My children,” she whispers, and it is as though the weight of years collapses in those words—years of fear, of war, of loss. She hurries forward, her regal bearing breaking into a desperate, motherly rush as she throws her arms around you both, clutching you as if afraid you might vanish like so many others.

“Oh, my children,” she sobs, her voice cracking with emotion. “You’ve returned to me.”

Aegon wraps his arm around her, his scarred hand shaking as he holds his mother close. “We have, Mother,” he says softly, though there’s a hollowness to his tone. The joy that might have been there is tainted by the ghosts of those who aren’t here to share this moment. “But we return to ashes.”

Alicent pulls back slightly, looking at the both of you with tear-streaked cheeks. “I prayed for this day—prayed every night that you would survive, that you would come back to us.” Her eyes flit to the children—her grandchildren—and fresh tears spill over. “But at what cost? Daeron, Aemond—” Her voice breaks entirely, and she covers her face, unable to continue.

Aegon’s jaw tightens. You see the storm of guilt and grief flash across his features as he looks away, unable to meet her gaze. You reach out and grasp Alicent’s hand, squeezing it tightly as you fight to hold back your own tears. “We all bear the weight of those losses,” you say quietly. “But we are here now, and we are together. We must hold on to that, for their sake.” You glance down at Daena and Baelon, who watch their grandmother with wide eyes, not fully understanding the depth of the grief surrounding them.

Helaena, who has been standing silently, finally steps forward. Her movements are slow, almost ghostly, as if she is a shadow of the woman she once was. Her gaze lingers on Aegon for a long moment, searching his eyes, before drifting to you. “The dreams never lie,” she murmurs, her voice distant and laced with sorrow. “They all fade, in fire and blood.” Her words are eerie, a chilling echo of all that has transpired, but they carry a truth that cuts deep. Helaena’s prophecies have always carried an edge of tragedy, and now, you see the weight of them fully realized in her vacant stare.

Aegon steps toward her, gently taking her hands in his. “We’re still here, Helaena,” he says softly, though there is a break in his voice. “You, Y/N, me, Mother—we’re still here. We will rebuild, for their memory.”

She nods slowly, but you see no hope in her eyes, only resignation. “They dance no more,” she whispers, looking past you as if seeing something far beyond the physical realm.

Alicent wipes at her tears, her hands shaking as she does so. “Come inside, all of you,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “You need rest, and there’s much to discuss. But first, let us be together as a family.”

You nod, though the word “family” feels strange on your tongue now. So much of it has been torn away—brothers, sisters, sons. Yet, you follow Alicent and Helaena up the steps, Aegon at your side, your children between you. Inside the Red Keep, the warmth of the hearth contrasts sharply with the chill that clings to your soul. The familiar halls seem both comforting and haunted, each shadow hiding memories of the past.

Alicent leads you to the council chamber, where a small, intimate table has been set, not for matters of state, but for a quiet meal. Servants flit about with anxious glances, aware of the tragedy that hangs in the air like a storm cloud. You all sit, and for a long moment, no one speaks. The silence is heavy, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

Aegon is the one who finally breaks it, lifting his cup. “To those we’ve lost,” he says, his voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “And to those who still remain.”

You lift your own cup, feeling the burn of unshed tears behind your eyes. “To those who remain,” you echo, and the words are a fragile hope, a thread of unity in a world torn apart by fire and blood.

As you drink, you feel a sense of finality settling over the room. The war is over. The Dance has ended. But you know, deep down, that the scars it has left—on your family, on your kingdom, on your very soul—will never truly heal.

The chamber is dimly lit by the soft glow of a few scattered candles, their flickering light casting something akin to ghots long forgotten on the walls. The room is familiar, yet it feels almost foreign after all the horrors you’ve endured—so much time lost to war and death, to bitterness and grief. But now, for the first time in what feels like ages, you’re alone with Aegon, away from the eyes of lords and courtiers, away from the weight of the crown and the ghosts of the past.

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing you both within the warmth of the chamber. Aegon pauses by the threshold, his hand still resting on the handle as he takes a deep breath, as if he’s trying to steady himself, to remember that he’s home. You watch him in the flickering candlelight, the lines of his face etched deeper from the burdens he’s carried, but he’s still the man you fell in love with, still the boy who smiled at you with mischief in his eyes.

He looks at you then, and the tension that’s been holding him rigid melts away. His gaze softens, filled with a longing that nearly breaks you. Without a word, he crosses the room and pulls you into his arms, burying his face in your hair as if he needs to feel you, to know you’re truly there. You wrap your arms around him, holding him tight, and for a moment, neither of you speak—there are no words for the relief, the overwhelming need to be close after so much time apart.

“I’ve missed this,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice rough and choked with emotion. “I’ve missed you. So much.”

You tilt your head back, meeting his gaze. His eyes are shadowed with pain and fatigue, but there’s a warmth there too, a flicker of the love that has always burned between you. “I never let myself forget,” you whisper, reaching up to trace the scar on his cheek, a mark from Rook’s Rest that he wears like a badge of survival. “Even in the darkest moments, I held onto us. I held onto you.”

Aegon’s hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that slips free. “I don’t know how we did it,” he admits, his voice cracking. “But we’re here. We’ve made it through everything they threw at us, every nightmare. You were the light that kept me going, Y/N. You always have been.”

His words are like a balm to the ache in your heart, the wounds left by loss and betrayal. You lean into his touch, savoring the warmth of his palm against your skin, the familiarity of it. “We’ve lost so much,” you say softly, your voice trembling as memories of those you loved flash through your mind. “But we still have each other. As long as we have that, we can rebuild.”

Aegon’s lips quirk into a faint smile, though it’s tinged with sorrow. “You’re right. We still have each other. And I swear to you, Y/N, I’ll never let you go again. Never. We’ve been torn apart too many times, but that ends now. No more battles, no more wars. Just us.”

He bends down then, his forehead resting against yours as his hands cradle your face. “Promise me, Y/N,” he whispers, his breath warm against your lips. “Promise me we won’t let anything—or anyone—come between us ever again.”

You close the distance between you, capturing his lips in a kiss that’s tender but laced with a desperation that speaks of all the pain, the longing, the fear of losing one another. His hands slide to your waist, pulling you flush against him as he deepens the kiss, pouring everything he feels into it—his love, his regret, his need.

When you finally pull away, you’re both breathless, your heart pounding in your chest. “I promise,” you whisper against his lips. “No matter what comes, we face it as one. I won’t let you go either, Aegon. Not ever.”

The shadows in his eyes soften, replaced by a rare glimmer of peace as he rests his forehead against yours again. “Together, then. Always.”

The warmth between you grows as he slowly guides you toward the bed, the softness of the mattress beneath you a welcome comfort after all the cold, hard battles you’ve faced. He lays beside you, pulling you into his arms so that your bodies are entwined, your head resting against his chest as you listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His fingers trail lazily through your hair, a touch that’s both soothing and intimate, grounding you in this moment.

You turn slightly in his embrace, pressing a kiss to the scarred skin of his chest, a reminder of how close you came to losing him. “You’re mine,” you murmur softly, your voice thick with emotion. “And I’m yours. No one will ever tear us apart again.”

His grip tightens around you, as if the very thought of losing you is unbearable. “I’ll spend the rest of my days proving that, Y/N,” he vows, his voice low and filled with a fierce protectiveness. “I’ll give you the peace we’ve been denied. We’ll raise our children, grow old together, just as we always dreamed.”

In the quiet of your shared chambers, there’s no need for crowns or titles, no need for anything but each other. The world outside is a distant memory as you close your eyes, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the warmth of his embrace wrapping around you like a protective shield. You let yourself drift in that moment, in the certainty that, no matter what comes, you and Aegon are what remains.

For now, there’s only peace, the kind you’ve fought so hard to find. And in the comfort of each other’s arms, you know that no matter how many battles you’ve fought, the war for your love is one you’ve already won.

From this moment, the histories diverge depending on which account one prefers to trust: the sober record of Grand Maester Orwyle, the poetic tales of Septon Eustace, or the salacious rumors spread by the fool Mushroom. Yet all agree on the most important details: the years following the Dance of the Dragons were marked not by further bloodshed, but by an unexpected peace.

The Golden Restoration

The reign of King Aegon II and Queen Y/N saw a return to stability in the realm, albeit built on a foundation of ash and charred bones. The devastation left by the war was undeniable, yet it was under their rule that the rebuilding of King's Landing began. With Dowager Queen Alicent and Princess Helaena ever at their sides, the royal family focused on mending what was broken, both in the capital and within their own hearts.

Many lords whispered that it was Y/N, the Silver Queen, who held the true power in those years. Aegon, scarred both inside and out by the horrors of the Dance, found solace and strength in his wife, who had proven herself his equal in fire and resolve. Together, they were inseparable. It was said that not a single important decision was made without their mutual consent, and that in private moments, they ruled as one, much like Sunfyre and Starfyre—mates in both life and flame.

Their children, Princess Daena and Prince Baelon, grew strong and healthy under the care of their parents and grandmother, Alicent. The two were doted upon, not merely as heirs but as symbols of the future—unbroken despite the tragedy that had marked their early years. As time passed, the bond between Daena and Baelon deepened, mirroring that of their parents. It was said that they were closer than most siblings, so close that when they were of age, they wed in the tradition of House Targaryen, cementing their bloodline and continuing the ancient customs of their house.

The Brood of Sunfyre and Starfyre

In the year 137 AC, three eggs were laid in the royal dragonpit—eggs said to be the offspring of Sunfyre and Starfyre, the twin flames that had seared Rhaenyra Targaryen from the earth. Two of these eggs hatched, producing dragons of extraordinary beauty: one with scales of pale gold streaked with silver, and the other shimmering with blue-tinged starlight. These dragons were gifted to Daena and Baelon on their wedding day, marking the start of a new generation of dragonlords, free from the taint of the Dance.

Yet even in this time of renewal, darkness lingered in the shadows. Helaena never recovered fully from the loss of her own children and her brother-husband, Aemond. She remained a distant figure, often lost in her dreams and visions. Some say she foresaw her own death, whispering of “faded light” and “withered roses” in her last days. When she passed away in her sleep in 139 AC, it was whispered by Mushroom that she had seen a final vision: a land where the dragons had turned to dust, and no kings ruled but the winds.

Dowager Queen Alicent outlived her daughter by a scant two years. Her grief had aged her beyond her years, and she spent her final days in prayer, seeking forgiveness for the bloodshed her ambitions had caused. In her final hours, she clutched the hands of Aegon and Y/N, begging them to remember the lesson learned in blood: that the pursuit of power, when unchecked, only breeds ruin. It was said that Y/N, ever compassionate, was the one who comforted Alicent in her last breath, whispering that peace had been found at last.

The Passing of the Dragon-King and Queen

The final years of Aegon and Y/N’s reign were marked by a quiet contentment. They ruled justly, often seen together in council or riding their dragons above the skies of King's Landing. The scars of war never fully faded, but together they created a realm that prospered. Yet even the most enduring fires must one day burn out.

In the year 151 AC, King Aegon II and Queen Y/N were found dead in their shared chambers, lying in each other's arms as if asleep. Some claim they had simply grown weary, their bodies giving out after years of bearing the weight of the crown. Others, more fanciful in their tales, whisper that they passed together in a moment of shared peace, their hearts giving out at the exact same instant. Mushroom claims that a vial of poison was found beside their bed, suggesting they chose to leave the world together, unwilling to face a life without the other.

When their bodies were discovered, Sunfyre and Starfyre howled in mourning, their roars shaking the very walls of the Red Keep. The dragons, who had never been separated, circled the skies together before landing side by side in the dragonpit, refusing to be parted. In a rare display of affection between beasts, they nuzzled one another and remained in that position until the end of their days.

The bodies of Aegon and Y/N were burned together on a single pyre, their ashes mingling in a final union. Their reign was remembered as the “Golden Twilight,” a time when, for a brief, shining moment, the Targaryens had found peace. But even in this, the seeds of future strife were sown—two children, two dragons, and the legacy of fire and blood that would never truly be quenched.

Thus ended the tale of King Aegon II and Queen Y/N, the last Targaryens to die in each other's arms, bound in life and in death by the fires they had endured and the love they refused to surrender.

[edges-of-night]

Hi! I was wondering if I could request how the elves would react to you telling them they're pretty? I love your writing! Thanks!

Happy to hear you like my writing ♡ The Elves are always fun to write, so I hope you’ll have just as much fun reading this, nonnie!

･ﾟ✧ Arwen.

After quietly telling her how pretty she is, Arwen would smile and retort the compliment – after all, your beauty has captivated her for long, too! “And so I think of you as well. You remind me of the starlight reflecting in the ponds on summer nights…” Arwen likes thinking back to her quickened heartbeat when you told her how gorgeous you find her, not minding if her infatuation might have shown. Perhaps she’d even giggle to herself because of how much your compliment flatters her! Words of admiration are usually very easy for her, but with you, everything is different and exciting ♡

.

･ﾟ✧ Elrond.

When you compliment Elrond on how pretty you find him, a smile softens his stern face. He thanks you but tries rationalising your compliment – you could not mean it that seriously, right? Elrond was never one for blushing anyway, and as a Half-Elf, he never thought of himself in the reigns of his truly beautiful ancestors. This is why he treasures your compliment (and will probably compliment you back in the most ethereal and elegant way you have ever heard). Eventually, time after time, he will realise how serious you are with your appeals to his beauty!

.

･ﾟ✧ Galadriel.

As the Lady of Light, Galadriel hears compliments to her beauty all the time, from friends and foes alike. She appreciates your simple compliment nonetheless and shows you much grace, as always. It devastates you how beautifully she smiles at you, but initially, you don’t think much has changed after you told her how pretty she is – until, one day, you find a lovely little box in your rooms with a strand of golden hair inside.

.

･ﾟ✧ Haldir.

Haldir has ignored you whenever you complimented his looks, even if it was in the company of others. His initial confusion is only visible to those who have learned to read his mysterious features. Haldir does not think of himself as handsome but rather the contrary, so secretly your words mean more to him than he lets on. He will involuntarily think of you whenever he sees his reflection and doubts himself, and eventually use a throwaway sentence to call you pretty, too ♡

.

･ﾟ✧ Legolas.

When you call him pretty, Legolas is stoked, excited and generally playful about it: “Really? Thank you, my dear!” He will ask you what part you like most about him, or play a game of compliments with you when he is in a particularly cheerful mood. “And as for you, your lips… Oh, you won’t believe me? Let me kiss you to show how serious I am!” Beyond all the fun, Legolas is very proud that you find him pretty, though he is not one to prioritise looks in a romantic relationship.

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

*skitters up your walls* hey listen- stop screaming, listen. Foul Legacy meeting a witch.

you live a life of seclusion, deep in the woods of Fontaine and away from the city and the people. it's necessary, of course- magic is dangerous, even with a Vision, and despite how whimsical it seems it requires a great amount of discipline and work. besides, a quiet life suits you, obviously. all witches live alone to practice their craft, you're completely fine. this is how it was meant to be, you think, surrounded by bottles and delicate, stellar instruments made of crystal and elegant swirls of metal. you're fine on your own. you don't need anything but your books and herbs. you're not lonely.

...

...okay maybe you're a little lonely. there's not much you can do, though. you refuse to endanger other mortals with your work just because you want some company.

you're out gathering more plants one day when you happen across a crack in the earth, oozing dark, glittering goop from the Abyss. most people would scream and run, but as a witch you can't help but investigate every source of curious magic you come across, your boots dirtied with primordial gunk and cold starlight. a choked, pained whine catches your attention, and your head snaps up just in time to see something claw its way out into the sunlight, dripping with ooze and something that smells suspiciously like blood.

your first instinct is to back away, immediately, and take out your weapon. but the monster merely whimpers, hacking up more blood and violently shaking as it curls in on itself, and slowly you find your guard going down, taking a few slow steps closer. it lets out a strangled hiss until you put up your hands with nothing in them, beginning to gingerly clean and scour away the blood and goop clinging to its mask-like face with your magic. the creature's breathing gradually becomes easier, your efforts revealing red twin horns and a glimmering crystalline eye, armor dark as twilight, before it rises to its full height and you step away. it flutters its wings once, experimentally, grumbling in satisfaction, then kneels down to your height once more without breaking your gaze. with a gentle, grateful trill, the beast carefully nuzzles against your hands and looks at you expectantly. it follows you when you turn to walk away, movements clumsy but determined as it shakes off the last remnants of blood and sap.

without even thinking, you smile, and the monster gives you a lopsided, fanged smile in return.

[suguwu]

the spring air is chilled.

you shiver in it, even as petals from the apple tree flutter down around you, as pink as can be. they catch in your hair, nature's finest crown.

"is my party so boring that you must escape it?"

you close your eyes for a moment before turning. "your grace," you say, making your courtesies with elegant ease. when you raise your gaze, you meet duke satoru gojo's comet-tail eyes. they burn through the night.

"well?" he says.

you blink.

"my party," he says, voice bordering on a whine. "it bores you?"

"i just needed some air, your grace."

"in the chill?" he asks, stepping closer. his eyes almost glow, and you think of will o' the wisps bobbing through the forest, beckoning, beckoning. he reaches out with one big hand; your breath catches in your throat. he plucks a petal from your hair. lets it drift through the air to land at your feet.

you watch it fall. then there are long fingers beneath your chin, raising your gaze until you meet his. you swallow.

he steps closer still. you can feel the heat radiating from him, like the hearthstones long after the fire has gone out.

"your grace—"

"satoru."

"it's not proper—"

he snorts, tossing his head back. his hair is like starlight; it catches in the wind and dances like a shooting star.

"proper," he says, "is boring."

his fingers trace along your jaw, down the curve of your neck. he cups the back of your neck. pulls you close, until you can feel his breath against your lips.

"you must think so too," he muses. "to be out here without a chaperone."

the world snaps into sharp, clear focus. ice pours down your spine, a waterfall of winter. you start to stumble back, but he doesn't let you go.

"don't go," he says, a grin spreading across his lips. "not when i finally have you within my grasp. courting is so slow."

"your grace!"

he kisses his title off of your lips. you freeze, a prey animal caught between a predator's jaws, and your hand fists in his fine jacket. he feels like fire against you, coaxing your mouth open with a slip of his tongue.

you whine into his mouth. his lips curve up against yours.

"your grace!"

your ears start to ring. satoru presses one final kiss to your lips before he pulls back. you stare past him, into the darkness of the orchard. the apple tree flowers wave in the breeze, a rippling sunset of color, the pink visible even in the dark.

there are murmurs from those who have assembled at the doorway. you turn your head slowly, as if your neck is made of wood. you know your fate is sealed.

the first thing you see is viscount suguru getou.

he's smiling.