#THE KING IS RISEN!!!!!!! YES!!!!!

[ghosts-and-blue-sweaters]

Dang.

Resurrection day and cc!Tommy’s birthday and a good writing day and getting to spend time with baby cousins?? All on the same day???

[ro-botany]

Today I was reminded that in Awakening, Validar gets revived by Grima in the game timeline. So like, does Validar get revived with a normal healthy body or is it some weird partial-risen stage? Does that mean that Grima can wholesale revive people and chooses zombies instead? It's just such a weird little detail that probably exists just for plot purposes, but it makes me wonder. Can't quite pin down what it is I feel for it to be true, but it has spawned Thoughts. Do you have any opinions?

Oooo, a very good question! I touched on Validar's condition very very briefly in a previous post about RKC and some possible reasons he exists, but to go into more detail... Largely behind a read more because Post Got Big(tm)...

Validar is a weird one. Within Awakening, he's the person who comes closest to getting a true and complete resurrection. And overall he's much more human-like in form and function than anyone else we've ever seen subjected to resurrection at Grima's hands.

But we know for a fact he isn't a Risen. He doesn't get the vocal distortion, speech difficulty, compulsion for violence, glowing eyes and general corpse-like appearance, or most other characteristics associated with Risen, which imo outright excludes him from the category.

BUT, critically, Grima is nowhere near full power at the moment they revive Validar. They're freshly weakened from time travel at that point! And given the apparent difficulty of any form of necromancy in FE, I'm hesitant to claim Grima could bring him back as fully human in their weakened state. It IS curious that they were able to get him that close, though.

There could be several reasons Validar's condition is even possible. It might have something to do with the blood pact; maybe it's just easier for Grima to resurrect people that have extremely close metaphysical connections to them. Or it might be that necromancy is something Grima is naturally talented at and they do objectively complex feats with it even when very weakened.

In either case, Grima—especially when at full strength—is capable of multiple tiers of resurrection, and very possibly even true revival into a fully human state. Risen appear to be on the easier end of the necromancy spectrum (Forneus managed to manually create some by himself, for one thing; and iirc one of Henry's supports has him conjure some Risen-like creatures accidentally?), and near-human deals like Validar are on the more challenging end. RKC is somewhere in between the two states.

The fact that Grima usually creates Risen instead of people when they're doing necromancy is, in my opinion, a conscious tactical decision. A monster that doesn't think for itself, and attacks people swiftly and indiscriminately, is a perfect tool if your aim is to spread chaos and destruction. Bringing back thinking people to be your soldiers may mean they can make more tactical decisions on their own, but it also comes with an amount of free will that may mean they fuck with your plans, especially if they weren't loyal to you to begin with. And besides, Grima already has the Grimleal to act as their commanders in the small scale. So it ultimately just isn't worth the extra effort to make their resurrected soldiers much more than violent automatons.

(Unless the soldier they're reviving is Chrom, of course. For him they will put in effort to preserve the soul. But notice how they don't make him anywhere close to human; which was absolutely on purpose, because we know based on Validar that they could've. I have FEELINGS about this.)

The decision to bring Validar back as close to human as he ended up being was also very tactical on their part. I can't imagine Grima likes the guy very much beyond liking how useful he makes himself. And they know exactly how critical his continued existence is to ensuring that the main timeline's Robin fulfills their destiny of becoming the fell dragon. They can't afford to let Validar die, nor can they get much use out of a garden variety Risen that looks like him, so as close to true resurrection as they can manage while running on fumes is what he gets.

---

As an aside, this aspect of Grima's powers always kinda makes me wonder about the time before they decided to raze the continent. When they were just around and being considered a god by the people of Plegia. Did they not do any necromancy in those days? Or were there circumstances that they DID use that power? Bring some human(s) back to life, either for some logical reason, or perhaps even as a favour granted to someone?

If they did I imagine that would've gotten them in shit with Naga, given the theories that powerful divine dragons are all capable of some form of necromancy but don't do it because it's deeply taboo...

But that's speculation outside of the scope of this post.

[lavender-descendentheart]

thought I’d try my hand at writing for my Au so yeah guess it’s here doubt you will but hope you enjoy my latest piece of garbage

a cold game

She has always been cold, the monkey king thought, it was sort of her thing conjuring ice and all but this was a sort of coldness he would never get used to. The stale dead air in his lungs, the ever present whispering around him. And most of all HER, she had changed so much, and to such a extent that if it wasn’t for the familiar glow in her eyes he wouldn’t be able to tell it was her at all.

blue moves bishop forward

She looks up at him,”you seem troubled” she asks with what he could easily mistake for a sign that everything was normal. that she was intact he was intact,”I’m perfectly fine just thinking about how you got the decorations up in here ya know” he lies

Gold takes rook of blue

he knows she knows but she doesn’t comment on it and neither does he.” So” he opens prompting her attention” why are you not yourself?” He asks bringing attention to the proverbial elephant in the room.” What do you mean?” The spirit replies.” You know exactly what I mean, why are you not yourself? Why are you in the body of a child?” He asks firmer this time,” this host had proven quite useful so I fail to see the harm in keeping them around a little while longer”

blue takes pawn of gold

“your dodging” he states she knew she always knew what he mean’s the demon sighs,” what would I dodge? There is nothing to avoid” the lady replies. His eyes narrow” besides the smell of rot and ash coming from you” He says, she stiffens” show me, please” he asks and much to his relief she obliges casting off her host for the moment. Black locks turns to white, blue gaze becomes red and whispers grow louder. And he sees her.

She’s different, her form looks mutilated compared to his last memory of it. Her cheeks were now lined with ashen fangs. Her sclerae had become a deep black, her waist was lined in broken chains. She had cracks emanating flickers of blue coming from her eyes, Her face vaguely resembled a jackal now. He had thought her imprisonment would be kinder then his, it appeared he had been gravely mistaken. The silence is deafening as the smell of rot and death fills the room.

blue takes bishop of gold

she’s not looking at him anymore driving her blood colored eyes to the board, the little game they play still.” I still don’t see why you didn’t show me before it’s not bad really” he says in hopes of grabbing her gaze.

blue moves two spaces

she’s silent, stiller then the dead.” What will you do?” He asks. Now that grabs her attention, her eyes snap towards him” I will continue on as my destiny foretells” she says robotically the whispers grow louder yet still he can’t understand them, unlike before so long ago.” That’s not what I meant, what will YOU do?” He asks hoping he will receive answer he worries for her, he could handle imprisonment it was something he was familiar with but her? He had no idea what has happened to her.

CHECKMATE Blue wins

she flickers, warping back into the visage of her host, then she turns to the monkey she called friend” I very much enjoyed this opportunity to catch up with you peachling, we should do this again in the future goodbye sun” she says before making her leave from their shared space. He grimaces but quickly puts forth a smile” it’s been nice to see ya too blue” he says with a crafted smile

much to his suprise she smiles back with warmth he thought she had long forgotten,” I don’t know” she says.”wha-“ he begins to ask what she means before she leaves and their space shatters. And he’s left alone once again,” don’t worry Blue I’ll find a way to fix you, but I need to check up on the Cub first” he says to no one in particular before calling his cloud. He takes a breath, and makes his way to his destination.

Yep that’s it here’s my garbage The Risen Shadow and Fallen Sun AU everyone! Misery for everyone involved

[harringtonstilinski]

Call It What You Want - Steve Harrington

Author: @harringtonstilinski​ Characters: Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader Word Count: 3,080 Warnings: fluff, squint hard for angst, ignore the fact that eddie has risen from the dead, lol Requested: no | yes; i hope it meets your expectations, @stevesxyellowxsweater!! came from this prompt list Smut: no | yes; A/N: Hi, friends! So, this hellsite decided to delete/eat the original fic of this. If you like this, please do not hesitate to reblog and give some feedback, whether it be in the reblogs, comments, or my inbox. As always, read at your own risk and enjoy 😊

Steve Harrington. Your childhood best friend turned… acquaintance? Hell, you don’t even know anymore. You two used to be inseparable before he became King Steve, then your friendship went to shit… or at least you think it did.

When he started spending less and less time with you over the course of high school, your mind couldn’t help but go to the worst case scenarios. He didn’t want to be your friend anymore, he didn’t like you as a friend anymore, he was in the popular crowd while you weren’t so that made him not like you, Tommy H. and Carol, and many more.

Everything came to a head during both of your Senior year. You had asked him to hang out a couple of days after he and Nancy broke up, just wanting to cheer up your best friend. When he ditched you for a whole ass month, you decided to quit trying.

It was now summer of ‘86, just a couple of months after the earthquake. You were volunteering at the high school gym, or makeshift shelter, when you spotten him, folding clothes.

You tried to avert your eyes when he looked up and over, feeling eyes on his figure, but you couldn’t. Lost in those hazel eyes that you were once your favorite things to look at.

He pulled his lips together in a tight smile, nodding his head once at you before looking back down at the shirt in his hands, finishing the fold he started on it.

“Why don’t you just, I don’t know, talk to him?” Robin said, effectively scaring you.

After jumping ten feet from your skin, you placed a hand over your heart, bending at the waist ever so slightly, resting your free hand on the table in front of you. “Holy shit, don’t do that again.”

“Look, I know it’s been years since you guys have talked, but–”

“If you tell me it’ll benefit us both in the long run again, I’m gonna take these suspenders and snap them on your tits,” you interrupted, eyebrow raised.

Robin held her hands up, looking down slightly as she said, “Okay, fair enough. But seriously, though? Just saying hey and catching up wouldn’t hurt anyone. Especially Dustin.”

You looked over at your little brother, watching as he continued to hand people cups of water and blankets, his leg having long been healed from his fall back into the Upside Down. Sighing, you whispered, “I know,” before looking back at Robin. “I know he’s already lost Eddie. He can’t lose Steve, too.”

“Even though it feels that way,” your brother said, setting his tray down next to you.

Wrapping your arm around his shoulders, you sighed. “You haven’t.”

“He’s always going on dates.”

Brows furrowed, you replied, “He’s always gone on dates. His asshole of a father always told him that if he wasn’t settled down by a certain age then he was considered a failure in his eyes. Which he isn’t… nor will he ever be.”

Dustin and Robin looked at each other behind your head, both of them raising their eyebrows in unison at your words, realization hitting them both. You had a crush on Steve. 

And of course, your shithead of a little brother looked back at you with a devilish smile after watching Steve take a few steps towards you. “Well, here’s your chance to get that date you’ve always wanted.”

Looking at him confused, you asked, “What are you–” before being interrupted by both him and Robin saying, “Bye!,” walking away as Steve approached the table.

You looked from Dustin to Robin as the two of them walked away, mouth ajar before bringing your bottom lip between your teeth and looking in front of you. A small smile appeared on your face, seeing that playful smile that Steve always gave.

“Hey, loser,” he said.

Releasing your lip, you scrunched your eyebrows, greeting him with, “Buttface.”

A chuckle came from his mouth, his head bending forward as his chin became parallel with his collarbone. When he brought his head back up, you saw nothing but amusement in his eyes as he said, “Buttface? Really?”

Crossing your arms, you retorted, “Well, you are. You fucking ditched me.”

All amusement left his eyes at your words, fear and anxiety crashing into yours. “Oh, my god. Steve, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to say it. I just slipped out–”

“It’s okay,” he said, stopping your words. Nodding, he added, “I mean, I did deserve it. I was an asshole and I’m majorly sorry for that.”

Smiling a little to yourself, you tilted your head and quietly asked, “Did just say majorly? What is this? 1982?”

He looked at you confused, but laughed nonetheless. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

Going back to messing around with the items in front of you at the table, you said, “You were always one for trends. Still are, apparently.”

“What do you mean?”

Gesturing to his clothes, you eyed his outfit before locking eyes with him again. “Need I say more?”

“What about the hair?”

“Still on trend with that. It’s your best attribute. I predict, though, in about… twenty or so years, you’re gonna cut it short.”

Leaning his hands on the table, he asked, “Will I still look good?” “Of course,” you chuckled. “You always have. Even when we were kids and your parents made you get those… oh, what are they called?” You thought for a moment before gasping. “Oh, my god! It was a bowl–”

“You finish that sentence and I’ll make sure everyone sees your haircut from the late 70’s.”

With wide eyes, you said, “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Don’t try me, princess.”

You narrowed your eyes at the nickname he used to call you when the two of you were kids. You loved it until you reached high school when Carol started calling you princess to get under your skin.

He started using it in a derogatory way after that just to please his friends, which pissed you off to no end. Steve would end up going home after school or hanging out with Tommy H and Carol, regretting the words he’d said to you.

That’s when you both made the conscious decisions, separately, to stop hanging out. When you two walked across the stage at graduation, you cheered and clapped for each other, spotting each other in the crowd and giving each other a small smile.

Realizing what he’d called you, his eyes went wide with shock. “Sweetheart, I am so sorry.”

Waving him off, you looked down. “It’s okay, Steve. I’m over it.”

“Clearly not with the way you just looked at me.”

“And how was that?” you asked, looking from the blanket you were moving into Steve’s eyes.

With a small smile, he replied, “Like you wanted to kill me.”

“Oh, my god. Just ask her out!” Dustin said, walking behind Steve.

Your eyes went wide, not believing that just happened, but… Steve apparently believed it because not five seconds after Dustin had disappeared, he asked, “Would you? Go on a date with me?”

Flabbergasted, you opened and closed your mouth like a fish out of water, your brain going a million miles an hour as you tried to come up with an answer as an arm came around your shoulders, ultimately halting your train of thought.

“Of course she’d love to, dingus,” Robin said. You could hear the smile behind her words… and see it as you turned your head to face her.

“Robin,” you quietly hissed.

“Oh, shush,” she whispered. “You know you want to.”

You knew, deep down in your heart you knew you wanted to go on that date with one Steve Harrington. You had always wished that he would ask you, but alas… he never did. Always asking out the popular girls, the girls on the cheerleading team or dance team. And it always broke your heart.

This time, though, was different. It was you he was asking, not some other girl that only wanted to get into his pants… or he into theirs.

Sighing, you closed your eyes for a moment before gathering your thoughts and nodding your head. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Yeah, okay, what?” Robin said, the smile evident on her face.

“Yes, Steve, I’ll go on a date with you.”

~~~

Two weeks had gone by before you were standing in front of your vanity mirror, looking over your outfit.

“Hey, female - holy shit.”

You turned and spotted Eddie standing at your doorway, a cassette tape in his hands that he nearly dropped. Chuckling, you said, “Hey, Eddie. What’cha got there?”

“Uhh,” he said, looking from you to the cassette. Looking up with a devilish smile on his face, he played with it, before tilting his head and scrunching his nose. “Maybe it’s that album you’ve been looking for.”

Scrunching your brows in thought, you wracked your brain trying to think of what album he could be talking about until it hit you with a gasp. “Def Leppard’s Pyromania?”

Pointing at you with the cassette, Eddie smiled and said, “The very one.”

Squealing happily, you ran and jumped into your best friend's arms, hugging him tightly around his neck before releasing him, hands cupping his cheeks. “Thank you, Ed.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” He gave you another quick hug before adding, “Oh, by the way. You look beautiful. You’re gonna knock Harrington’s socks off.”

Chuckling, you said, “Thanks, Eddie.” At the sound of Steve’s laugh, your body tensed the slightest bit, your best friend noticing.

“Hey,” Eddie said, voice gentle. “It’s gonna be okay. Don’t worry. If he tries anything, just let me know and I’ll kick his ass.”

“In what? D&D?”

He was silent for a moment, his eyes going the tiniest bit wide before he nodded his head in agreement. “Yeah, you got me there.”

You laughed as you turned to put the cassette on your vanity, giving yourself one more look over before exiting your room, purse on your shoulder. When you spotted Steve standing at the door with Dustin, laughing, your heart leapt into your throat. Steve looked damn good, and you knew tonight wouldn’t end without the two of you making things official… after talking everything out.

When Dustin looked at you, his smile never faded. “Well, here she is. The lady of the hour.”

“Oh, shut up,” you said, giving him a side hug as Steve chuckled.

He opened the door for you, escorting you out, Dustin, your mom and Eddie wishing the two of you a good night.

“Ten bucks they end up together,” Dustin says.

“I’ll up you ten and say they’ll do more than just ‘get together’,” Eddie replied.

With a disgusted look on his face, Dustin looked up to his mentor, saying, “That’s my sister, you gross ass.”

~~~

The car ride to the movies was silent, but comfortable. The film choice for the night was The Karate Kid Part II. Your main reason for seeing it?; Ralph Macchio.

Max had told you if you didn’t see it that she’d hunt you down and murder you in your sleep. An empty threat from the redhead, but nevertheless, you told that you’d see it, a smile spreading across her face at your words.

Once the movie was over and you voiced that you were starving, Steve drove the two of you to Benny’s, home of the best burgers and fries in Hawkins. As soon as you two walked into the diner, the waitress smiled to herself, already getting her notepad and pen out, writing down yours and Steve’s orders.

She waited on the two of you during your Freshman and Sophomore years of high school before Steve became King Steve. Gloria, the waitress, had always wondered where you were when Steve would come in with Tommy H and Carol. Steve had explained that the two of you weren’t really hanging out anymore, which made her sad, so seeing the both of you at the diner together, made her smile.

The both of you took your normal booth in the middle along the wall of windows. You turned your head to the right, looking out at the cars passing by on the road. Sighing, you felt content before looking back at Steve, whose eyes had been on you the whole time.

Steve was immensely happy that you had decided to go on this date with him. He always felt bad at the treatment you got from him, and always wanted to make it up to you in the best way possible. This was the best thing he thought of. Doing what you’d always used to do; movie and then burgers at Benny’s.

“What?” you asked, reaching up to touch your cheek. “Do I have something on my face?”

Chuckling, Steve looked down at the table before looking around the diner, eyeing Gloria, giving her a nod, a small smile on his face as he did, your eyes watching his movements.

Turning your head to look towards Gloria, your face lit up with happiness, the seasoned waitress walking over with her tray resting on her hand, bringing the two of your food.

“Oh, my goodness,” she smiled. “Look at how grown you two have gotten. I was wondering when you two were gonna come walking back in here together.”

Your face flushed as Steve’s eyes widening the slightest bit at her words. She always rooted for the two of you. After Gloria had set your drinks in front of you, she smiled and said that she’d be right back with a special treat for you and Steve.

Shrugging, you picked up your burger after topping it with your condiments and veggies of choice that were on your plate, you took the first bite, eyes practically rolling into the back of your head. “Oh, my god. I forgot how good these burgers were.”

With furrowed brows, Steve picked up a fry and asked, “When was the last time you were here?” before popping it into his mouth.

“The last time we both were here,” you said, after swallowing your bite, going back in for another.

Steve hummed to himself, taking a bite of his cheeseburger, having topped it with his toppings of choice. 

About half way through your meal, Gloria set your favorite milkshakes in front of you, a big smile spreading on your face after she walked away. Using the spoon that was in the cup, you brought a spoonful of the thick milkshake to your mouth, quietly moaning with an eye roll at the flavors hitting your taste buds.

Pointing to the shake with the spoon, you said with a mouthful, “The best damn shakes in Hawkins.”

“The best damn shakes in all of Indiana!” Steve exclaimed, holding his own spoon out with some of his shake on it.

Scooping another spoonful, you ‘clinked’ your spoons together, laughing at the silliness of it all. You had missed it, though, and so had Steve. Once your laughter had died down and you were finished with your meals, Steve had tried to pay, Gloria insisting that it was on the house, courtesy of Benny himself.

The drive back to your house was quiet again, but comfortable. Steve had his hands on the steering wheel and gear shift, respectfully, while yours was in your lap. All the words you wanted to say were a mess in your head, every thought that was tumbling around in your head caused you to lose track of time… and where you were.

A hand on your shoulder brought you back, your head turning towards Steve. “I’m sorry, what?”

He chuckled, his hand never leaving your shoulder. “I said, we’re here and asked if you were okay.”

“Oh,” you said, sheepishly. “Yeah. Got lost in thought, I guess.”

“What were you thinking about?” 

Shaking your head, you looked down and whispered, “It’s nothing.”

Putting his hand on yours and gaining your attention, Steve said, “Hey. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

All you could do for the next ten seconds was look into those hazel eyes you used to get lost in before you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his, closing your eyes and sighing. Steve sighed and closed his eyes, as well, bringing his hand from yours to cup your cheek.

“I’ve missed you, Stevie,” you whispered. You felt him stiffen just slightly, your opening and head lifting from his for just a moment before he brought your forehead back to his. “I’m sorry. I know you hate being called that.”

This time, it was Steve who lifted his head to look at you, his hand never moving from your cheek. “You’re the only one that gets to call me that, ya’know? Always have been, always will.”

A small smile spread on your lips, Steve’s hand moving slightly back towards your neck, his thumb rubbing at the top of your jawline near your ear. “Don’t hate me for this,” he whispered.

“What are you–” you started, but your words were cut off by Steve’s lips on yours. You were a little shocked, to say the least, but you kissed him back regardless. It wasn’t a hungry kiss. It was more of one that was testing the waters

With lips slowly moving in sync, you couldn’t help but feel happy that his lips were actually on yours. You hated to admit it to yourself, but you’ve always wondered what it would feel like to have Steve’s lips on yours, and now that they are… you couldn’t get enough.

You wanted to keep kissing him until your lips were red, swollen, numb, the whole nine yards. All you wanted was Steve, and now… you think you have him.

When you both pulled away, breathless, you rested your foreheads against each other’s, simultaneously. As you caught your breath, you smiled, a soft chuckle making its way from your lips.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, a smile on his face as well.

Rolling your head to the right a little, you bit your bottom lip before lifting your head and looking at those hazel eyes you’ve always loved. “I just can’t believe that happened.”

Moving his hand back to your cheek, Steve smiled that smile you hadn’t seen in years. “Well, you better believe it… because I plan on doing that more.”

“I’m counting on it, Stevie.”

Steve chuckled while shaking his head, bringing your lips back to his with a smile on both of your faces.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N 2:  hi, friends! let me know what you thought about! again, please do not hesitate to reblog and give some feedback, whether it be in the reblogs, comments, or my inbox.

Additional Notes: 

~~~

Forever / Everything Taglist: @stiles-o-dylan24 @stixnstripesworld @fandom-princess-forevermore @quanticobae @mischiefandi @kellyashcroft @lauren-novak

Steve Harrington Taglist: @madaboutjoe​

If you’re tagged and didn’t want to be, please let me know.

Italics wouldn’t let me tag!

~~~

*Please don’t post my writing anywhere else without my consent. The author of this work will always and forever be @harringtonstilinski​.

All characters, story lines, and plot aside from y/n and her storyline & plot, are all of the work of The Duffer Brothers.

*These works contain material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited.

No part of these works may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

Posted on March 22, 2024

[gatorlovebot]

this is a direct continuation of this piece here. read more of my king!simon blurbs here <3

it had been three days since simon had been stabbed and you, unsurprisingly, had not gotten out of bed. once the carriage leading simon to the hospital was off castle grounds you had become almost inconsolable. sympathetic staff members attempting to get you together, convince you that the king was in good hands, that he was strong and in good health, and that he would make it.

it didn’t matter, none of their words helped the way it felt like your world was truly falling a part right before your eyes. simon was your whole world. he was usually the first person you talked to in the morning and the last person you talked to before going to bed. you shared every meal together, you accompanied him to every outing, every meeting, regardless of how boring. you knew how he took his tea and he was the only one that allowed you to do it, complaining that no one else knew how to do it like you. you washed his hair at night and clung to his arm when you walked around the bustling city with him

it might have been stupid but you considered simon to be your closest friend, and you believed he felt the same about you. what were you supposed to do without your best friend?

in those three days you hadn’t heard anything regarding simon’s condition. everyone in the castle left you alone, to suffer and rot alone in your bed. you were almost scared to leave your room, too afraid to get the confirmation to your worst fear. you know realistically someone would have come to you to break the news if simon had passed, so you’re still holding on to a little bit of hope.

the sun had risen for another day with no word on simon. another day for your emotions to fester and your hope to fade, up until midday, when there was a knock on your door.

your body was heavy and sluggish as you heaved yourself up from your bed to the door. you had no work without the king, so you had spent your days curled in your uncomfortable bed, unmoving. you tried to be hopeful as you reached for the doorknob, but all that you could feel was sorrow as you revealed the doctor on the other side of your door.

he had a small smile on his face that was unreadable to you given the circumstance. was it his attempt at kindness and sympathy before he gave you the terrible news? what is out of pity as he took in your disheveled and unkempt appearance? “hello, my dear.” he greeted in a soft tone.

you couldn’t take it, couldn’t take any pleasantries or politeness, pleading with him to just please tell you whatever he came here to tell you. “well, i’ve had a hell of a morning trying to wrangle our king into his bed.”

“what?” you questioned, your voice laced in astonishment. “he’s-” your voice cracked on the question, eyes welling with tears as you began to grasp the implications of the doctors words.

“alive? yes, yes he is, my dear.” the doctor assured you, taking your hands in his grasp. “i spent all morning monitoring his condition, making sure he was stable enough to finish his recovery in the castle. do you want to know the only thing he asked for?”

you couldn’t come up with an answer, barely even listening to him as all you could think about was that simon was alive.

he squeezed your hands, “you, he only asked for you.”

a sob left your lips, not one of despair, but one of incredulous joy at your king, your simon, wanting you. the doctor let go of your hands and gestured to the door with an expectant expression, “you better not keep him waiting any longer.”

all you could do was give the doctor a quick hug, hoping to convey all your gratitude you had him for in a tight embrace, before running out of the room. your bare feet slapped against the stone as you climbed up stair after stair, passing by maids and butlers without a word. your hurried gait didn’t slow until you got up to the long hall that led to simon’s room, spotting the guards at the doors, the moment becoming more and more real as you approached them.

the guards just gave you a nod as they grasped the door handles and pulled the doors open. as you made it over the threshold you almost fell to your knees in relief at the sight of simon in his bed. his back was towards you, bare and pale. you noticed a large patch of gauze covering the wound that almost took him away from you. you watched, intently, for a moment, cataloging the way ribs expanded with each breath before finally making it over to his bed.

after days of waiting, at long last you saw his face, smushed against his plush pillows. you felt a weight being lifted off your shoulders, like you could finally breathe for the first time in days. you couldn’t stop yourself from reaching out, a need to touch, to feel. you graced a finger down his cheek, over one of his scars that he got years ago when he would go out to battle with his men. you gasped as he suddenly snapped his eyes open and a hand was grasped around your wrist.

within a second, recognition washed over his face as he took you in. “oh thank god, it’s finally you.” he whispered earnestly, voice hoarse. he didn’t let go of your wrist, bringing your hand back up to his face, nuzzling himself against it.

when you felt tears against your hand you couldn’t help but warble out a pathetic, “oh, simon.”

“get in here.” he damned, voice wet and thick as he adjusted to make space for you.

it was probably a bad idea to get into bed with a man who was supposed to be recovering from a near fatal stab wound but that wasn’t stopping you from crawling in underneath the covers. there was no opportunity at keeping a respectable distance between you two when his strong arms snaked around your waist, pulling you flush to his chest. you shamelessly groped his back and molded yourself to his front, nuzzling your face into his throat, wanting to be as close as possible to the man that you thought you lost.

your emotions from the last few days overtake you as you wept out, pitifully, “i thought i lost you.”

he squeezes you tighter in response before he affirms, “i thought i was going to lose you, too.”

your heart clenches, knowing that your relationship was just as important to him as it was to you. you tried to calm your breathing but your mind was flooding with the memories from the days previous, how he was ripped out of your arms after asking for your care. “they took you away from me.”

his hold on your became impossibly tight as he growled, “i’ll kill them all.”

you finally got some sense over yourself at his sudden mood shift. your hands that had been clutching at his strong and broad back reached up past his neck to scritch through his hair, trying to soothe him. “no, no, simon, you just have to relax right now. i need you to rest so you can get better.” you pleaded with him.

his rigid body began to loosen at your words, muscles relaxing around you until you could gently rest your head along his chest.

he took a deep, calming breath before promising, “anything for you, lovie.”

[wardenparker]

The King's Queen - chapter 1

Javi Gutierrez x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

Prince Javier of the Balearic Islands has always known that one day he would have to follow in his father's footsteps to be the caring and steadfast king that his people deserve. What he did not know is that he would be stepping into the next phase of his life alongside a woman he has never met before - and amidst a rocky sea of unusual circumstances of every kind.

Rating: Mature, but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 8.1k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: arranged marriage, age gap, classicism, cursing, food and alcohol, mentions of American politics, deceased parents* Illness, cancer. Summary: Javi is given some unexpected and unwelcome news from his father - meanwhile you receive the phone call that you have been waiting for for your entire life. Notes: As always, we do our best to infuse some Spanish into the dialogue when our stories call for it, but neither Keri nor I are fluent by any means. If you see an error let us know, but kindness counts!

The day began, as so many do, with a knock on the door. The palace had stirred to life hours ago, bustling staff all going about their business and, breakfast served and cleared away again, appointments kept, and meetings held. Business, as they say, booms this morning at Castel del Ocaso. The only person not yet risen, it seems, is the crowned prince.

And so his day begins with a knock. A gentle one. There is no need to jar the man into reality cruelly. His valet has a tray with his breakfast so that the kitchen could move on with their duties for the day, and an urgent message from the prince's father. Which is, if one was to ask the valet, the only reason for waking the prince at what is already a late hour. When he stirs at the opening of the windows, the valet clears his throat and sets the tray down on the broad bedside table. “There is a message this morning, your Highness.” The valet tells the bleary-eyed prince quietly. “His Majesty would like to see you in his chambers after you are dressed.”

Groaning, Javi looks over at the clock, well aware that the staff knew that he was to sleep in. It’s a rare night that he is up until the early morning hours and today had been blocked out of his schedule as a recovery day. “What is going on?”

“I only know that your father has asked for you.” Sometimes the king’s staff would impart more details or relay why his Majesty needed a particular thing or requested a particular presence, but this was not one of those times. Indicating the tray laden with croissants, marmalade, yoghurt, and fresh fruit alongside a strong cortado, the prince’s valet offers an apologetic smile. “Would you prefer to take breakfast before dressing?”

“No—” Javi sits up and groans, closing his eyes again at the throbbing in his skull. “Yes.”

The man says nothing at first, but hides a private smile as he hands the prince his coffee before going to his closet to choose clothing for the day. “Was your evening enjoyable, sire?” He asks, always preferring to have the temperature - so to speak - of the royal family each day. There had been shouting from the king’s chambers this morning.

“Too much so.” Javi is desperately grateful for the coffee and he takes a sip with a sigh before reaching for his bottle of aspirin from the bedside table. He had anticipated celebrating too hard and wanted to be prepared. “I am getting too old for all night parties.”

“Then we will simply begin celebrations earlier in the day, I expect.” The prince’s birthday is always a series of extravagances, and this year had been no exception.

“Yes.” Hissing, Javi gingerly crawls out of the bed. “I will shower first.”

“Very good, your Highness.” With a nod, the valet lays out clothes for the day and is gone again, leaving the prince to ready himself to see his father.

******

It takes Javi an hour to shower, dress and make his way to his father’s quarters, frowning slightly as he knocks on the door at the raised voices inside.

“¿Quién es esto?” The king’s deep voice grumbles from inside, obviously irritable. When the doors open a moment later to admit the new arrival, the king is fairly growling and ousts the others from the room. The last to leave is the doctor, sparing a last glance at the king before excusing him to say good morning to the prince as he retreats.

“Javier.” Gruff as he can be, the bedraggling king sighs and waves his son inside. “Come in.”

“You wished to see me?” There is a tenuous relationship between the king and his only son but Javi loves the gruffer man, even if he does not always understand him.

“I wish to speak with you.” He glances at the footman standing near the door. “Alone.” As soon as his son steps inside the door is shut securely behind him and the king smothers a deeper sigh. Standing is quite painful this morning, but since lying down and sitting are, too, he does not move yet. “I sent for the doctor last week. About the pain in my stomach.” Which no one, save extremely close family members, knows about. “He came back to me with answers this morning.”

“Sí?” Javi strides closer to his father, a worried frown creasing his brow. It is not good news if his father is asking to speak to him privately. It is rare that at least his cousin Lucas is not in attendance. Fear and dread coils in his own stomach and the breakfast he had threatens to make a reappearance.

There is no other way to do this, for a man of King Miguel’s temperament, than to do as the Americans say and rip the Band-Aid off. “Javier,” he motions for his son to come closer, not wanting to have to raise his voice and be heard by someone passing in the hall of the drafty medieval palace. “It is cancer.” Which was his worst fear. His fear as a ruler and his fear as the father of a son he is not certain is ready to take his place. “It came on quickly, and spread just as fast.” He tries to hide a wince as best he can, pressing a hand over his aching side as though the disease can hear him speak of it. Laying down may not be any less painful than standing, but it does relieve a bit of pressure, so he lies down again gingerly. “They have given me a few months at most.”

“No.” Javi shakes his head and gives a nervous chuckle. His father is king. He is invincible, always seeming so large to Javi, even now. “No, they are wrong. They have to be wrong.” He blinks, fighting the tears that would be ‘unbecoming’ a future ruler.

“It is always possible for doctors to be wrong.” He would be a fool and a liar to claim otherwise, but Miguel shakes his head. “However, the pain I feel is not a lie. And we must act as though they are correct, in case they are.” He sighs again, clearing his throat to hide pain from his face. Despite the characterization of their relationship as adversarial by the European press at points in Javier’s life, Miguel truly does want the best for his son. It is why he has done what he has done. Made the arrangements that he has made. “Thirty-five is a good age for a king, Javier. Old enough to have some sense but young enough to make the people feel the invigoration of youth.”

The age-old argument of not wanting to be king doesn’t even slip out of his mouth like it normally would. He can’t. Not when his father is lying in a bed looking much older than he had just the day before. Javi realizes how much pain the older man has been hiding from the world. “Sí.” Javi nods. “You have been a good king papá, the people will miss your guidance.”

Surprised at the lack of protest from his only child, the king pats the mattress beside him, hoping for this conversation to go smoothly. He knows Javier would not choose this life if he had the option - but there is no option. Second in line to the throne is his odious nephew Lucas and if that remained his only option, he would sooner find a way to pass the throne directly to Lucas’s new wife. Gabriela may not have royal blood but at least she has a decent mind behind that lovely face. “Steps will have to be taken, mijo. I will have to abdicate. You will have your coronation. And you will also need a queen.”

Javi frowns sadly, aware that the one woman he had wanted his for queen was now married to his cousin. “You took away my queen when you allowed Lucas to marry her.” He reminds his father bitterly. The woman who he loved had just married two years prior and Lucas was always taunting him that she will be pregnant soon.

“When I told you that you could not marry Gabriela, it was not to be cruel or obtuse.” If he had ever hoped that his son could forgive him over that refusal, apparently the hope was in vain. “A bride was selected for you long ago, mijo. So that you would not have to bear the burden of choice yourself.” He looks to his son with interest, hoping this will not begin a shouting match. “It was your mamá’s dying wish that I secure your future. And it is mine that you honour the promises we have made.”

Javi swears he chokes on air. Gasping and stuttering for a moment, eyes widening in shock. “An arranged marriage?” He huffs, swearing if it were anyone but his father it would be a joke. “No. No.” He shakes his head. “My future has been set from the day I drew breath but now my choice of a wife is taken from me?”

“Choosing a queen is more complex than choosing a wife.” There is the objection Miguel anticipated, even if he must admit to being disappointed by it. “The monarchy’s survival means more than simply whose figure you like the most in an evening gown.”

“My queen.” Javi stresses. “So it should be my choice.” He shakes his head. “I have done what you asked but I want to love the person I take as my queen.”

“How do you know you will not love the girl who has been chosen?” The pain of an arrangement is not exactly unknown to the king. After all, his own match was arranged and so was his father’s. Every crowned prince in their family has had their wife chosen from eligible candidates on their behalf - it was perhaps only that Javier’s match was chosen when he was a bit younger than most.

“How do you know I will?” Javi imagines a woman steeped in tradition and molded by pomp and ceremony. Someone who is rigid, only caring about the legacy she leaves behind. “Just because you came to love mamá doesn’t mean the woman you have chosen to be queen is right for me. Or were you only thinking of the crown?” He asks bitterly.

“I was thinking of finding you a partner.” He admits, knowing that his son’s disgust with the idea will not do well if it lasts. “Someone to help you. To stand beside you and to be your support as you find your footing as king.” The tax of sitting up is too much on an injured body and the king lays his head back down again to continue speaking. “Good breeding is done differently in America, but her family is wealthy and prominent, and the photographs I have seen make her out to be quite beautiful.” When he earns a scoff in return, Miguel sighs. “There is a contract in place, Javier. It is legally binding. And— and she has already been sent for. So there is no use fighting with me about it.”

“You arranged a marriage with an American?” The surprise and wistfulness of the statement catches him off guard, even as he shuffles closer to his ailing father. Miguel Gutierrez has never claimed to understand Javi’s affection with America or American Cinema, although they have shared an affinity for Nick Cage. He reaches out and takes his father’s hand, knowing he won’t fight his papá in his last days. “I hope you have chosen well.” He murmurs softly, wondering what this woman is like. His future queen.

“Her mother was friends with your mother at university.” His son’s affection for American pop culture was something he had attributed to his late wife’s own affection that she gained at university. He never understood it for the life of him, but it made her happy to share it with their young son, so he let it pass. “She will be here tomorrow, provided that she is able to travel quickly. The flight from New York is not too tiresome.”

“Tomorrow? So soon?” Javi shakes his head, reeling from the changes that are happening so quickly. “When— when do I have to marry her?” He asks quietly.

“Before the year is out.” The terms of the agreement with the Senator over the marriage of their children was exacting, to say the least. “Seven months is ample time to know her before you walk down the aisle, Javier. But it is more time than I have. So if you wish me to be present when you wed, it must be sooner.”

Javi closes his eyes, wanting to scream and cry and refuse his father. He cannot. He cannot let down the king, the man who has intimidated him and been his idol for his entire life. “We will be married in two months.” He decides, his voice flat. Certainly not happy about the circumstances, but he wants his father at his wedding, he will already miss his mother. “We will get to know each other later.”

Again it’s surprise that crosses the king’s expression first, but a lifetime of schooling his emotions away means it is gone in the blink of an eye. “Your mother and I tried to do what we thought would be best for you,” he tells his son, seeing the frown that forms on Javier’s lips. “This is the daughter of her most precious friend.” Knowing his penchant for the creative, and trying to provide him with a happy distraction, Miguel reaches and pats his son’s arm. “Would you like to choose the suite she will stay in until the wedding?”

The pout that he hadn’t quite ever grown out of nearly comes to the surface. Instead he just nods, not really caring where the American woman who would be his queen would stay but he knows his father is trying. “I will make sure she is afforded every comfort the palace can offer her.” He tells his father, noticing how tired the old man is. “You should rest.” He urges, covering his father’s surprisingly cold hand with his warmer one.

“Not a word to the staff, mijo.” The king warns, though he does lay back again on his pillows. “Only my private secretary knows who she truly is to you. The rest of the staff are preparing for a close friend.”

“They will figure it out when we have a royal wedding in two months.” Javi snorts, reaching out to cover his father up. “Rest.” He urges softly, his heart breaking but he can’t let the king see that. “I will make sure you are not embarrassed.”

“Javier.” It will be the last thing he says in the subject for now, but he does wish to say one last thing before his son leaves the room. “Try to keep an open mind. An arranged marriage is not the worst fate in the world.”

Instead of answering him, Javi just nods, standing quickly and swallowing. “Get some rest, papá.” He murmurs softly, “I have a guest to prepare for.”

******

There is something to be said for a good night’s sleep. Unfortunately, those things cannot be said for you at the moment. Curled up in the apartment you share with your brother, watching a late-night movie with a bottle of wine and a seemingly bottomless bowl of popcorn, you know you ought to be sleeping before your father’s re-election fundraiser tomorrow but you just can’t seem to quiet your mind. Today - yesterday in Mallorca - was his birthday. Another year gone by and another year closer to the impending details of the contract that has dictated your entire life.

You wonder how he celebrated. What sort of party he had, if any. If birthday cake is the same in the Balearic Islands as it is here. The internet doesn’t really have answers to these questions and you never had the courage to ask your mother for details of her lost friend’s life. You should have. But you didn’t.

The things you know about Prince Javier are finite, and you have studied them for decades. Which should be proven by the fact that you’re up late tonight watching National Treasure for the umpteenth time. When your cell phone rings halfway through the film, you mute the television and pick it up immediately. No one calls in the middle of the night unless it’s an emergency.

Private. Mallorca reads the caller ID. “Oh shit…” You murmur to yourself before sitting up straight on the couch and sliding your thumb across the screen to accept the call.

“Hello?”

Your name is spoken in a clear, Spanish accent, “Please hold for the King of the Balearic Islands, His Majesty, King Miguel.” The private secretary of the king announces him before muting the phone so she can pass it to the king.

“Uh—” Dumbstruck, you nearly spill your wine trying to set it down on the coffee table as though it were a video call or the king himself were right in front of you. He has only called you twice before - when you turned eighteen and then when you graduated college - and the last was several years ago. It sort of feels like suffocating, honestly, waiting for him to pick up the line, but you manage to breathe evenly until you hear a voice on the other end again.

“Hello?” Miguel says your name and waits for you to acknowledge him.

“Good morning, your Majesty.” Glancing at the clock, you quickly calculate it to be half past seven in Mallorca. “To what do I owe the honor of this call?”

Miguel takes a moment, composing himself after another brief flare of pain. “I hope you are doing well.” He offers. “The time has come for you to join the royal family in Mallorca. How soon can you be here if we send the jet?”

The time has come. The words seem to drown you, swallowing you up in duty and anticipation. “I will need a day to pack my things,” you tell him as politely as you can, hoping that you don’t sound as scared as you feel. The anticipation of an abrupt call like this one is why nothing in your life truly belongs to you - your apartment, your car, and all of your bills are under your father’s name so he can sell everything after you are called away to fulfill your duty. You’ll have to quit your job with no notice, but that’s a separate issue. “But one day should be sufficient.” Just one day to pack up your whole life.

“I shall have the jet sent first thing in the morning. It will be a direct flight so it should not be too long.” Miguel keeps his voice as steady as he can manage it. “My son will be informed of your impending arrival as soon as we disconnect.”

“As your Majesty sees fit.” It’s an odd thing, to speak to the man who holds an iron fist on your future, but you’ve grown up your entire life knowing that one day this would happen. To be honest you’re surprised it has taken so long.

“We will speak again soon.” Miguel promises, disconnecting the phone and then shouting for the doctor to come back into the room. The pain is worse and he needs him to manage it. There is another; more difficult conversation ahead with his son.

You exhale deeply, staring at your phone as the disconnecting line beeps and goes blank, bringing back your home screen with the background photo of the last beach that you went to with friends from college. Everyone is spread out over the blankets with picnic baskets and umbrellas while they laugh in the summer sun. It had been an amazing time – and now as you look at it you wonder if you'll ever be able to have days like that again. If your freedom, such as it ever was, has just been plucked away with one phone call. Still, despite the time, you have a call of your own to make. Opening your contacts, you select the entry for your father and stepmother's landline and hope that the ringing doesn't wake up your little sister. The preteen is a nightmare if she doesn't get enough sleep, and you don't blame her one bit.

The call is picked up on the second ring. “Hello?” The austere voice of your father comes down the line. “What is going on?” He knows you don’t call at late hours unless it is an emergency. “What do you need?”

"I need to come by the house tomorrow and pick up my trunks." Although you can feel your voice waver, you hope your father is too disoriented from being woken up to hear it. He raised you to be strong and to take on responsibility headfirst. "And I can't come to the fundraiser tomorrow." Deep breath, you remind yourself. "I've finally been summoned."

Silence fills the air between you for a good thirty seconds before the senator answers. “That is very good. It is past time.” The bedsheets rustle and he pulls the phone away from his ear to murmur to his wife. “We will draft a press release as soon as you are in Mallorca.”

"I only have one day to pack." Which means, you know yourself well enough to realize, that you'll be starting immediately. There's no way you'll be able to sleep. "So I was thinking I could drive out to Scarsdale to have breakfast with you and come home with the trunks to make sure I have enough time. Is that okay?"

Sighing, your father mentally files through his schedule. “That will be fine, I have a meeting at 9:30 though.”

"Okay. I'll be punctual." It never would have crossed your mind to be anything else. Not with the way your family operates. Scheduling is everything when your father is a senator. "I'm sorry to wake you, but I thought it was important for you to know right away."

“I appreciate the call.” Your father sighs softly and there’s another small pause. “Go on and start working on your packing list, I know you want to get organized.”

"There's a lot to do." That may be an understatement, but you're nodding as though he were standing in front of you. "I'll see you in a few hours for breakfast."

“See you then sweetheart.” The phone disconnects and your father sighs again before he climbs out of the bed. He will need to draft a press release and start working on the PR for his campaign. This announcement couldn’t come at a better time for him, and he intends to use it to his advantage. Perhaps it might even put him in the running for President.

******

It took every second of the time that you had to get things ready to leave even with your brother’s help, but in the end you drove to the private airstrip at JFK airport with an SUV full of your things and left behind an apartment that barely had a single trace of you left in it. What little you have left behind would be kept by your brother, sold, or saved for your half-sister depending on what you father saw fit.

The crew of the jet was very kind in loading your things on board and seemed to expect you to have much more, but you had kept things contained for exactly this purpose. At any point in your life you would be expected to pick up and move your entire existence across an ocean, so you had kept things contained.

The eight-hour flight would put you in Palma, Mallorca in time for dinner and you know that between not sleeping for the last two days and the jet lag, you'll desperately need to sleep on the jet. Hopefully you won't be too anxious to sleep. That would just make things that much worse.

******

“I am meeting her at the airport.” Javi isn’t shouting, but his voice has pitched up to match the same inflection as his father. Met with resistance when he announced that he would take the boat over to the private air strip to meet the woman who is to become his bride without the fan fair or pomp and circumstance that normally surrounds these affairs. “You wanted to keep people from knowing, it will be suspicious if I am in my formal royal uniform.”

"Why can you not let someone from staff fetch her and meet her properly here?" Miguel is exasperated beyond measure, having had both of his suggestions met with rejection from his son. Javier refuses to be in uniform to meet his intended and he refuses to receive the girl in the throne room. He insists on dressing down in a veritable disguise and going to the airport quietly himself. "I understand that you wish to meet her quickly and I commend that, but your position matters, Javier."

“Of course my position matters.” Javi huffs. “That is all that matters. But I am meeting her casually. I want to know what she thinks of this, of me, without any pretense or need for propriety.” He’s worried that you might be dreading this, resenting him once he had learned of the details of this arrangement. He would like to know if he is to be sentenced to a life of passive aggressive comments and resentment.

The king purses his lips, seeing from the clock on his bedside that time is running short to make this decision. "Fine." He concedes shortly. "But take enough staff with you to have her things brought to the palace separately. If you wish to have a conversation with her then you can bring her back to the palace and show her her rooms properly dressed. If not in uniform, then at least not looking like you've just come out of the pool." Clearly indicating he means that he disapproves of what his son is currently wearing, Miguel nods and sits up a little more in his bed. "Something that would be appropriate to wear at the dinner table, since you will be escorting her directly after showing her to her new home."

Javi sighs and nods. “I will even wear a sports jacket, your majesty.” He huffs sarcastically, annoyed that even meeting you is turning into an argument. He doesn’t want to be so stiff and formal all the time. Royals need to relax as well.

"Good." Glancing at the clock again, the king waves him off. "Go and change, then. You should be on your way."

Rolling his eyes again, Javi turns around and stalks out of his father’s bedchamber. Annoyed with himself and the king. Why must their relationship be so strained? Why is he so different from the man who had sired him? He wonders what this woman will think of him, already deciding he’s going to dress causally chic for the meeting.

******

The chance to wash and change and touch up your makeup on the flight after waking up from a six-hour nap was something you hadn’t expected and are grateful for. The simple but well-tailored white sundress you had chosen to make your first impression on the prince could be put on just thirty minutes before landing instead of being thrown on in the airport bathroom so that it wouldn’t wrinkle after hours on the plane. Everyone on board was so kind and so formal that you have to wonder if any of them knew who you were or if that was simply how they were trained. Either way, when you exit the jet’s cabin to come down the stairs with your travel bag in hand, there is just one person waiting for you. In a powder blue sport coat and linen shirt with perfectly tousled hair, he looks like he ought to be a model and not - you assume - palace staff. Sunglasses shield his eyes but he stands straight and watches you expectantly, suddenly making you question if you even know how to walk down stairs at all.

You are…beautiful. He expected his parents to have chosen someone with all the right characteristics and the right schooling, but the sheer force of your beauty nearly takes his breath away. His father will approve of your outfit, the white dress both prim and proper enough to be considered appropriate and yet Javi likes that you are showing some skin. The length of your arms on display and the legs both making him smile at the idea that maybe you are not as stuffy as he might have feared. “Welcome to las Islas Baleares.” He offers as you stride close. The staff rush to get your luggage and he gestures towards the boat swaying gracefully at the dock. “We have a short boat ride to the palace.”

“Muchas gracias.” As hard as you’re trying not to smile, this man that has been sent to receive you is incredibly handsome. His hair and stature remind you of the very few pictures you’ve seen of the prince, and you wonder if perhaps this man is a cousin. Some lower-level royal sent to be a one-man welcoming committee. “Everyone has been so very kind. I’m grateful to have such a personal welcome.”

He cannot tell if you are being sarcastic or not, figuring that you have recognized him. “Sí.” He simply nods his head and gestures for you to precede him. He will need to help you into the boat and then cast off the lines, preferring to operate the speeder himself.

The man’s silence is surprising but you try not to read into it too much as he walks you to a nearby ramp that leads down to a small boat dock with an elegant speeder moored at the tip. The crystal-clear ocean spreads out around you like its own kind of welcoming and you smile. “The evenings are very beautiful here.” Weather. Weather is safe small talk. “Are the days just as gorgeous?”

“Better.” Javi promises, holding out his hand when you stop next to the boat so he can assist you inside. “Not too hot, not too cold, just right.” He smirks slightly, remembering the childhood story about porridge.

“I have to admit, I won’t miss winter.” Putting your hand in his to accept help into the boat gives you a nearly electric shock that you beg your body to ignore. There is no room to be attracted to anyone but Prince Javier. It’s impossible, you remind yourself harshly.

Javi ignores how warm and soft your hands are, quickly bending down to untie the boat before jumping in beside you. Occupying himself with starting the engines and pulling away from the dock, he knows the staff will ferry your luggage over on the other tender. For now, he wants the race the boat over the waters to calm down his own rattled nerves.

His continued silence signals that the weather isn’t worth talking about, and you fall into an uneasy quiet as the boat speeds out into open water. You have about three million questions but know that you can’t ask them of just anyone. It wouldn’t be proper or ladylike to ramble on, and from the moment you stepped onto that jet at JFK you have done your utmost to be perfectly ladylike. Without knowing who knows what or what is truly expected of you beyond marrying a total stranger to produce royal heirs, you feel like the water might be in your lungs instead of under the boat. Your palms are sweaty and you twist the decorative ring on your finger nervously. At least it’s beautiful here - it would have been cruel if you had to spend the rest of your life someplace frozen when you notoriously dislike snow.

He looks back at you a few times, gauging if you like the water. Finding you looking pensive so he doesn’t speak. Not wanting to make you even more nervous if you aren’t impressed with his boating skills. Or him. Instead he throttles down as the palace comes into view, aware that everyone, even him, likes to take in the majestic site of the Balearic Islands seat of power.

When you first take in the sight of the palace standing high on the cliffside, you gasp audibly before you can stop yourself or muffle the sound. It’s truly remarkable - this medieval edifice that has survived through hundreds of years and countless occupants, and you can’t help but stare. No photograph could ever do it justice, and you’ve seen every single photograph. That is where you live now. That’s home. Unless you fuck up spectacularly and he sends you away in disgrace. Oh god. Don’t fuck up like that. “It’s…amazing,” you murmur, realizing that your escort has turned to see your reaction.

“Castel de Ocaso. The royal palace of Mallorca.” Javi announces. “Home of King Miguel Gutierrez and the crowned Prince Javier. Soon to be king along with you, his queen.” He offers before he throttles up slightly to guide the boat into the Royal docks.

“Soon to be?” You startle at that news, feeling your eyes go wide behind your sunglasses. The king had certainly failed to mention that when he called. “I—I did not think…You know who I am?”

Javi laughs for a moment but then he stops, realizing that you don’t know who he is. “Sí.” He nods, turning back around to ease the boat alongside the stone dock. “I know who you are.”

“Forgive me, I just…” It’s like your mouth has run dry and your head is spinning, except you know it’s only nerves. “I was under the impression it was not common knowledge. That only the king and Prince Javier knew.”

He hums, cutting the engine and letting the boat float up next to the dock expertly. Moving to toss the lines to the staff waiting on the pier to tie off. “Come.” He offers, stepping up off the boat and holding his hand down to you. “The king is waiting.”

“May I ask you about him?” Those innumerable questions are all bubbling to the surface as he helps you out of the boat, and you now feel even more sure that his must be a trusted family member that was sent to fetch you. “The prince, I mean?”

“What do you wish to know?” He asks, raising a brow in interest. Curious to know what questions burn in your mind about him.

“Is he a kind man?” You’ve seen official photos and been told what he likes – practically every birthday gift that you’ve ever received from King Miguel was something that Javier liked – but the question of his temperament is completely unknown to you.

“I would say so.” He offers, wanting you to open up more. “Shall we go up to the palace?”

“Thank you.” You nod politely and try to ignore the tingling in your skin at the small touch of hands. Once you’re up the stone steps built in to the cliffside, you look up at the palace again and remind yourself to smile. “Is the prince…” The curiosity is overwhelming. “Is he…shy? Outgoing? Is he a very social man?”

“Ask the questions you really want to ask.” Javi urges you, knowing that there are only a few more moments before propriety will be deemed necessary.

“It’s just…” This man is offering you just enough of a lingering lifeline that your curiosity just can’t say no to it. “It’s just that I’ve never seen photographs of him with friends o-or girlfriends.” You swallow. Hard. “Or boyfriends. And I just…I wondered if…if he…prefers women?” That might be one of the things that terrifies you most. The idea that this marriage was arranged to force him to be with a woman when he’s actually gay.

Javi chuckles. “Women.” He promises. “There is much emphasis on not causing a scandal for the crown.”

“I understand that entirely.” There was plenty of emphasis on that for you growing up as well. “Forgive me if that’s too personal. I just would never want to make him uncomfortable.” An awkward laugh passes your lips and you shrug slightly. “Hopefully just the fact of me doesn’t make him uncomfortable.”

“You care about the Prince’s comfort?” That surprises him, and it’s rather sweet. It is rare that someone cares about someone they’ve never met before, not even someone who was going to marry. You are guaranteed a crown, why would you care about the man placing it on your head?

"Of course." The idea that you wouldn't is fairly shocking to you, if you're honest. "Everyone deserves to be happy, don't they? Especially with the people closest to them. I mean...this arrangement...it's not something either of us chose. What good would it do for us to hate each other?"

“And you?” Javi turns to face you. “You would choose another without a crown? A woman?” The idea that you might be repulsed by men is one that flashes in his mind and it would be a miserably cold marriage if that were the case.

"No." The idea of having a choice is almost incomprehensible if you're honest, but you can only shake your head now. It's not as though you weren't allowed to date, it was just that no one you ever went out with was ever going to last. And if you had been found out to have slept with any of them, your father probably would have disowned you. "I mean I'm interested in men and from all the photos I've seen of the prince he's very attractive, I just...this arrangement was made on our behalf. And I would hate to think that he is dreading my arrival when I'm actually excited to finally meet him." Excited and terrified, but the terror will be kept private. This man does not need to know about your anxiety or your fear.

“Excited?” He tilts his head curiously and smirks. “Why are you excited? You are not worried? I would be.”

"Excitement and worry are two sides of the same coin." That's honest, at least, and very true. You're definitely both. "It's hard to be excited to meet the person you're supposed to spend your life with without also being at least a little worried about disappointing them. That...I guess that's why I'm so curious about him."

“No other questions?” He asks playfully. “Nothing at all?”

"I wouldn't want to be inappropriate." For all you know, you've already overstepped and offended this man or even the prince by accident by asking anything at all.

Javi snorts and shakes his head. “Of course.” He murmurs, slightly disappointed by the way you seemingly cling to propriety.

"It's just...there are personal things that I would prefer to ask him in privacy." Probably your imagination, is what it is, but when he pouts slightly you have the almost unhinged urge to hug him. "I'm so sorry. I never even asked your name and here I am asking questions about someone else entirely."

Javi had turned away, prepared to climb the stairs carved into the cliff to enter the palace but you give him the opening that he wants. Turning around, he pulls off his sunglasses and gives you a small smile. “I am Javi.”

"Oh shit." The words fly out of your mouth before you can stop them and your eyes widen even more, with your entire body burning in embarrassment. Dropping down into possibly the least elegant curtsy of all time, you thankfully manage not to fall over but secretly wish you'd just topple right back over the edge of the cliff behind you. "I—I mean...I'm sorry, your Highness. I...apparently didn't recognize you." And went and made an idiot out of yourself in the process. Fucking hell...

“Obviously.” He smothers the grin and returns your curtsy with a formal bow and looks back up at you. “Now, what questions may I answer for you? Anything at all, since we are to be married.”

"How long have you known about me?" It slips out of you before you can think of anything more articulate or more interesting to ask not that you're standing face to face with him. At least you have the presence of mind to take off your own sunglasses and tuck them away in your bag.

“Two days.” Javi frowns, shaking his head slightly. “My father decided that I would learn of you the day he sent for you so I apologize that I do not know more than you are American and your name.”

"Two days?" It makes your heart sink in a way that you hadn't expected, and you can feel your shoulders roll in on themselves slightly before you push them back again. Ladies don't slouch says your father's voice in your head. "I've known about you almost my entire life."

“And you are…disappointed?” He asks softly. His entire life he had been compared to his father and been found wanting, why would the woman he was supposed to marry think any better of him?

"What? No!" When you look up again he's frowning so deeply that you have that overwhelming urge again to just wrap your arms around him and squeeze. Unfortunately - or perhaps fortunately for propriety - you're frozen on the spot. "I just can't believe that your father didn't tell you. Our parents made the arrangement when I was so little that I've just...always known this would happen one day."

“My father- it’s complicated.” He sighs softly, slightly relieved that you aren’t disappointed. “I am sorry, I meant to just meet you casually, not mislead you as to who I was. It was very nice to realize you didn’t recognize me.”

"I thought you might have been your own cousin or something," you admit sheepishly, instantly wishing you hadn't said anything at all. "You have...very nice hair. I thought it might be a family trait."

“You like my hair?” Javi’s eyes widen slightly and he almost reaches up. “I like that you are wearing a dress that is not stuffy.” He admits.

"It's one of my favourites." That's why you chose it, really. To really look and feel like yourself the first time you met him. "You like it? I—I have more like it."

He nods. “It’s very nice. Perfect for an evening in Mallorca.”

"Is there anything you want to know about me?" Since he hasn't known about you for long, that means that anything about you that might have been communicated between your fathers is probably unknown to him.

“Endless questions.” Javi admits with a grin. “But the king is waiting for your arrival.” He bites his lip and decides to be honest. “My father is sick. So he will only meet with you for a few minutes.”

"I'm so sorry to hear that." The unconscious step you take toward him is like the pull of a magnet. "That's why you said soon to be king when we met, isn't it?"

“We – my father is stepping down.” Javi confesses. “And we will be married in two months’ time. I want— he needs—” Javi swallows, unable to speak the words that his father needed it to be quick. “He has few months left.”

"I see." Vivid flashes of your own mother's funeral burst in your mind but you swallow and reach out to touch his arm gently. "If two months is too long for him, just name the day." This is a commitment that you've been preparing yourself for, for your whole life. If it happens fast, then it happens fast.

“We will discuss it with him.” Javi is grateful that you understand and he covers your hand with his for a brief moment.

This time when his touch makes your skin prick, you accept it wholeheartedly. It's a giddiness in the pit of your stomach that feels a bit shallow but at the same time you can't help but be grateful for. He's incredibly attractive in person, now that you see his whole face, and you fluster a little as the two of you turn to continue walking to the palace together. "So...do you prefer to be called Javi?" You ask after a moment, remembering that he hadn't used his full name when he revealed himself to you.

“I do, Javier is too formal.” He makes a face before he frowns. “My father feels as if I am too relaxed for the throne, that I need to be more rigid, but I do not think it must be so serious all the time.”

"It's good to have someone that you can let down your guard with." That frown makes him look a bit like a sweet, discontented puppy, but at the same time you can't help hoping that you don't see it too often. "I hope that...in time...you might feel that you can be yourself with me."

“You have known about me your entire life?” He asks curiously. “And you agreed to marry a stranger?” There’s no judgement, but he finds it odd that someone so beautiful would agree to this.

"I think we must be a few years apart in age." It seems odd to tell him that you know his exact birthday and secretly always have a little cupcake that day in his honor. "You were a preteen when our parents made the contract. I was in pre-school." The slight shrug you offer says that it doesn't bother you anymore. It is simply a fact. "So I grew up knowing that one day - any day - I might get a phone call to come here and marry you."

“You have never…wanted more?” He asks, wishing that you weren’t so close to the doors. “For yourself?”

"More?" More than being royalty? That would make you about the most demanding and highest reaching person in the world, you think. Certainly it would be a rather extreme expectation. "More than what? I mean, I liked my job and all, but I tend to think I could do a lot more good here than just being an organizer for a non-profit back in New York." Or did he mean more than him? That actually makes you frown instead. "If you mean...personally? All I want is someone who loves me. And if that can't be you...well, you'll be king soon. You can make whatever decision you want."

“There— there is no divorce for the royal family.” Javi reveals, relieved, that it’s not the crown that you wished for, but love. “Once we are married, that’s it.” He might not agree with arranged marriages but he respected the crown and tradition enough that he would not make a mockery of it.

This particular fact has never been related to you so cleanly, but always sort of hinted at. And now that you’re hearing it directly from him, it seems almost foreboding. Like he is trying to see if you can be warned off. “The only expectation I have had for my life is to come here to marry you,” you tell him, fingers twisting around each other nervously. “I am prepared to do it. But if you decide that you don’t like me for some reason…” The possibility is surprisingly devastating to you, now that you’ve met him and feel strings of actual attraction for the man. He seems genuinely sweet. And is incredibly handsome. “If you decide you do not like me, then it is up to you what happens afterward. But I hope that that is not something we will have to think about.”

Javi shakes his head, no longer as resistant to the idea now that he had seen you in person. “My father has assured me that the contract is binding and it would be dishonorable for me to back out of this.” He gives you a nervous smile. “I just— I hope that I do not disappoint you. Our monarchy isn’t like England’s. We are the government and our people are very much our interest. We are small on the world stage.”

“That sounds vastly preferable, if I’m honest.” You’ve lingered outside one of the many palace doors for a few minutes now, and though you’re still nervous it’s slightly different than when you first arrived. “I hope that we can at least be friends? I would hate to be a disappointment to you, either. And I know that you did not ask for this.”

“We will have more time to get to know one another very well.” Javi acknowledges, opening the door for you to enter the palace. “Welcome home, Princess.”

______

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[hyperactively-me]

okay okay okay, i know you get sooo many asks for king!ghost/princess!reader au, and we love them all and eat them all up--so i understand if you never answer this one... But i've always wondered, esp after he gifted reader his knife, what the heck was simon doing in the hall, cleaning his knife *that* night. Like I think about it often, was he going to talk to her (lil scandalous in the middle of the night)? Did he happen to be walking around and see her? Was he making sure she was okay? Was he feeling bad because he knows what it's like to have your family ripped away and although it is for the better, he feels remorseful for the reader? I mean, obviously reader felt someone watching her, how close was he??? Watching her be free and open in her lil sanctuary (thinking about how she'd have to find that in his kingdom/castle)? I NEED ANSWERS LOL

king!ghost x reader -- knife explained (flashback to the first couple of chapters, specifically "knife"; written in Ghost's POV) hopefully this answers your question 😉

It’s been a sleepless night. He couldn’t sleep. The woman betrothed to him was a complete and utter mystery. He had never seen anything like you, the way you so openly displayed your disdain and disgust to him. 

Yes, he knew that he was not very well-liked outside of his own kingdom. But, this is a woman who is supposed to be his wife. He recalls the fire in your eyes, the unwavering determination that matched the contempt in your voice. It was a stark contrast to the delicate and obedient bride he had envisioned you would be. What a spoiled little princess you turned out to be. 

And, he didn’t mean to be intimidating on purpose, that’s just how he carries himself outwardly. He was accustomed to commanding respect and obedience, even if it was born out of fear, no matter who the person. But, you were different. You had risen up against him because of your fear, and unashamedly at that. 

It kept him wide awake, the way your face twisted into a frown every time he stepped into a room, or the way you turned up your nose when he tried to speak to you. He thinks back to the dinner earlier that night, the way your knuckles were white as you gripped your dinner knife, fork stabbing into the innocent food being served. He had to bite back the urge to laugh; laugh at the thought of you being difficult on purpose. Until, it had finally hit him, that you were acting like this on purpose. It wasn’t just a ruse, your defiance, and fear, was quite real. You were not the stereotypical demure bride.

He shifts in his bed once again, staring at the ceiling, and he finds himself drawn to the challenge you presented. It was as if you held the key to a mystery he couldn’t resist unlocking. A woman who dared to challenge him was a rarity, and the prospect both unsettled and fascinated him. He couldn’t dismiss the fact that you had piqued his curiosity in a way that no one else ever had.

Ghost finds himself torn between frustration and intrigue. He never saw himself fit to be a husband, yet here he was. The usual tactics that had subdued others seemed to have no effect on you. Instead, it fueled your defiance, making you even more resistant to his authority. He should’ve known that you were going to put up a fight in the first place. Yes, he knew that noble women were trained to be blushing brides, but the mere thought that you had to give up your life in your home kingdom as you know it for a man you’ve never met, and a man known for wars and bloodshed at that? Who was he kidding?

Of course you would despise him from ripping you away from your family, from the comfort of your home. Hell, he went through a similar situation with his own family. The mere notion that he was inflicting the same things he went through on you made his stomach churn. He needed to get up. 

With that, Ghost shudders, rising from his bed, needing to clear his mind. He pulls on a pair of black pants and a black tunic alongside his balaclava, grabs his knife, and slips out of the guest room. The castle is shrouded in silence as Ghost moves through its dimly lit corridors. His mind races with thoughts of you, the enigmatic woman who now shared his fate. The air is deathly still and the moon hangs high in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the castle grounds.

Ghost happens upon the hallway that leads to the garden. He notices the wooden doors are slightly ajar, pricking his instinctive protective senses. Immediately, he makes his way over to the door, reaching out to grab the handle. Before he can step outside, he hears a rustling of fabric and looks straight through the crack.

There you were, in all your glory, standing outside in the garden, a robe wrapped tightly around your frame. Ghost hesitates for a moment, torn between retreating unnoticed and going outside and confronting you. The moonlight accentuates the curves of your silhouette, and he can’t help but be captivated by the vulnerability you’re displaying outside, a stark contrast with the defiance he had grown accustomed to. 

He leans against the doorframe, his presence still concealed in the shadows. It’s like you were a different person, the way your hand gently caresses flower petals as you stroll, the gentle breeze playing with your hair. There’s a rawness in your gaze, a depth of emotion that intrigues him more than he’d like to admit. 

For a bit, Ghost remains hidden, an unseen observer of the woman who challenges every preconceived notion he had about his future wife. As if suddenly snapped out of his trance, he takes a few steps back, feeling as though he’s intruding on something personal. Ghost feels guilty for watching you so… calm in your garden. 

He retreats, his footsteps carrying him away and down another hallway, the faint moonlight filtering through narrow windows his only guide. With a deep breath, he comes across a rather comfortable looking chair sitting in the hallway; one that’s surely only used as a mere decoration. Regardless, he sits down and pulls his knife out. 

He twists it in his grip a few times, admiring the way it looks in his hands. He brings it closer to his face, inspecting the blade with scrutiny, until he notices a few smudges on it. 

Can’t have that, can we? He thinks to himself. 

The blade, a symbol of his title and the harsh realities of the life he leads, demands his attention. He meticulously cleans the smudges from the weapon, treating the knife as though it’s a holy item. Ghost’s hands move with a practiced precision, the rhythmic sound of the cleaning echoing in the silent corridor. The blade, once tarnished, now reflects the faint moonlight streaming through the windows, a gleaming testament to Ghost’s meticulous care. He wonders if you’ve ever had to wield a weapon before. Most likely, no. He would change that, once he trusted you more. Couldn’t give a combative person a knife now, can we? I’ll give you more time. But, I don’t doubt for a moment that you wouldn’t be able to carry such a thing in your pretty little hands. 

Suddenly, a rustling of fabric pricks his ears. He immediately stands from his seat, the legs of the chair scraping across the floor. He knows it's you. 

No use in you running now, he thinks. 

“What’re you doin’?” he calls out, knowing damn well that you’re most likely going to lash out again. 

He watches you as you slowly turn around, fear etched into your face. A change from your usual frown and furrowed brows. Ghost can see the flicker of uncertainty in your eyes, the robe clutched tightly around you as if it were a shield. You take multiple steps back as your eyes flit down to the knife in his hand. He knows he must look intimidating right now, dressed in all black and a skull balaclava concealing his features, wielding a hefty looking knife. Yet, how soft you looked mere moments ago, your lips parting so prettily as your eyes rest on his figure. 

“What are you doing?” you motion to the knife in his hand. 

He swivels his head down at the knife in his hand, a faint smirk playing on his lips. You can’t see it, thanks to the balaclava. How predictable, of course you were going to point that out. Without hesitation, he takes the knife and flips in his hand before sheathing it in his pants pocket. 

He watches you wince at the sudden movement, a flash of guilt courses through his veins for a moment. But he remembers that he can’t have you thinking that walking over him like you do now is acceptable. 

“Thinkin’,” he responds, voice gruff. You flash him a look of confusion, still wary of your position. Ghost takes a step forward, his silhouette partially illuminated by the moonlight spilling through a window. He watches you take a quick step back, suddenly hating the way you look so small. 

“What are you doin’?” he asks again, crossing his arms in front of his chest to act as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. He can see the wariness in your eyes, the way you stare at his muscles, the guarded stance, and it amuses him, even though he tries not to show it. 

“I don’t see how it's any of your business as to what I’m doing in my own home,” you retort, squeezing your robe tighter around your body. 

He takes a breath, a low chuckle escaping. But you’re right. He has no right to question what you’re doing in your own home. After all, he’s the one who’s a guest here, not the other way around. You have the right idea being wary of him, a monster of a man, being awake and roaming the palace halls at this hour of the night. But, he couldn't help but feel a glimmer of protection for you. A woman alone at this hour of the night? 

He brushes off those thoughts, not wanting to let you win. Yet, he also wants to answer a small question he has. Would you back down? Now, at first, when he thought he would be receiving a blushing bride, he was going to treat her as kind as he possibly could. But now that his “blushing bride” is a noncompliant, fiery woman, he wants to make sure of another thing. That you would have the ability to stand up for yourself even in moments of pressure, especially in moments of pressure from him. 

“Listen here, sweetheart,” he says with another hidden smirk.

“I’m not tryin’ to pry, but you've been actin’ a certain way ever since I’ve arrived. I don’t appreciate it,” he states plainly, shifting slightly. 

He doesn’t miss the glare you throw at him, fingernails clutching into your robe tightly. How he wishes those fingernails would be buried in his back. 

“Well, you can mind your own business. I don't need your so-called ‘concern.’ Why do you think I’m acting this way?”

A really good fuckin’ question with an equally obvious answer, is what he wants to say. 

But he refuses to answer, pride welling up inside of him. Ghost takes a cursory glance at you again, noting the way you’re almost curled into yourself. You’re afraid of him. He couldn’t shake the image of you standing beneath the willow tree, how carefree and soft you looked then. 

Without thought, Ghost takes a step towards you again, but this time, you don’t move. How intriguing. He takes another step, waiting for you to give in, back down from whatever you’re thinking about right now. He takes another step, giving you another chance to move, a chance to show him that you're not willing to back down. How perfect. Put me in my place, this is what I deserve, he thinks. 

Ghost is now mere inches away, and you still haven’t moved. Good princess. 

Your neck is craned up to look at him, disdain written on your face.

He reaches his fingers up to your cheek, the pads of his fingers just barely ghosting over your skin as he makes his way to push stray strands of hair behind your ear. And the most surprising part of it all is that you let him. Now, he thinks he’s misjudged you. A spoiled princess? No. A woman who knows how to stand her ground. 

He can see you go as stiff as a board under his touch, your chest heaving as your heart rate picks up. He can see the pulse in your neck clearly. His eyes flit towards your bosom for a split moment, then he pulls his hand away. 

“Hmm,” he hums, a glint in his eyes. Interesting. 

And, without a word, he makes his way down the hallway silently, heading in no particular direction. He can feel your eyes boring into his back, and he feels a flash of pride, secretly hoping his stature impresses you. I know it does. 

At the end of the day, he doesn’t aim to break you; he just wants to figure you out. You’ll both be officially bound together in the next few days when he finally proposes to you, whether you like it or not. He can’t deny the conflict within himself — the desire to unravel you clashes with the knowledge that he’s pushing the boundaries. All these contradictions, and you’re driving him crazy. Why does he want to kiss you and fight you at the same time? 

He pulls the knife back out from his pocket, studying the reflection of his eyes in the blade. He wants to get to know the woman he had seen out in the garden. 

Time will tell.

- - - - -

(masterlist)

[thebadgerclan]

Reunited

Pairing: Kaz Brekker x sister!reader, Nikolai Lantsov x reader

Summary: After 15 years, you are reunited with your brother...

Part 2 to “Sister”

A/N: I appreciate all the love that “Sister” got, but I will be capping this at 2 parts.  School is, unfortunately, more important than fanfiction 😂❤

Also yes I made Wesper married, I fucked with canon enough, enjoy

The King of Ravka watched as you shrugged off your silk dressing gown and joined him in bed, opening his arms to you.  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” you said, extinguishing the lamp on your bedside table.  “My brother’s coming to town.”  Nikolai raised a brow.  “He is?  Why?”  “Apparently he and his friends have been hired for a job.  A job they need my assistance for.”  The King cocked his head as you snuggled into his chest.  “What kind of job?”  “All I know is that they need to get into the Religious Archives alone.  Beyond that, I have no idea.”

You’d told your husband about your brothers, about Hertzoon, how you’d come to Ravka shortly after your wedding.  It was only thanks to Nikolai, well, thanks to Sturmhond, that you’d been able to locate your brother and contact him.  Over the span of several months, you and Kaz had caught up on the 15 years of lost time, learned everything you’d missed on.  You’d discovered that your eldest brother, Jordie, had not survived, that Kaz had risen to prominence in the Barrel and was set on bringing Rollins, the man who had masqueraded as Jakob Hertzoon, to his knees.

And Kaz had learned that you were Queen of Ravka.  Part of him seethed with jealousy: you’d been brought up in the lap of luxury while he’d had to fight for every scrap, every penny, but he supposed he couldn’t be angry at you for that.  And your position had turned out to be a boon to he and his Crows; giving him a way into the Religious Archives.  As soon as Kaz had received the letter confirming you’d help, he’d gathered his flock and set off for Ravka.

***

“You’re fussing.”  “I am not fussing.”  “Yes, you are, my love.”  Nikolai took your hands, pulling them from where you’d been fidgeting with your hair, drawing your attention to him.  “I haven’t seen my brother in 15 years,” you said, letting your nerves bubble over.  “I don’t even know what he looks like now, let alone what he’s like.  Saints, I don’t even know wha-”  “Hey, hey,” your husband soothed, kissing your forehead.  “Take a breath, lovely.

“I know that you’re nervous, and I know that you’re a little bit scared, but I promise you that everything will be alright.  He’s your brother, and even though it’s been a long time, that hasn’t changed.  Just be yourself, Y/N, he’ll love you.”  Before you could respond, before your thoughts could spiral, the doors to the receiving chambers opened.  

“Presenting Mister Kaz Brekker, Miss Inej Ghafa, Mister Jesper Fahey, Mister Wylan Fahey, Miss Nina Zenik, and Mister Matthias Helvar.”  Your brother and his companions entered, and the guard bowed to you.  “His Most Royal Majesty, Nikolai Lantsov, and Her Most Royal Majesty, Queen Y/N Lantsov.”  With another bow, the guard departed, leaving the eight of you alone.

“It’s really you,” Kaz said, both to you and himself.  Gone was the little girl from Lij, afraid of the bustle of Ketterdam.  In her place stood a woman; a regal, beautiful woman, clothed in sky blue silk and diamonds, a Queen.  “It is,” you said, a tearful smile on your face.  When you stepped forward, arms extended, hoping for an embrace, your brother stepped back, drawing a sharp breath.  At once, you recalled one of his letters: Since that night on the Barge, I can’t bear to touch anyone.  Every time I brush against someone, I’m right back there with Jordie.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, quickly composing yourself.  “These must be your friends you’ve told me all about.”  Kaz cleared his throat.  “Yes.  Inej, Jesper, Wylan, Nina, and Matthias.”  Nina was the only one who dipped into a curtsey; as she was the only one who recognized you as her Queen.  “Please, sit.  I gather we have much to discuss.”  Nikolai seated himself with you on a loveseat, and your brother and his Crows gathered around.  Your husband and Jesper fell into easy conversation, and you smiled when he took your hand.

“So Kaz,” you said, clearing your throat.  “Tell me about this job in the archives.”  “A Shu priest claims that the remains of one of Sankt Kho’s clockwork soldiers resided in the archives,” he said.  “We’ve been tasked with returning it.”  You nodded, rising to pour yourself tea.  “There are indeed remains here, but whether they’re authentic is unclear.  Only a highly skilled Durast could tell, and even then it’s not certain.”

Kaz nodded, slowly spinning his cane between his hands.  “The priest said as much.  We’ve been guaranteed payment even if the remains aren’t genuine.”  “That’s all well and good, but how do you plan to conceal the fact that you’re taking the remains?  Those Archives are open to the public, people will notice their absence.”  Your brother rolled his eyes.  “If only I’d thought of that.  Jesper.”

The lanky Zemini stood and opened the satchel as his side, showing you what lay within.  “I happen to have  Durast on my team,” Kaz said.  “One who has become rather proficient in replication.  It’s not perfect, but to a casual viewer, even a monk, it’s identical.  If the clockwork soldier’s remains are real, then you have a nearly perfect replica.  If they’re a fake, then you’ve got yourself a new fake.”

You nodded.  This wasn’t the first heist your brother and his team had pulled off, you knew, but it was fascinating to watch his mind at work.  “Very well.  I can get you in at 10 bells tonight, but you have to be out by 1 bell.”  Kaz nodded.  “Done.”  You rose and called for a servant, who entered an instant later.  “Please show Miss Ghafa, Miss Zenik, Mister Helvar, and the Misters Fahey to rooms where they can rest.  I wish to speak to Mister Brekker.”  “Of course, moya tsaritsa.”

When it was just you, Kaz, and Nikolai, you resumed your seat.  Your husband sensed your nervousness and took your hand, kissing it softly.  “Did you ever think about me?” you asked, your gaze in your lap.  “After I left?”  “Of course I did,” your brother replied.  “Every single day, Y/N.  You and Jordie.  I swore that I’d get revenge for you, and maybe with this job, I’ll be one step closer.”  You lifted you face to find Kaz looking at you, and for a moment, it was like you were back in Ketterdam.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered.  “You have suffered so much, and I…”  You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself.  “I grew up with every privilege, anything and everything I could ever want.  But I never forgot about you, Kaz.  Or Jordie.  Even when I didn’t know if you’d survived, I prayed for you.  To the Saints, to Ghezen, to anyone who’d listen.  And I am so, so sorry for everything you’ve gone through, and if I’d known, I’d ha-”

“Y/N,” Kaz said, leaning across the space between you and taking your hand.  You froze, knowing how much effort this was likely taking him.  “Y/N, you don’t have to apologize to me.  What happened to us, to me, no one could have stopped it.  Yes, I’ve suffered, but I’ve also fought for what I have.  And I’m so damn grateful that you didn’t have to suffer, that you didn’t have to fight.  Look at you; happy and healthy, a husband who loves you, you’re a Queen.  And if an ounce of my suffering bought you this happiness, then I am glad to have done it.”

Cautiously, you took his hand in both of yours, and while he squeezed his eyes shut, he did not pull away.  “Kaz, I–”  “You’re still my baby sister, Y/N,” he interrupted.  “Queen or not.  And I will do whatever I can to protect my baby sister.”  “By 1 year!” you said, and your brother laughed.  You and Kaz rose at once, and to your great surprise, he pulled you into his arms.  “I love you,” he said.  “Sister, I love you.”  “I love you too, Kaz,” you replied, tears spilling over.

When you broke the embrace, Nikolai extended a hand, which Kaz took, clasping it for a bare second.  “You know,” your husband said.  “If you ever want to get rid of this ‘Pekka Rollins’, I might be able to help with that.”  Kaz cocked his head.  “How so?”  “Well, he is indirectly responsible for your brother’s death, am I right?”  A nod.  “In that case, he’s responsible for the death of the Queen of Ravka’s brother, which is punishable by life imprisonment.”

Kaz nodded.  “I appreciate the offer,” he said, adjusting his hold in his cane.  “But when Pekka Rollins is brought down, I want it to be at my hand.  For Jordie.”  He looked at you, smiling softly.  “And for Y/N.”  Nikolai nodded.  “Very well.  But should you change your mind, the offer still stands.”  “I’ll keep that in mind.”  Your brother and husband exchanged a few more words before the former departed, leaving you and Nikolai in the receiving chamber.  “Do you think they’ll pull it off?” he asked, draping an arm over your shoulder.  “He’s Kaz Brekker,” you responded.  “Of course he will.”

[liesmyth]

top 5 mercymorn quotes that aren't acid jail

I LOVE this ask because I love Mercymorn. Bitter lemon woman of my heart. Roughly in order:

From HtN, Chapter 51. Terrible, amazing, deadly.

“Watch me, Augustine. I am the second saint to serve the King Undying. I will teach you a lesson in forgiveness.”

2. From HtN, Chapter 36. Hilarious, magnificent, I'm giggling and twirling my hair.

You said, “Let us continue on the assumption that the diagram is the Beast.” “Yes! Thank you,” said your teacher, “except that I noted your use of the assumption, and I would like to remind you, infant, that I also hated you on sight.”

3. From NtN, John 1:20. Rip my heart and eat it why don't you.

I remember M— saying, We’re together. We’ll go together. [...] M— said, Take John alive. He’s worth more to you alive. And they shot her.

4. From HtN, Chapter 6. This entire conversation is so underrated, WHAT a character introduction.

“The risen star Dominicus gives light and life to the Nine Houses, and yet I don’t think we should crash anything into it!!”

5. From HtN, Chapter 46. This is terrible and I love all of it.

“Gideon Nav … you abomination, you heresy, you failed ambition nineteen years too late.”

Bonus: I am very sorry that there aren't any direct quotes of A & M playing good cop and bad cop to weasel the US government out of a nuke, but what little we get of it tells me that it would have been an amazing conversation. I mean

If someone ever writes fic of this scene. HMU.

[top 5 asks]

[shadowdaddies]

Ouu, wb Amren x a reader who speaks a different language and very little Prythian(idk, whatever they speak) and struggles trying to get across what she wants from Amren(in bed) but eventually they work it out and it's all smutty 🤭😏

I love your mind omg

Foreign Tongues

Amren x f!Reader

warnings: laborious faerie political ramblings above the cut, smut below the cut, breath play, slight blood play? (it is Amren, after all), tribbing, oral f!receiving

The moon had risen high in the night sky by the time Rhysand decided to call the meeting to an end. Your eyesight was blurred, vision struggling to stay focused on the heavy texts you’d pored over for the better part of the day. 

You’d been in the Night Court for several days now, working officially on behalf of Vallahan to discuss trade relations, but your king and queen did not know of the spy in their midst. 

When Morrigan had come to Vallahan to seek aid in the war against Hybern, you’d seen both the cruelty of your people towards humans, and your own opportunity to give Prythian the advantage to leverage an agreement that banned slavery from your lands.

The issue laid in your lack of time - you were only given four days in Prythian to devise a plan with the right amount of leverage to achieve both countries’ goals - and the language barrier. Vallahan had spent so long secluded from negotiations with the other territories that the dialect had changed greatly, and you knew little of Prythian’s language as well.

Mor spoke enough of each tongue to work as translator, allowing you to work with her and Rhysand - along with Rhys’s second in command, Amren - in your research and deliberations. 

From the moment Amren had introduced herself, steely silver gaze meeting yours with an unwavering confidence, you desired her. Her low, smooth voice as foreign words rolled off her tongue and the intelligence with which she quickly picked up on your language was as arousing as the glances she would flash in your direction when she thought you weren’t looking, the slight flush of her skin when you would notice.

It was as Rhys nodded to you in farewell, Mor standing to follow him toward the door that you caught one of those looks - but this time, Amren didn’t look away. Instead, her eyes seemed to glow like molten silver, bottom lip tugging between her teeth as her scent of black cherry and merlot grew darker.

It was your skin that grew flush this time, eyes darkening at the silent understanding that passed between the two of you. Looking over your shoulder, you realized that Rhys and Mor had already left, and the air grew thick with tension as Amren stood from her seat across the table, hands spreading on the wooden surface as she leaned closer.

As though a magnetic force were drawing you to her, you matched her movement, mere inches separating your mingled breaths. A delicate finger tucked underneath your chin, dragging slowly up to run over your lower lip as her brow arched in question. 

“Yes?” she asked in your language, eyes searching eagerly for permission, the leash on her restraint growing taut. 

“Yes.”

No sooner had your broken attempt at her language left your lips than she swallowed the sound with her mouth, hand moving to your jaw in a firm grip as she slipped her tongue through your lips. 

A lewd moan escaped you as she caressed the roof of your mouth, your lips sucking on her tongue in response as you pulled away to see her wild expression. “Here,” she murmured, pointing to her side of the table before urging you to crawl over the furniture towards her.

Perching on the edge of the table, your hands found purchase in her silky black hair, legs winding around her trim waist to pull her as close as possible. Soft hands slid up your thighs, squeezing the flesh of your ass as Amren’s head dipped to your neck.

A harsh bite pierced the flesh there, her tongue flicking out against the quickly-healing wound as she sucked hard enough to mark you as her own. Teeth and tongue taunted your skin in a symphony of pain and pleasure as she worked her way further down your body.

Fingers softly trailed from your ass, tracing light patterns up your body to draw sharp nails down your sternum, around your breasts to rest at the top of your pants. Lips left your skin when you tugged on Amren’s hair, her gaze lifting to yours in question once more as she snapped the waistband of the fabric.

You couldn’t have found words of any language in that moment, breath catching in your lungs as your need grew into a frenzy. You granted her a frantic nod, your own hands fumbling with the fabric of her top as you hastily undressed each other.

Eyes roved hungrily over your body for a brief moment before you wrapped your legs around her waist once more, one of your legs dropping to the ground so you could lean against the table’s edge. 

Amren’s lips found yours once more, the kiss tantalizingly slow as your hand dipped to her thigh, hoisting it over your hip to pull her body fully against yours. A high-pitched whine left her lips as you wound your hips against her own, the crack in her smooth facade making you smile.

Her clit rubbed against your own, nails raking down your back while you twisted and thrust against her. You were coated in each others’ slick, sticky warmth making a mess over your bundle of nerves as you chased your high. 

Amren’s small hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing gently as your eyes rolled back at the pleasure. The coil in your stomach began to tighten, legs shaking in attempt to hold yourself upright. 

Just as you felt the pleasure begin to crest, Amren pulled back, hand keeping you in place against the table as her fingers dipped into your folds. Lifting the digits against her lips, pink tongue flicked out, a wicked smirk spreading across her face at your low moan.

She never released her hold that gently pinned you to the wood as she dipped her hand between her own thighs, collecting the slick there before pressing those same fingers to your lips.

You accepted them eagerly, tongue flicking to collect your shared juices, cheeks hollowed as you aimed to suck every last drop. Amren’s chest heaved, lidded eyes shining down at you with approval.

You released her from your mouth with a pop, grin turning wild when she released your bruised neck in favor of tapping the table. 

“Here,” she directed in your language, hand sweeping flatly to indicate for you to lay down on the hard surface. Quickly sliding up onto the furniture, you laid on your back, craning your neck to see her climbing onto the table as well. 

You practically writhed under her, pussy dripping to the surface beneath you as she straddled your face, round ass perched perfectly above your mouth.

Wasting no time, Amren’s hands wrapped around your thighs, pulling them apart as her tongue licked a broad stripe against your clit. Back arching against the wood, your parted lips were soon smothered by her warmth, hole perched atop your nose as her clit nestled between your lips.

You sucked the bud on instinct, hips rolling against her mouth as the two of you pleasured each other. Fingers parted your folds, spit landing on your clit before being spread by those soft hands. 

“Amren,” you moaned, the foreign name pleasant on your tongue when her fingers dipped inside of you, stretching and curling, bringing you to your high incredibly quickly.

Spurred on by her movements, your own tongue flicked and sucked her bud, moving to thrust inside of her as you lapped at her flavor. 

“I- now,” Amren stuttered, the only words she could manage as her legs shook. 

Your name spilling from her mouth as she reached her high sent you spiraling into your own, heart pounding at the intense ecstasy rolling through your body in waves.

Sweaty limbs tangled, Amren twisting around just enough to be face-to-face with you while you caught your breaths. Thumb sweeping softly across your cheek, Amren pressed a chaste kiss to your lips, her own expression shifting into a rare, bright smile.

Biting your lip, you found it impossible to tear your gaze from her, instead finding any excuse for small touches, admiring the planes and curves of her bare body beside yours.

“And now?”

You knew what Amren was truly asking with that question - but you were set to return home tomorrow, back to a land where you were now a traitor. Nothing was sure anymore, no future could be predicted. 

All you knew was what you wanted next, so with a sheepish grin, you interlaced your fingers with hers and pulled her palm to your lips. “Now, your bed?”

Loud laughter rang out, Amren shaking her head with amusement as she muttered something in her language that you couldn’t understand. Collecting your clothes, she reached out her hand to you in invitation. “My bed,” she nodded.

[mybeautifuldelirium]

Hi there ♥️ could U do a aemond x dothraki slave fanfic in where she works as a Maiden and aemond Takes and Interest in her because He has never Seen a dothraki before💕 thankyou love

The Wildflower From The East || Aemond Targaryen x Dothraki!reader part 1

A/N this is my first Aemond fanfic so please go easy on me lol

but I hope you like it. It turned out longer than I had expected, but I really wanted to include some backstory and character build up, so lmk if you’d like a Part 2 xx

Summary: Aemond is so captivated by his sister’s new maid that he makes her help him bathe, just so he can hear the fascinating tales from her foreign lands, will he be able to take her out of his mind?

Part 1/?

Warnings: none

Y/N couldn’t remember how long it had been since she last saw her homelands of the Dothraki sea, oh how she missed riding through the mazes of tall thick grass while having the burning Essosi sun gently glaze her skin, she even missed all those ruthless conditions that no lady from the west would ever imagine surviving.

Alas here she was, miles away across the narrow sea in a foreign land. What a cruel fate she had, being sold by her own kin to the slavers of Yunkai only to be brought to King’s Landing as an exotic gift for the Targaryen princess Helaena.

Queen Alicent wasn’t keen on the newly arrived maiden, a filthy savage, she thought of her, unfit to serve her royal daughter. However much to her disapproval, the princess quickly grew close to her new companion indulging in her stories from the foreign lands.

The sun had just risen moments ago and the refreshing scent of the morning dew still lingering in the air. It was hauntingly quiet during this time of day, the only noticeable sound coming from the clashing swords in the courtyard, per usual the Targaryen princes were training with ser Criston. That was when Aemond first saw the foreign maiden.

Y/N was following closely behind his dear sister, who perhaps was once again looking for one of her dreadful creatures in the courtyard. Unlike his brother, the one eyed prince, never paid attention to the maids, however he couldn’t take his eyes off Y/N, she looked nothing like any Westerosi maiden he had seen, there was something striking about her, something so intriguing.

“Ahh the savage girl, a pretty thing she is” smirked Aegon making him turn with a puzzled look.

“Haven’t you heard? They say she’s a Dothraki, sold as a slave at that. Can’t imagine how mother allowed her to serve our beloved sister” he laughed.

‘A Dothraki?’ Aemond thought to himself, he had only heard vague stories about them, from the old septas, but she looked nothing like the images of the ruthless barbarians that these stories had portrayed.

Over the following days the younger prince would secretly throw glances at her every chance he got and although he wouldn’t admit it to himself he just couldn’t take her out of his mind.

The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky with bright colors. Y/N was wandering through the long corridors as princess Helaena had granted her the permission to go bathe herself. Y/N however had decided to use some of the time to explore the castle, indulging in the silence. She has never liked the feeling of being constrained by walls, even the lavish house of her master in Yunkai repulsed her, oh how she missed roaming free on the back of her horse. Consumed by memories of the past, she bumped into something, or rather someone.

As she slowly lifted her head, her eyes were met with a glistening violet gaze that was piercing right through her. The man had long flowing silver hair much like the one of her princess, he had a patch covering one of his eyes but it was unable to overshadow his handsome face .

“Ah so you are the Dothraki maiden” a cunning smirk was lingering on his lips. “Do you speak the common tongue?”

“Yes” she confidently replied, trying not to stare.

“Yes, your grace” he corrected her with a stern expression. “Well then, you are a maid, aren’t you? Go, draw me a bath” he pointed to his chambers with his smirk reappearing.

“I can’t do that, your grace” she answered, mocking his use of the title.

“You do realize, you’re speaking to the prince, how dare you disobey me” he said, now annoyed, but his smirk still apparent.

This nevertheless did not intimidate Y/N “I only serve the princess Helaena my prince”

This response however, only further angered Aemond, he grabbed her by the arm, now his eye staring directly into hers “You’ve heard of dragons, I suppose” he slyly grinned “I happen to be the rider of the largest one there is, all it takes is one of my commands” he twirled a lock of her hair without looking away from her eyes.

Y/N sighed, slowly entering his chambers, as she heard the heavy wooden doors closing behind them.

Quickly she went to fill in the tub, feeling the prince’s gaze never leaving her. Once the tub was filled with warm water and the alluring aroma from the herbs she had placed filled the room, Y/N finally stood up and faced the prince, no longer trying to hide the irritation in her voice.

“May I go now, your grace?”

Aemond locked eye with her, devilish grin playing on his lips “do you expect me to tend to this myself?” He motioned to his attire, covered with filth and dirt, or was it blood.

This time Y/N didn’t even try to object, she knew there was no point in doing so. She mumbled something In Dothraki to herself and cautiously began helping him rid himself of the dirty clothes. Despite her pride and stubbornness Y/N couldn’t deny the otherworldly beauty of the Targaryen prince. He resembled no other man she had ever seen, be it in Yunkai or in the Dothraki hordes. Targaryens were closer to gods than to men, she had heard.

Only when Aemond was left in his breeches did Y/N finally revert her eyes, waiting until she heard the splash from the water. She then kneeled by the tub and started scrubbing his pale skin, desperately trying to escape his gaze. Aemond however kept his eye on her, closely examining her features. Something about this Dothraki girl was drawing him in, he wondered what her story was, how did a savage girl find herself all the way across the narrow sea as a maid to the princess. Aemond could tell she had been taught basic manners and some etiquette along with the common tongue, but even those could not fully conceal her wild upbringing. Her untamed hair was cascading like a waterfall down her back, with several complex braids on top of her head as per Dothraki traditions. She looked rather uncomfortable in her dainty silk gown, he wondered what she was used to wearing.

“What happened to your eye?” Y/N suddenly broke the silence, now examining the leather patch that covered his eye. For a moment, the bluntness of her question caught the prince off guard.

“Curious, are we?” His smirk once again reappeared. “One day I might tell you, but first you owe me a story Wildflower”

“A story?”

“You think I’m unaware of the captivating tales you’ve seemed to tell my beloved sister?” “Don’t you think me worthy of hearing them as well” he gave her a challenging look, their faces now only inches apart.

“Ok then, my prince, as you wish” it was now Y/N’s turn to smirk. She loved telling stories of her lands, they made her feel close to her home, evoking memories of the time when she was free.

Aemond became so enamored with the way the young maiden was narrating her stories, he didn’t notice the water getting cold.

Suddenly Y/N dropped the rag and got up “I must go! The princess!” She rushed to the wooden doors, all manners long forgotten. The prince wanted to stop her, but his pride didn’t let him.

About to get out of the tub, he then saw something glistening under the murky water, it was a gold pendant shaped like a delicate flower, a simple, yet striking piece of jewelry. ‘She must have dropped it’ he thought.

That night Aemond couldn’t get her image out of his head, why was he - a dragon prince so preoccupied with the thoughts of a simple maid from the far eastern lands, he couldn’t explain it to himself, but even if he wouldn’t admit it, he knew that he had to see her again.

[daemonsdivorcerock]

THE RED COUNCIL || d.targaryen

SUMMARY: viserys targaryen is dead. his succession left in doubt. all (name) targaryen has to her claim is a few words and a stolen right. war is coming to the seven kingdoms and the dragons will dance. sister against sister. kin against kin.

REQUESTED: yes/no

PAIRING: daemon targaryen x fem!targaryen reader

AUTHOR’S NOTES: part four of the shrew of king’s landing series. reader is described as having silver hair. cregan stark is slightly aged up in this btw.

WARNINGS: bucket loads of incest, parental death, allusions to murder, war, mentions of usurping, slight cregan stark/reader, mentions of “blood and cheese”, pregnancy, stillbirth, miscarriage etc

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

VISERYS TARGARYEN IS DEAD. HE HAD BEEN FOR LESS THAN AN HOUR. (Name) could not help but feel a form of guilt as she stood there, alone, with a hand on her stomach and tears running down her cheeks. Her father was dead. Her mother was dead. Her parents were dead.

Daemon had walked into the chambers after being summoned. He was respectfully quiet as he did so, hands on his wife’s shoulders. “The King is dead,” (Name) uttered quietly, as Daemon toyed with her silver locks.

“Indeed he is,” Daemon spoke, in a similar manner, holding his wife close. Everybody expressed their grief in a myriad of ways. Daemon preferred to bottle his feelings to avoid talking about them. (Name), on the other hand, sought comfort in others, “We must summon the Small Council,”.

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

“Couldn’t we have begun this meeting when the sun has risen?” Tyland Lannister had asked, a smile on his face and a joking tone to his voice.

Sitting around the table, was the Red Council. Alicent had been informed the news firstly, as the Dowager Queen, then Otto as the former Hand of the King. Sitting at the head of the table, (Name) sighed. “The King is dead,” she revealed, causing the smile on Tyland Lannister’s face to drop and the room to fall silent.

“How long?” the Grand Maester queried, adorning beige-coloured robes, from across the table next to Ser Lyman Beesbury, a favourite in the council of (Name)‘s.

Daemon, who stood behind his wife, hand on her shoulder, confessed; “An hour ago, at most,” the Rogue Prince said, “(Name) was with him in his final moments and witnessed his death,”.

“He went peacefully in his sleep,” (Name) described, interlocking her fingers and resting her hands on the table. It felt odd, knowing that her father was dead, “He expressed…regret in not naming me as his heir and apologised,”.

“I believe we should confer the issue of King Viserys’ sucession,” Otto Hightower spoke, leaning forward slightly, “In regards as to who shall ascend the Iron Throne,”.

(Name)’s eyebrows furrowed. “My father has barely been dead an hour and here you sit, Otto Hightower, implying his succession!” (Name) snapped, “My sister, the Princess Rhaenyra, was named formally as heir twenty years ago by my father. The lords of the realm swore allegiance to her. To challenge my sister’s claim would be treason,”.

“That may be so, Princess,” The Grand Maester piped up, catching the room’s attention, “However, as in accordance with the King’s final words and the technicality of you being his firstborn child, you have every right to ascend the Iron Throne,”.

Alicent Hightower, who stood behind her father, uttered, “Princess (Name) also has a legitimate heir, the Princess Daenerys, who in turn also has a legitimate heir, the Prince Jaehaerys. Princess Rhaenyra has no legitimate children,”.

“It is well known that the people referred to my wife as “The Realm’s Joy”. She has a good relationship with the common folk and listens to their pleas,” Daemon said, as (Name) looked up at him.

Otto Hightower spoke up again, “I and others present in this council recall the Princess’ political and other suggestions in regards to the welfare of the Kingdom. In all valid points, the Princess (Name) would be an ideal candidate to be the next ruler of the Iron Throne,”.

“I acknowledge your points, councilmen,” the Princess spoke, “But Rhaenyra is my sister. What is stopping her from coming to the Red Keep and staking her claim? What is stopping her from putting me and my family to the sword?”.

“You do have allies in other Houses, Princess,” Daemon mentioned, “Lord Borros Baratheon. Lord Grover Tully. I recall you had a brief liaison with Lord Cregan Stark in your youths,”.

(Name) smiled, recalling the times she spent with Cregan Stark. “Houses Lannister, Tully, Redwyne, Tyrell and many minor houses have notably supported your cause as heir,” Otto mentioned.

“There has never been a Stark who forgot an oath,” (Name) backfired, “Lord Rickard Stark swore allegiance to Rhaenyra upon her ascension. My mother was an Arryn, yet the Vale would also have loyalty to Rhaenyra. I am also unsure about House Velaryon. Dorne is positively out of the question, House Martell remains neutral,”.

All this talk of war and politics made her head hurt. She let out a soft wince of pain, holding her stomach. Her white nightgown had been stained a dreary crimson, panic darting in her eyes. “Princess?” Otto asked, almost a hint of concern darting in his eyes.

“M-My labours,” (Name) muttered, holding her stomach, “I-I think I have begun my labours,”. She doubled over and scrunched in pain.

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

It was the early hours of the following morning when the Red Keep had been awoken by the screams of blistering agony. Adorning a blood-stained nightgown, (Name) keeled in pain, her knees almost buckling.

The handmaidens begged her to let them help. She knew deep down. Her mind rebelled against the idea. Rejected it completely. But in her heart, she knew. She knew this baby was dying. Her ninth child.

Daemon was trying to keep the Small Council at bay, the lot of them like wolves begging for a scrap of instruction. She sank against a wall, screaming and sobbing. Her hair was mussed and wild and face drenched with sweat, pieces of hair sticking to her forehead.

Eventually, the physical pain subsided when the baby came out. But the emotional pain was only just beginning. She breathed heavily for a minute or two, the sound of silence was deafening. The maids were sobbing. Through teary eyes and a dishevelled heart, she picked up the blood-stained infant.

During the birth she felt inward how Meraxes was roaring she screamed. The link between dragon and rider must have been more real than she had assumed.

She wasn’t moving. Her daughter wasn’t moving. The baby felt warm still. She had tufts of silver-coloured hair and half-closed lavender eyes. (Name) pressed a kiss to the baby’s forehead.

The baby was small and deformed. Her limbs were thin as twigs and her body was covered in grey scales. She was gaunt and slender and lacked a nose. Daemon had come in, finding his wife sitting emotionlessly, holding their child.

He joined her on the bloody floor, holding her as she screamed and sobbed, about how “it was unfair”, and how she “should have died instead”. She refused to let the Silent Sisters prepare the baby’s body for a funeral later.

Visenya Targaryen died loved and lived briefly, her corpse burnt by Meraxes’ flames. She knew that her mother and father would protect Visenya in heaven. Protecting her. Blinded by grief and mourning, the Shrew of King’s Landing took to the Red Keep.

Rhaenys Velaryon had declared her allegiance to (Name)’s cause before departing for Driftmark with Baela and Rhaena, to reunite with Corlys Velaryon after he was found at sea.

All that was left was the coronation.

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

[the-fiction-witch]

The Dark & The Dawn

Media House Of The Dargon

Character Daemon Targaryen

Couple Daemon X Celestia Dayne [OC] (Reader Dayne Dark hair purple Eyes)

Rating Sweet

Daemon stood in his chamber deep in the Red Keep, stood in his mirror reflection got dressed in his finery. He changed into his riding boots, his red leather trousers, his black bliaut, his black doublet with red sleeves each of the clasps down his chest silver dragons that link at the tail. He put on his rings and his holster at his hip with Dark Sister within. He fixed his Targaryen Blonde hair and made sure to make himself look impressive and imposing. Instead of heading through the Red Keep Daemon snuck through the corridors and secret tunnels. Until he came to the throne room, the tables being set up for the feast this evening. His brother King Viserys sat on the throne with a sly smug smile clearly enjoying the fact he could order around and make demands of his rebellious rebel prince of a younger brother.

Daemon walked in with confidence his heavy boots echoing as he stepped, He stepped to the bottom steps of the Iorn throne where he bowed to his brother dramatically.

Viserys smiled and came down putting his hands on Daemon's shoulders, "Are you excited?"

"...I suppose,"

"You need to marry again brother, and I am sure I have found you a bride that will give you many happy years," Viserys said,

"I can hope..." Daemon nodded,

"She arrived this morning," He chuckled, "Are you ready?"

Daemon nodded and followed his brother out to the gardens filled with flowers, green grass and tall hedges until they found the visitors.

Three guards decked in steel amour with swords and helmets standing to attention, and a man in deep purple clothes with silver accents the Lord Ulrick Dayne.

"My lord, Pleasure to finally meet with you," Viserys greeted,

"It is my pleasure, Your Grace, you honour our house with this match I cannot express the gratitude and blessings of our home," Ulrick explained, "Your Grace," Ulrick greeted Daemon with a wide smile,

"Pleasure," Daemon did his best to greet him without an attitude,

"Well, I'm sure we'd love to meet your granddaughter," Viserys smiled,

"Yes, of course." he nodded before his guards stepped aside.

Revealing a lady who had been sitting on the stone bench but had risen before the guards moved, She wore silver shoes, a beautiful deep purple ballgown with embroidered stars with silver thread, a silver belt with a holster on her thigh, long dark curls cascading down her shoulders, she let her head rise and her violet eyes fluttered as she made eye contact with him.

"If I may present my Granddaughter Celestia Dayne,"

"Delighted to meet you Prince Daemon," She curtsied,

"Likewise," He smiled taking her hand and giving it a gentle kiss, "If you'll allow me to take you on a walk through the gardens?"

She nodded and allowed him to keep her hand in his as they began their walk through the Gardens. 

[thesunfyre4446]

wrt to book alicent and viserys's marriage :

did book alicent want to marry viserys? did she play an active role in becoming his queen? we don't know. all we have from F&B is :

"His Grace had his own notion, and no amount of argument would sway him from his course. He would marry again, yes…but not to a twelve-year-old girl, and not for reasons of state. Another woman had caught his eye. He announced his intention to wed Lady Alicent of House Hightower, the clever and lovely eighteen-year-old daughter of the King’s Hand"

that's it. that's all we know about their marriage.

alicent was 18 when they married, which is obviously better then 14 but still very young. the book does indicate otto's involvement in alicent and viserys's marriage :

" there were those who murmured that the Hand had risen above himself, that he had brought his daughter to court with this in mind "

we also have one more very important and interesting detail about book alicent that people tend to overlook

"As the Old King’s strength and wits began to fail, he was oft confined to his bed .Ser Otto’s precocious fifteen-year-old daughter, Alicent, became his constant companion, fetching His Grace his meals, reading to him, helping him to bathe and dress himself"

i find it very hard to believe that a 15yo girl would willingly become an old man's "constant companion". it's very obvious that otto put her in that position. but why? to get close to viserys? but why would he do that? aemma was young, healthy and fertile. otto would gain nothing from alicent getting close to viserys and becoming his mistress. on the contrary, the hightowers are associated with the faith - alicent becoming the king's mistress would bring shame and dishonor on them.

my guess is that he made alicent jaehaerys companion because it was an honorable position for her to have, and could potentially advance her & his daughter being around the king all the time gives him more control over him. i don't think it had anything to do with viserys. but i do think it shows how otto wants to advance his family & is very comfortable using his daughter . (because who wants to bathe and dress an old dying man? 15yo alicent must have hated being jaehaerys companion)

but it is important to mention that by having alicent so close to the old king, viserys must gotten to know her pretty well. alicent is 18 when they get married. still a very young girl. the idea that she's some sort of evil mastermind maliciously planning to marry viserys is ridicules. book ! alicent is not show!alicent. she's ambitious. she loves the power. she loves being a queen. (you go gurl). but i do believe that otto played a big part in her marriage to viserys & pushed her to become queen. the narrative of teenager alicent being an evil mastermind having an evil masterplan to marry viserys at 17-18 is just ridicules.

her ambitions , her rivalry with rhaenyra, wanting power for herself. all of these things developed over the years. alicent and rhaenyra had a good relationship when alicent and viserys got married. she was still just a girl.

so did alicent want to marry viserys? i don't know. maybe she did. maybe she wanted to be the queen. but she was obviously being influenced and used by her father.

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 8: Triumph

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Hello, everyone! Can’t stop, won’t stop! This is a minor edit of the OG chapter, so nothing too new here beyond the odd word change or punctuation adjustment. I’m reasonably confident I’m almost done with the instalment, and after that, it’ll be really minor grammar/style edits and High Valyrian switchouts for the remainder of my series. THEN, I can get into writing new instalments! YAY! Thank you, as always, to my #1 gal, my slap daddy @ewanmitchellcrumbs​​ for giving this the stamp of approval.

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, violence, age gap.

Daemon spends the next few days in hiding, taking his meals in his chambers and refusing to venture outside the safe haven of its four walls.

Considering just how many people he had managed to piss off in the space of a single evening, it is probably for the best. He has to admit that, by the third day, the room feels as though it’s closing in on him. That being said, he has little wish to force his company on you after how frightened you had looked, or risk being murdered on sight if either his brother or oldest niece catch a glimpse of him anywhere near you. The fact that he had so thoroughly broken off relations with his old crowd leaves him with little alternative than to remain concealed, out of sight and mind.

Yes, it is best to wait, to let the outcome play itself out. Until Viserys deigns to speak to him again—until he gathers the will to approach you—here he shall remain.

He spends his time reading the old histories, fetched readily by his attending servants. Immersing himself in tales of the Conqueror, the Fall of Ghis, the Doom, he ponders upon his ancestry.

It is a sobering thought, he concludes, to consider how far House Targaryen had risen since the Old Days, from minor dragonlords to rulers of an entire continent.

And yet, for all the power they had amassed, they are all but alone in carrying the memory of their true home. The Freehold is now nothing more than smoking ruins and ashen horizons and fairy stories mothers tell to frighten their children.

It is a day similar to any other when he receives a knock upon the door. Given that the servants tap gently, the domineering pounding upon the wooden surface can only mean that his self-imposed isolation has come to an end. Sighing, he abandons the book and removes himself from the desk, striding over to the entry to reveal his guest.

Daemon had been expecting a member of the Kingsguard. He finds Rhaenyra.

“May I come in?” she asks, hands clasped before her and face impassive. He nods, obligingly standing aside. His niece stops in the middle of the room and turns to face him. It is fascinating that the sight of her no longer arouses the same ardour and shame and torment it had once done, just the throb of an old hurt on a rainy day. “You’ve been avoiding us.”

He chuckles, closing the door. “I had thought that was rather obvious. I didn’t think anyone would particularly enjoy my presence, seeing as I traumatised my poor sweet niece by attacking her suitor in the hallway.”

He focuses his gaze upon the window past her head, unable to look her in the eye.

She huffs a breath. “He deserved it.” She pauses; hesitates. “She’s… confused. And upset.”

His chest tightens at the information.

“I know,” he says quietly. For all his bluster, he had no wish to distress you or see you distressed, and now it seems he is the very cause of it. “I hadn’t intended… well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

“Why?” Rhaenyra blurts, seemingly having paid little attention to his words.

Her utterance is too sudden, too abrupt after the conclusion of his sentence to be motivated by anything other than the wounds of the past. He focuses upon her face properly, frowning lightly when he absorbs the expression of hurt confusion upon it. She steps forward, her composure breaking somewhat in the slump of her shoulders and the relaxing of her spine. 

It all comes spilling out in a rush—every question, every thought, every hurt she must have carried in her soul since he left, waiting for the perfect moment to unleash itself upon his ears.

“Why her? Why me? Why did you leave me there, in that whorehouse, with no means of protection and no way to get home? Why did you bother coming to my wedding, to tell me not to marry Laenor only to turn around and disappear when I begged you to take me away? Why have you returned now, after ten years, only to immediately fixate upon my little sister, one of the few pure things in my life, and seek to mar her the way you did me—” 

“You were a child.”

She barks out a laugh, an ugly, twisted thing, and throws up her hands. “So is she! She’s a girl, Daemon, a girl who knows even less about the capriciousness of men than I did at her age! Is it any wonder I am so protective over her?”

“You demean her.” He leans back against the wall as he surveys her critically. “She’s more intelligent than anyone gives her credit for.”

“Oh, please! You know very well that book learning and worldly knowledge aren’t the same thing!” She stops; sighs. Her hand comes up to clasp the bridge of her nose in consternation. “I didn’t come here to yell at you again.”

“That’s news to me,” is his sardonic counter.

He feels the old guilt and self-loathing rise up again. She isn’t wrong. He has committed grievous acts against his own blood, acts he has never apologised for. And you are innocent, pure in a way that he is almost averse to contaminating, but his very nature will not allow him to resist the temptation of leading you down the path of passion. 

“I was cruel to you,” he says. “I… You never deserved what I did to you that night. But I cannot wish that it never happened, because it’s led us to who we are today. And isn’t that something?”

He comes forward to clasp her face in his hands and stares down at the face of his niece, the Realm’s Delight, his regret and love and hate all tangled into one incomprehensible entity. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, the way he used to when she was a child, and she wilts into his arms the way she did when her mother passed. They stand there, embracing finally as niece and uncle. He almost thinks he can feel some fractured part of him knit back together.

“Do you love her, Uncle?” she whispers, the cadence childish in the way that it was when everything was simple, uncomplicated, free from darkness or loss or despair. The sound is muffled in his chest, but he hears it all the same.

He hesitates, thinking upon you—your bright grin, your pale hair, your free laughter and the sound of your voice, the curve of your body and the way you look up at him, void of disgust or abhorrence. It makes both his cock and his chest ache.

“It’s more complicated than that.” His hand pats against her back comfortingly as he had done when he was himself young, her merely a wailing babe refusing to lay down to sleep. “I will not lie and claim feelings that aren’t there, but… when she looks at me, I feel as though she sees the best parts of who I am. It’s easy to pretend there’s still something good... left.”

“You’re still good, Daemon, no matter what you’ve done,” Rhaenyra says, jabbing him quickly between the ribs in his back. Her nails fucking sting.

He tugs her hair playfully in remonstration, breathing a laugh. “Cheeky. I’ve spent so much of my life being the cause of anger, hate, destruction… I want to be someone’s happiness. I want to be her happiness.” 

Rhaenyra pulls away from him, wiping at her eyes. He is saddened and yet cognisant of the tear that had escaped unbidden, the years of uncertainty and suffering finally earning their release. When she smiles at him, it is a mixture of despondency and contentment—two such warring emotions—that lifts the corners of her mouth.

“I won’t lie and say it isn’t painful to hear you talk about her like she’s… I don’t know. Something worth fighting for, perhaps. But… I’m happy for you.”

She is quiet, earnest as she looks at him. Daemon is warmed by it. He hadn’t been asking for her approval, nor had he been expecting it, but to hear something almost approaching a blessing is a relief. One down…

“But you need to talk to her. She has no idea what’s going on. And if you mean to follow through with it—marry her and all—you can’t just arrange it through Father. It’s her life, and she has the right to refuse you. She pats him lightly on the shoulder as she passes him, walking back the way she had entered.

She turns to face him, smirk adorning her visage, a glint of steel in her eyes. “And know this. You will treat her well, or there shall be no men, dragons or gods that will save you from my wrath.”

Seven fucking hells.

“Understood.” He nods solemnly. His eldest niece really is a force to be reckoned with. She’ll make a fine ruler one day.

“And Daemon?” Rhaenyra beams suddenly, looking the very picture of unblemished youth. “Thank you.” It sweeps out of her, a burst of closure washing away the sins of the past.

She lets herself out.

It is a peculiar echo of their first meeting when he finally ventures out of his chambers in search of you, avoiding all curious stares and titillating whispers as he wanders through the Keep. He is once more relegated to searching the usual haunts, being both unable and unwilling to seek out Ser Harrold after the events of their previous encounter. Stopping by the library and the Hightower spawns’ rooms, there is little to be found.

Eventually, he happens upon the familiar tense stance of Cole, again guarding the entrance to the garden. Ah. There she is.

This time, he strides straight past the knight, not even bothering to posture to him today. He’s unimportant, a waste of his time—he’ll be damned if he expends his energy matching wits with a lowly knight from the Stormlands. This time, you are alone, sitting under the shade of the pavilion. Your legs swing under the bench as you stare pensively out at the trees, the hedges, the flowers.

Again, he calls your name. Again, your head snaps up to face him.

You are markedly more cautious as he makes his way forward, shifting uncomfortably as he takes a seat beside you. Daemon makes sure to leave acceptable space for fear of you running off. He waits for you to initiate the discussion, to take power for yourself where he had stolen it some days prior.

You sit in measured silence for a beat. Your breath hitches as you make abortive attempts to engage with him.

“Lord Tyrell is most aggrieved,” you say finally, quietly, uncertainly.

His nose flares softly. “He dishonoured you,” Daemon takes care not to allow annoyance to seep into his tone. I don’t give a fuck about the Tyrells. “He deserved it.”

“He reacted to the situation. One you placed him in, Uncle.”

Your response is quick, instantaneous, the effect lost by the picture you make as you stare resolutely at your wringing hands. It is your usual indication of anxiety, twisting and winding your fingers together to self-soothe, a babe clutching upon their favourite blanket.  You bite your lip hard, turning away from him and blinking rapidly.

He murmurs your name.

“I—I thought you… cared about me,” you say, whisper-quiet and mournful. “But you just wanted what all the others wanted.”

“No.” He pulls your hands from your lap, smothering the uneasy motions to cradle your small palms in his own. They are cold again, so he grips them tighter, hoping to transfer the warmth of his skin to yours. “Never say that. Of course I care, sweetest girl—”

He pulls his right hand away to lift your chin from where it is tucked against your collarbone, letting the pangs of contrition wash over him at the sight of your quivering lip. “How could you doubt it?”

You sniffle, try to tug your hands from his own. “You spent time with me—listened to me—gave me things,” you murmur, “and I thought you were interested in me, but you are only looking for the Valyrian wife you have longed for.”

Daemon resists you, forces you to look upon him. It is vexing to know that court gossip had reached your ears already. He hopes that is all you have heard.

“What do you know of my longing, hm?” is what he chooses to say, admonishing your line of thought as gently as he can.

Your reaction is telling. Fuck. She’s learned about the—Fuck.

You flush dark at his words, determinedly breaking eye contact. “They say… they say there was a— who looked like—when you went to Flea Bottom one eve…”

Damn it all. Raising his brow, he tries not to let his uneasiness reveal itself. “And do you believe everything the rabble blather on about among themselves? If there is something you must know, you need only ask.”

Not this, he urges silently. Don’t ask me this.

After a moment’s pause, you nod, though the sceptical manner in which you purse your lips suggests you do not accept his misdirection.

He sighs.

“Look”—he taps you lightly on the nose to distract you, steering the conversation quite decisively from his unsavoury exploits—“you are of fine stock and high birth, it’s true. You possess the qualities I want in a bride. But that is not all you are.” Your eyes cross as they follow the path of his finger and a smile threatens to lift the corner of your lip, easing the sting his words may bring. “You are intelligent, and lovely, and quite possibly the fairest maiden in the Realm.”

You snort lightly, and he teasingly pulls at your hands enclosed in his. Half-charmed and half-uncertain, your expression wavers as you stare up at him. He knows he has almost swayed you. Pressing further, he beseeches you with veiled intensity.

“Marry me,” he says. You blink at him, wide-eyed at the shift. “Stay with me, in the capital, with your family and your tutor and your dragon. Bind yourself to me; bear my children. Be my wife… Say yes to me.”

Your breath hitches at his passionate supplication, swallowing as his hand reaches up once more to lay itself upon your cheek. He bends forward, hardly believing you are allowing him so close to you. He is close enough that he can hear your quick breaths, watch the swell of your breasts above the cut of your gown rise and fall with each exhalation, smell the fragrant rose oil upon your skin. It is intoxicating.

You jerk away lightly, abortively. You are not ready.

“Will you make reparations? To Lord Tyrell?” you whisper, a shy peek of pink tongue venturing out to wet your bottom lip.

Daemon is momentarily stunned at the sight, a wild impulse to push forward and claim that lip with his teeth filling him so quickly and violently that he has to bite the inside of his cheek to will it away. He instead huffs a soft breath at your impertinence, flaring up in that unassuming way of yours even now, doe-eyed and sweet-faced and almost his.

“I’ll give him all the gold in my coffers, sweetling.” He nuzzles gently against the side of your face and revels in the victory that is about to be his. It isn’t too difficult a loss. He’ll remake his fortune quickly enough from the Crown’s annual sum. “You need only say the word.” 

“I dislike violence, kepus.” You shiver as his nose nudges softly against yours and withdraw slightly from him. You flick your eyes up to his. “I will not allow unneeded savagery from my husband.”

You are soft-spoken, but the resolve is clear. It is easy to acquiesce to your appeal.

“Then you’ll never have to bear witness to it, unless necessary,” he says, and he cannot help but to add that addendum to his vow. You notice, for your eyes narrow slightly but do not say anything further. He will not curb his nature entirely for you. “Will you trust that I know when it’s needed, little girl?”

You delay, twisting your mouth. Finally, you nod, ever the obedient girl to your elders.

“Good.” He is growing impatient at your stalling, eager to hear the words that have all but spilled forth. “Now—give me your answer. I won’t wait any longer.”

Your reply is an unexpected revelation. “I have… already spoken to Papa.”

How interesting. At least he’s been speaking to someone, Daemon thinks. He’d yet to receive anything but indifference and stony silence from his brother. He pulls back, brow quirked, waiting for you to elaborate.

You shift guiltily in his hold, glancing away momentarily. “Between Jason Lannister, Lord Denys, and Aegon—you are the better option.”

There’s that mischief again. He is overwhelmingly enamoured by it. 

There’s a flash of disappointment that you have not professed your desire for him beyond convenience, that you haven’t admitted to being as tortured as he had been over these past weeks, but that is no matter. He has time. He has all the time in the world to make you his, to make himself the axis upon which your world spins. It has been so long since he has felt so completely gratified in his triumph.

I won’t leave you ever again, he swears, releasing his declaration to the winds of fate. You’ll never be alone.

He presses a fervent kiss to your forehead, resting his own upon yours. Thank you, sweet girl. It never leaves his lips, so he tries to convey it through the touch of his skin and the weight of his palm against your neck, solid and real and constant.

The movement feels almost paternal, though the fervour driving it is anything but. It is a twisted, dark amalgamation of father, protector and lover-to-be, a swirl of all the duties he has and will undertake in your life. He supposes the disinclination to separate these roles is what drives such hatred of Valyrian tradition among the folk of Westeros. But he doesn’t care. He cannot care.

He has won.

He waits silently in the Small Council chamber, eyes wandering around the room as he resolutely ignores the irritable eyes upon him. The withered form of King Viserys sits hunched at the head of his table, staring down the row of seats to his brother with jaw set and assessing countenance.

The effect is rather diminished by the frailty of his form. With limp strands that are more greyish than white, scarred and ruined face, missing limbs and hunched spine, the man is a shadow of the once hale and hearty brother he knew. It makes him uncomfortable to be in his presence, a remorse and ache he feels deep in his bones that he cannot lay bare. For all the many censures he has levied against his brother over the years, it is now when faced with his mortality that he loathes the divide that has grown between them, as insurmountable as steel through rock.

“You’ll reside wherever she desires. Here, or Dragonstone, or wherever else she may choose,” the King says, eyes ever watchful.

Nigh on a sennight and not even a greeting. He’d met Northerners less chilly than the King in this moment.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Daemon tries to tamp down the self-satisfaction he must surely be exuding.

The King notices. “You’ll keep her safe and make her happy.” His voice is even terser than before.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“You’ll wed in the Sept, under the faith of the Seven.” He cuts Daemon off before he has a chance to speak. “I’ll brook no discontent from the high lords as to the legality of this… union.” The manner in which he utters this tells Daemon all he needs to know as to his brother’s attitude.

How did she manage to convince him? he wonders. You’d told him nothing of the matter, and none other had been present for whatever argument you had utilised to bend the King to your will. Clever girl.

Viserys is still talking. “They’ll not tolerate a foreign ceremony on top of your relation.”

The point is fair. Though he is sure the King had gone to his own deal of trouble to fulfil your choice, he cannot help that it stings.

“I had hoped to wed my bride in the old ways,” Daemon says.

What is the point of tying a bit of ribbon around a pair of hands and chanting some words over it, the sickly scent of burnt sage wafting in the nose and the shift and rumble of bored guests in the crowd? No—he would much rather join to you as the Conqueror had claimed his wives, an elemental union of blood and spirit that no mortal nor gods could tear asunder.

Viserys grunts. “You’ll wed under the Seven. I care little should you choose to follow it with another rite.” The man stands firm upon his declaration, his tone expressing the antipathy he will not put into words.

Daemon mutters under his breath. It isn’t worth the trouble to protest further. Perhaps his brother is correct—it would be simpler to give the nobles a show of goodwill, get the deed over and done with.

He bends to the wishes of his King. “Fine, Your Grace.”

“Good.” Viserys leans back, chair creaking as he presses against the side of the table and stretches out his remaining limb, the joint cracking noisily. “Then I wash my hands of it.”

Daemon can hear what he does not say. ‘Of you.’ That is what he’d meant. It’ll be some time before the man would forgive him this latest trespass—another decade, maybe. For all his ire over Rhaenyra, this may actually be worse, for at least he’d had an excuse to deny his brother and daughter their desire then. Now, nothing stands in the Rogue Prince’s way.

The King smacks his lips in disquiet, the sound loud in the echoing hush of the room. “I only pray she has made the right choice in you.”

“Thank you, brother.”

There is no value in attempting to reassure Viserys of his intentions, as noble as they are ever like to be. Daemon will simply have to prove his merit through action.

“Let us be done with it, then,” his brother mutters, scraping his chair back as he stands and hobbles out of the room. Daemon inclines his head in deference as he passes, following Viserys through the walkway into the Great Hall.

The hall is packed with the lords and ladies of the Realm, finely accoutred in their silks and their jewels, milling about in preparation for the King’s royal announcement. As he enters the chamber, he can spy the men of station his brother has invited to the day’s proceedings, the high lords of the land they rule: Jason Lannister, appearing well and truly livid at having yet another of his prospective Targaryen brides yanked out from under the yoke of his attentions; Jeyne Arryn, the Maiden of the Vale; the ageing Grover Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident; Boremund Baratheon and his son, Borros; the beaten visage of Lord Denys, and Daemon has to restrain a smirk as the man glares, a prancing peacock with his feathers ruffled; even Cregan Stark, the twelve-year-old Wolf of the North, has made an appearance in his sickly father’s stead.

He spies you to the left of the throne, past Rhaenyra and her sons, past Laenor cradling the smallest boy in his arms. You stand beside the Hightower bitch and her children. It is a bizarre arrangement—from the look on the Queen’s haughty face as she gazes out at the court, nose turned up at the whispers, it had been her idea. Her hand is on your shoulder, though you pay it no mind. Instead, you have been easily diverted by the inane half-speak of the girl beside you, Viserys’ eldritch offspring with her jumbling rambles and muttered riddles.

She is too easily led, he thinks distastefully. I’ll have to remedy that.

Daemon surveys the assemblage of aristocracy below, noting how lacklustre their attempt to veil their curious goggling and riveted gossip. You have not seen beneath the guise of friendliness offered to you by your lady stepmother. A disappointingly half-witted move; if Her Grace had thought to persuade him to her side by positioning herself as his little niece’s companion, she would be sorely frustrated. Their colouring may be Valyrian, but the spawn of Alicent Hightower were no more Targaryen than the flaxen-haired maid who empties his chamberpot in the mornings. He’d be damned if the fruit of her womb replaced Rhaenyra’s rightful claim.

Viserys climbs the steps to the throne with some effort, having to swing his body to land the last two steps properly. It is no doubt a humiliating spectacle to endure, and he feels a pang of sympathy in his chest. Daemon stops to stand beside Laenor, his cousin and goodnephew by marriage.

Goodbrother also, soon. What a perplexing notion.

Finally, the King turns to face his audience, sitting gingerly upon the seat. He has likely cut his backside again. When he takes his place, the hall quietens, stooping to bend or curtsey in performance of their obeisance.

“I welcome the Lords of the Realm to King’s Landing.” For all the deterioration of his body, there is no doubt that his voice is as strong as ever, the tenor booming through the echoing space. “I have an announcement to make—that of the birth of my grandson, your Prince, Joffrey of House Velaryon, delivered of my heir the Princess Rhaenyra four moons past.”

Daemon glances at Laenor and Rhaenyra, his lips upturning despite himself. Their joy is infectious. His eldest niece affects an aspect of polite gratification, and Laenor beams as the assembly applauds in recognition of the boy’s birth. There are, however, several odd glimpses made toward the proud form of Ser Harwin Strong, stationed ever faithfully at the foot of the steps nearest Rhaenyra. The rumours will never outrun her.

Viserys raises his hand to settle the room once more. “I must also make proclamation of my second-born daughter’s impending nuptials.”

The words carry even louder, a response to the surprised hum that lifts the room. After all, you had only been courting for a small window of time, and it was not yet rumoured that you had a favourite.

“It is my decree that she is to be given in marriage to my brother, Prince Daemon of House Targaryen, son of Baelon and Alyssa of the same House, former King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, to continue the strength of our noble heritage and prosper the blood of Old Valyria.”

The shocked gasps and scandalised chatter fill the hall with a wash of racket as he strides down the steps, waiting impatiently for you to descend and meet him at the foot of the throne. It is a practised gesture, but one you must perform, nonetheless. You lift your skirts, scaled black like the heraldry of your shared House, and trail down the stairs at a more sedate pace.

You stop before him and curtsey lightly.

“I welcome the news of this match, my Prince,” you say, your voice ringing out clear despite the evident apprehension swimming in the violet of your eyes.

The din has receded to a low mumble, the court unsure what to make of this unexpected declaration. Daemon bows slowly before you, capturing your hand in his and pressing his lips to your flesh in a motion of aristocratic gentility. He is sure the way he stares upon you is anything but gentlemanly. A flush begins to bloom once again, adorning the pale of your skin.

“I am honoured to receive your hand, Princess.” Though he can hear his own lower tones reverberate in his ears, it is strangely intimate. For a moment, he forgets there are others in the room.

A predictable flutter circulates among the ladies of the court, sighs and murmurs and breathy chatter too far off to discern. He grins as he steps forward to tuck your arm in his own, leading you away from the Queen and her ilk. The court claps, and whether it be in shock or in genuine gladness, he cares not. All he sees is you, brimming with unease and yet clutching to him tightly, his darling girl once more seeking refuge with her fiercest protector.

There, on the steps to the Iron Throne in the Great Hall of the Red Keep, your arm entwined in his, he smiles.

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[the-great-knight-gay]

Character Analysis: The Seven (Riordanverse)

Each of the seven have issues:

Percy is suicidal as in most of his POVs there is a large lack of regard for his life, multiple times stating he believes people will be better off without him and even stating he wanted to drown in TLF and SoM. On top of that... Physically abused as a kid. C'mon we all remember and hate Gabe. I hate how his entire character was literally forgotten about, despite the fact that an abusive parent should stick with a kid for quite some time.

Here's my headcanon for that. It wasn't forgotten, just not acknowledged. We all remember in the earlier books Percy was pretty much apologizing for doing anything right. That's a trait instilled in people who are used to getting abuse for doing anything. I could just be reading into it too much, and I probably am, but it's the only thing that reassures me that this wasn't forgotten about.

In fact I don't think Rick really understood the implications of what Gabe's actions would have done to Percy as he stated that in the upcoming show Timm Sharp's performance as Gabe had everyone laughing and I think that's the only thing I am slightly apprehensive about in the show.

His lack of self-worth is honestly probably a result of Gabe and I feel so angry that it was never touched.

Annabeth has abandonment issues as nearly everyone she has ever loved has left her at some point. Her mother disowned her after TLH, her father chose her mortal family over her and ignored her as she grew up, Luke betrayed her and Thalia joined the Hunters. There was even that time when Chiron was going to leave for good in SoM. That was why she was so threatened by Rachel. Because she was taking away the one good person left who stood by her.

Yes I just ignored Grover. I realize that.

Jason suffers from image issues as he was put on a pedestal from day one, even as a child just because his daddy was a king. He does NOT get enough credit my man suffered as a kid. This was probably one of the only ones where Rick actually tried to address the problem and eventually he found his calling and grew past that. Then Trials of Apollo came along. *Ugly sobbing intensifies*

Piper suffers from neglect from her father who didn't have enough time to spend with her and from her mother leaving. Even when her mother was there in Charleston, she paid much more attention to Hazel and Annabeth than she did to her own daughter.

Leo... Where to start? The kid was homeless and slept in sewers. That on its own is just sad but even more, he believed he was the reason his mom was dead. He was shunned by his own flesh and blood and was forced to retreat behind the comfort of his machines and even then, Festus was brutally taken away by those lasers. Rick really just pulled out the most brutal, sad backstory for this kid ever.

Frank is one of the less traumatized ones but still, a dead mother and having to watch his home burn down with his grandmother inside? Not good.

Hazel... Pulled out of time into unfamiliar circumstances. Having to deal with the knowledge that her childhood friend moved away, thinking that it was his fault that Hazel left (Sammy and the diamond). Having to deal with the knowledge that she was part of the reason one of the giants had risen. Forcibly exiling herself from Elysium into Asphodel just so her mom wouldn't suffer. And speaking of her mom... Maria Levesque's treatment of Hazel, acting as if she were a curse and not a living child, making her sympathize with the Minotaur of all creature, would leave lasting scars on all of them.

The most consolation I can get for this is that it looks like most of them have managed to move past all of this. Jury is still out on Annabeth and Percy as I have not read CotG yet but I'm hopeful.

Except Jason. They just had to completely overhaul him by ripping away the relationship he had with Piper, which didn't need to happen, right before he died.

My reason for not liking the Jasiper break up is the fact that, the argument that they were forced into the relationship happened at the wrong time. This was after they had done a fresh start of the end of BoO. Anytime before that I can understand, but at that point? There was no reason. Then they just had to kill my boy. RICK I SWEAR TO ALL THE GODS IF THIS HAPPENS TO ANYONE IN THE WRATH OF THE TRIPLE GODDESS AND WHATEVER THE FINAL BOOK OF THIS NEW TRILOGY IS I WILL FIND YOU!

Apologies I get a bit worked up sometimes.

DON'T KILL GROVER

It's a bad habit.

PERCABETH BETTER NOT FACE ANY RELATIONSHIP PROBLEMS THEY ARE PERFECT DON'T RUIN IT!

Anyways, Knight out!

Go check out my Ao3 and Wattpad

No Riordanverse fics yet as I am still focusing on my Pokémon OC story but just you wait! It's coming!