#Vlad Ţepeş

[coffeewithcutcaffeine]

— in which Vlad and Mehmed set aside their animosity and swallow their pride for a few moments of camaraderie.

word count: 2,342 words

warnings: explicit and implicit mentions of violence; threats of violence; mentions of teenage parenthood

a/n: I do not really know how to feel about this one lmao. But I swear I tried! On the other hand, I thoroughly enjoyed moulding Mehmed’s character into life, especially in a setting in which he is friendlier towards Vlad. (These two will always have their issues, but nothing is ever completely black and white!) I hope you enjoy this! ❤️️

➨ also available on AO3

September 1446, Çandarlı, western Anatolia, the Ottoman Sultanate

“What are you waiting for? Come!” Mehmed’s commanding voice pierces through the roar of the waves.

Vlad remains motionless. His muscles are paralysed, as though bound by invisible chains. As much as he wills his body to move, it defies him. He stands transfixed instead, wide eyes filled with awe at the colossal tidal waves surging towards him. A violent storm ravaged the town the previous day, leaving the waters restless and turbulent, with swells and whitecaps dancing upon the sea.

“Move! If you stay there, you will get—”

He does not hear the end of the sentence. An immense wave crashes against him and drags him beneath the surface. Vlad reemerges in a flurry of flailing limbs and gasps, spluttering curses as he battles the water’s hold. The salty sting invades his eyes and mouth and leaves him grimacing in distaste. His face burns with the heat of embarrassment caused by the young sultan’s outstretched hand, offered with a condescending smirk that only heightens his shame. Pushing the sodden locks from his face, he begrudgingly accepts Mehmed’s hand and lets himself be dragged deeper into the embrace of the open sea.

“Come now, swim further!” Mehmed shouts as another colossal wave rushes towards them and casts an accusatory glance at his companion over his shoulder. “You said you knew how to swim!”

“In a river!” Vlad cries out, loathing how his voice betrays his mounting vexation.

“Better for you, then! Swimming in the sea is easier. Now move!”

He grabs Vlad’s hand again and yanks at it, propelling him forward like a petulant child. It leaves him no choice but to swim onward, and they stop only when the water deepens to the point where their toes can no longer touch the sea floor. Vlad reluctantly concedes to Mehmed’s advice — beyond the tumultuous waves, the water transforms into a cradle that rocks their bodies in a comforting rhythm.

Mehmed points his finger towards the distance, directing Vlad’s eyes upon the expanse of endless blue water. “If we were to swim further west, we would reach Lesbos.”

“Wonderful,” is all Vlad can muster in reply.

He longs to close his eyes and let his face drink in the sun, but an invisible force anchors his gaze to the distant point Mehmed has shown him. The vastness of the sea dwarfs him, turning him into a mere speck in time and space. Within that insignificance, he finds a taste of freedom — sharp, unexpected, like the tang of salt in the air — that he has long forgotten and surrendered to believe would never grace him again. He reclines upon the water and offers himself to the waves, basking in the silence interrupted only by the whisper of the sea behind him. In that boundless space, anything seems attainable. He could linger here, letting the currents carry him away only to cast him ashore on some distant, unfamiliar land where a new beginning might await. His slate would be wiped clean, with no history to bind him, the weight of debts, failures, and promises erased and forgotten.

He could be anyone. He could be no one. He could be anywhere, everywhere. Anywhere else.

The illusion shatters, stolen away by the intrusion of Mehmed’s voice that thrusts him back into reality. When Vlad opens his eyes heavy with reluctance and rolls over, he watches as Mehmed points first here, then there, his motions sketching unseen paths into the expanse of the horizon. He talks to him about the town’s history, about its ancient name of Pitane, about the devastating earthquake that damaged it during Titus’ reign. Then he gestures towards the four square corner towers of the kalesi they reside in, speaking of its past under the Genoese, now rebuilt by Çandarlı Halil Pasha to protect Mehmed’s father from the danger of possible external attacks. His nose wrinkles in contempt, the pasha’s name slipping from his lips like a bitter rot.

Vlad stares at his companion, letting the silence stretch between them. His thoughts become lost in the glint of Mehmed’s eyes, unsure whether it is the sunlight or some hidden ardour sparking within. Despite every protest and complaint hurled against the idea of joining the young sultan on this extended retreat, he has come to find a certain solace in this seclusion. He anticipated more of Mehmed’s fury at having to relinquish the throne to his father at the beginning of the month and return to Manisa as a governor, with the title of sultan reduced to a mere ornament. To his surprise, he finds that, away from the ruthless intrigue of the Porte and the boundless power that once fueled the youth, Mehmed’s presence becomes almost bearable.

At first, he could not fathom the reason why. Now he knows. Pride became a feast they devoured out of hunger, their throats raw from swallowing it down. Mehmed seeks his companion as a refuge from the emptiness that has gathered around him like a second skin. Vlad’s own solitude feels vast and bitter. Misery twists into something that pulls them together.

The animosity lingers, though. Dormant. With closed eyes that hunger for blood.

When they emerge from the water, they dress in their şalvarlar left upon the shore, the warm cotton soothing against their damp skin. They sit in the sand and burrow their toes into its grains, looking around them in silence. In the soft morning light, the town breathes in rhythm with the deep, endless blue of the Aegean. Artisans weave sturdy nets from coarse wool threads, their fingers moving with practised ease. The air is thick with the briny scent of the morning’s catch as men gut and prepare fish for cooking. Fishermen haul in their boats, figures hardened by years spent braving the waters, their weathered faces marked with the tales of the sea’s trials and generous bounties.

Mehmed revels in the freedom of his bare head, allowing the warm rays to dry his hair. In their light, it shimmers like gold, spun from the sun itself. He appears young, so very young, far younger in the simple şalvar than in the embroidered silks, the regal jewels, the impressive turbans. His cheeks still bear the soft contours of youth, while his nose, a parrot’s beak marred by an old fracture, slopes downward with a newfound prominence. It astonishes him that this boy, younger than Vlad himself, is already a father to a month-old child. Fatherhood is an obligation reserved for men of mature years, belonging to an age that feels as distant as another lifetime to him.

“How is your daughter?” Vlad inquires, taken aback by the touch of softness in his voice.

Even if he hoped for a reaction, none would come. He tilts his head slightly, catching a glimpse of Mehmed’s indifferent shrug. The young Turk leans back instead, propping himself on his elbows as he stretches his legs out before him. Vlad turns his face towards the tides again, yet he feels the searing gaze upon his back, burning through him. He can sense the precise journey of Mehmed’s eyes as they glide over the scarred terrain of his skin, each ridge studied with the rapt fascination of an artist admiring his masterpiece.

He wrestles with the impulse to draw his knees to his chest. It would pull the skin taut, accentuating the scars even more. He refuses to grant him that satisfaction.

But Mehmed always wields his words like finely honed blades. One strikes with lethal precision, delivered with a malicious smirk on his lips. “We were merciful with you. The punishment could have been far worse.”

There it is once more, that thirst for blood, his blood. All the years of self-restraint and relentless suppression of rage dissolve into the ether, swept away by the venom that pours from Mehmed’s lips. Just like then, before those marks were seared into his back as a warning, an irrational, primal fury floods his veins. He yearns to seize the Turk by the shoulders and topple him to the ground, to claw at his face and press his hands into his windpipe until his cheeks turn blue, the final breaths expelled from him in a desperate, silent plea—

“Tell me about your homeland.”

“Seeking inspiration for future conquests?”

“Of what use would it be to me? I will have Constantinople instead.”

He cannot place his trust in himself, not now. He clenches his fists, trying to still the trembling that creeps up his arms before he dares to meet his gaze. The tension coiling in his shoulders like a serpent does not evade Mehmed’s sharp perception.

“Well? Speak. Educate me. What does Eflâk look like?”

He turns his head then, and the ferocity in Mehmed’s eyes has softened into genuine curiosity. He even smiles a little, a fleeting glimmer of warmth different to the usual sharp-toothed grins he has come to know. He pats the warm sand by his side, and with a sigh of surrender, Vlad lies down beside him. Their shoulders nearly touch as both young men cast their eyes upon the white clouds above them.

“It has green fields that stretch like endless skies for which you named my country,” he begins hesitantly. “The valleys bloom with wildflowers in every colour, and the forests are filled with trees so high that they touch the sky, and rivers flow like silver threads under the sun. The mountains carry the strength of our people. In the mornings, the mist rises from the fields, and the first light makes everything glow.”

He cloaks his words in a shroud of ambiguity, only a handful of memories clinging to their edges to avoid the sting of reopening the wounds that have yet to heal. Mehmed nods contentedly, constructing vivid images from the words his companion has just shared. For a moment, silence envelops them as the young sultan absorbs the new knowledge, sifting through it and tucking it away into the chambers of his mind.

“And where does your family live?”

This time, the wounds burst open, draining Vlad of blood and leaving him to die in the sand. “In a palace, of course.”

“But it does not resemble the one in Edirne?”

“No… It is a fortified place, practical, not ostentatious. With thick walls and a pitched roof covered with wooden shingles.” He feels his cheeks burn when he adds, “Behind the palace walls, my mother tends to her rose garden.”

“It sounds so simple. It does not represent the strength and power of your voyvoda.”

“The voyvoda himself represents strength and power. The residence is just stone and lime.”

Mehmed’s derisive scoff reveals his thoughts more eloquently than any words could. “Provincial and barbaric. Like all about you.”

Vlad scarcely acknowledges the presence of the other. He lies motionless, eyes sealed shut, guarding against the betrayal of any stray thought that might flicker across his face, but Mehmed reads the silence as acquiescence. He shifts onto his elbow, letting his head drop against the curve of his open palm, and fixes his gaze upon the Wallachian’s face.

“Why would you wish to return to it? Here, you can lead a life your people could scarcely imagine. You can amass wealth far beyond what your voyvoda would hope to even peek at in his life.”

“You would never understand.”

“Enlighten me, then.”

A weary sigh escapes Vlad’s lips, knowing Mehmed’s relentless pursuit of an answer will not cease until his curiosity is sated.

“I belong there,” he says with finality, throwing his hands up before letting them fall limply to his sides.

“No one is chained to where they were born. You could accomplish so much here, and you would be offered opportunities that you could never—”

A surge of energy courses through Vlad, propelling his body upright with unexpected vigour. He finds himself once again seated on the warm sand, his back taut with renewed tension. The words grate against his ears, and he does not wish to hear another thing, especially not from him—

“And how would you feel if you were taken away from home, all you have ever known and loved?” he raises his voice.

He lifts himself from the ground and dusts off the fine grains clinging to the white cotton, ready to put the leather sandals on his feet and walk back to the kalesi, gladly leaving his companion to bake in the intensifying sun. He sees it then, in Mehmed’s eyes — a hint of recognition, a silent notion of compassion. I understand you. I share your sentiments, the softness in his hazel gaze seems to whisper back to him. The compassion is gone in an instant, any remnants of humanity vanish like a dying star in the night sky. The regal composure is back, his face unmoving and impassive like the marble statues of the ancient Greek times the young sultan is so fascinated by.

“That would never happen.”

He ought to swallow the bile, but a perverse desire to see Mehmed’s face redden with humiliation compels him forward. He strikes where he knows it will hurt the most, letting the bitter words drip from his tongue. “Do not be so sure. Your father would gladly give you up.”

But words cannot hurt what Mehmed has already begun to make peace with. He rises to his full height, hazel eyes locking with Vlad’s emerald gaze. A smile, as luminous as it is taunting, spreads across his lips.

“You still do not understand, do you? My land is too powerful to ever succumb to another. We conquer. Being conquered is as alien to us as the concept of freedom might be to a caged bird.”

With a patronising pat on Vlad’s cheek, his fingers sink into his jaw which is now carving its path into the chiselled lines of adulthood. He then turns away, gesturing for Vlad to follow in a command that allows no disobedience.

With his teeth clenched to the point of fracture, he follows.

This piece was created as an attempt at a character study of Mehmed. He is a fascinating historical figure, one that deserves more exploration than what he is often reduced to in Vlad Dracula-oriented work. I cannot wait to include him in more works soon, shed light on their first moments, and all that comes later on. For now, I hope that you will find his younger self intriguing — let me know what you think about him, as well as his dynamics with Vlad!

And as always, a bit of historical context and vocab to help explain! :)

We have no historical evidence that Vlad and Mehmed knew each other more privately. They kept diplomatic ties and later waged war against one another, they also possibly met in their adulthood, during Vlad’s second reign (Wallachian princes were expected to personally deliver financial tribute to the Sultan’s court), but we do not know if they ever met during Vlad’s hostage years (though the probability is rather low because they lived in different places). If they did, they were hardly close friends. However, the number one rule in any Vlad Dracula historical fiction is that their conflict runs much deeper and starts way sooner, and my dramatic ass relishes in that.

The piece takes place in Çandarlı, a town in the district of Dikili in İzmir Province. Its landmark is the Çandarlı Castle (castle is called kalesi in Turkish), a fortress rebuilt in the 15th century by Çandarlı Halil Pasha the Younger, the Grand Vizier of Sultan Murad II. The fortress primarily served as an emergency retreat for Murad in case of an outside attack on the country (Murad liked to spend his free time near Manisa, hence the location). The Çandarlı family was also the second most influential Ottoman family after the House of Osman from the 14th to 15th centuries, though their status ended in 1453 when Mehmed completely stripped the family of their position.

Şalvar is a typical type of wide trousers that are loose in the crotch and tied at the waist. During the Ottoman Empire, şalvar became widespread in all regions of the empire, and the clothing item is still quite popular in these regions. Şalvarlar is the plural form of the word.

As for Mehmed’s very early fatherhood, he became a father for the first time at only fourteen years old. His first child was a daughter named Gevherhan who was born in 1446. Her mother was Gülbahar Hatun, Mehmed’s most beloved concubine and later the mother of the future Sultan Bayezid II.

Wallachia is also known in modern Turkish as Ulahya, but its older and more commonly used name is Eflâk. Interestingly, the word is homophonous with another word افلاك, which means “heavens” or “skies”. That is why I have Vlad play around with the words in the dialogue.

[throuple-tournament]

Nathan/Vlad/Ursula created by @thebibliosphere.

Description provided by @wanderingandfound.

Trevor: the born and bred monster slayer, whose noble family was all killed by a village mob when he was a child, and he is the lone survivor of that massacre. Alucard: the half-vampire son of Dracula who lived a very happy life until the church killed his human mom and his vampire dad went mad from grief. And Sypha: the magician from a travelling people known as Speakers who have a prophecy that basically says the three of them are to team up to kill Dracula.

Description provided by @powerpolyculeshowdown.

Nathan/Vlad/Ursula: For most of the book it's about two of the characters' romance (Vlad and Nathan) and Ursula meets them closer to the end. Their relationship, I think, is supposed to be continued in the next book. They all kiss each other and it's clear from the book that they like each other, and are all open to polyamory.

[sir-klauz]

The Alucard anime vamp we got

The Alucard anime vamp this generation of anime fans get

goth girl Dracula vs barbie son of Dracula AU

[there-are-many-ways-to-smile]

Do you think Dracula would still want the world to be destroyed if his son had died instead of his wife?

[grecoromanyaoi]

like ive heard of a "feminist retelling" of vlad ţepeş. as in vlad the impaler. where he's a girlboss. like is that the guy we want to yassify? are we sure? well, if being lea's friend taught me anything is that romanians love to be feminized.

[soranatus]

The Son of Lisa Fahrenheit & Vlad Ţepeş by Mindy Lee!

[beevean]

Translating Symphony of the Night's bios

Alucard (Adrian Fahrenheit Ţepeş)

Age: 400 (presumed)

A hybrid born from Count Dracula and a human mother. Despite his beautiful androgynous features and slender body, he is physically strong and can use dark magic.

His main weapon is a sword, and by using various magical devices and items, he can gain the ability to transform and magical attacks.

He is a taciturn and gloomy young man, but he has an intelligent and calm personality.

Maria Renard

Age: 17

A girl who is distantly related to the Belmont family of vampire hunters, and also Richter's sister-in-law.

She herself is a vampire hunter who defeated Count Dracula with Richter in battle five years ago.

An intelligent and active girl who has the amazing power to control animals. On her journey to find a missing Richter, she hears rumors of a resurrected Castlevania.

Richter Belmont

Age: 24

A descendant of the Belmont family, who have fought Count Dracula for generations as vampire hunters. In the battle five years ago, he defeated his nemesis, Count Dracula, but has been missing for a year. A hot-blooded man with a strong sense of justice, who fights with a whip that has been used for generations as a weapon against vampires by his ancestors.

Count Dracula (Dracula Vlad Ţepeş)

Age: 800 (presumed)

As the lord of Castlevania, he has terrorized many people. With his mighty power of darkness, he is the supreme ruler of the dark world and he is skilled in black magic.

He was revived for the third time in the 18th century, but he was supposedly destroyed, along with the castle, by the vampire hunter Richter Belmont...

He is also Alucard's father.

Master Librarian

The master of the Long Library. He serves Dracula and is acquainted with Alucard.

By talking to him, you can purchase items, sell gems, and obtain various information.

Death

The Grim Reaper, who works as Count Dracula's confidant. He is also acquainted with Alucard, and ends up taking his equipment near the entrance to the castle.

Shaft

A mysterious monk versed in various dark arts. Five years ago, he was the one who revived Dracula, but was defeated by Richter Belmond in that battle. … supposedly.

Lisa

The wife of Count Dracula, she had a son with him. That son is the main character of the story, Alucard.

The beautiful Lisa has already passed away, and her image lives on in Alucard's heart.

[cickhobear]

Adrian and Dracula (Castlevania)

𝕮𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖑𝖊𝖛𝖆𝖓𝖎𝖆 🌪️• ドラキュラ・ヴラド・ツェペシュ(Dracula Vlad Țepeș)• アドリアン・ファーレンハイツ・ツェペシュ(Adrian Fahrenheit Ţepeş) // アルカード(Alucard)

[[Inspired by est_cos]]

—

[amikartest]

It has been a long time since I have redone Katharina Siegil in Hellsing Style, but I have to say, she looks so much better now as I thought, She is even more beautiful in the Hellsing style. In the Hellsing Series, Katharina was a German Saxon and a daughter of the Weaver named Thomas Siegil and her mother Susanna, née Fronius. She is one of Vlad's "Alucard" mistress, back in 500 years ago, The Jewelry was a gift from Vlad, when he first meant Katharina, when she was pulling the sledge during the snowy time of December on Christmas Eve pulling all the weapons and food for Vlad and the military men, and Vlad came to her to help her. This is how they meant. Katharina was 17 and Vlad was 25. Vlad did have mistresses and married, but he only truly loved Katharina, givien her so much silk clothes and jewelry. Vlad warned all the men in Brasov to stay away from Katharina, or he'll impale them at onces, because of her beauty. The wives of the merchants heard what's been going on, they attack the house where Katharina lived, they beat her and cut off her two braids and took her to the pillory on the town hall square. Made a false claim that she was a witch, bewitching Vlad and fear that the Turks would attack Brasov and the Saxon village. Vlad got very angry when he heard that his beloved had been beaten and humiliated on the town hall square. He threatened to set Brasov on fire. However, in the end, through negotiations, he managed to secure her release. He then spared the Saxon merchants whom he had actually wanted to have executed in Bartolomeu. After the news about Vlad's death, She couldn't live without Vlad, so she ended her life with a sword to spears into her heart. 

I translated into english  original facts

Vlad the Impaler's mistress Katharina Siegel is she a legend or did she really live? Part 2: The relationship between Katharina Siegel and Vlad Tepeş This is the story that is told about the relation between Vlad and Katharina. Katharina is said to have been born on April 29, 1438. Her father, Thomas Siegel, was master of the weavers' guild in Kronstadt (Brasov) and lived on Seilergasse (Ulita Funarilor), now Schloss-Strasse (Palace Street) - and her mother, Susanna, née Fronius, came from an established family in the city. When Katharina was a child, her father's house burned down. Her parents then sent her to the Franciscan monastery from 1450 to 1455. (At the time, there was only one Franciscan monastery in Transylvania: The Bazilica Sfânta Maria (German: Basikila Unserer Lieben Frau) in Șumuleu Ciuc (German: Schomlenberg, built 1442 - 1448) This was very likely the monastery Katharina was sent to. After she returned from the monastery, her parents took her to the house where they lived after the fire, the Tartler building on Ulita Alba (today's N° 14 Poarta-Schei Street). Vlad is said to have fallen in love with Katharina at first sight when he saw her pulling the heavy sleigh behind her. According to another version, this is said to have happened when he saw her through a window. According to reports, Vlad wooed Katharina with expensive fabrics from Venice and jewels. Vlad is described as very jealous, When Vlad went looking for Katharina one evening, he was convinced that the young woman was not at home and was waiting for her until she emerged from a night out accompanied by her cousins. He is said to have asked her why she was walking down the street so late and chased her down the street. Vlad caught her and gave her a kiss, whereupon a priest intervened, who came out to see who was making the noise. In the darkness, the priest did not see Vlad's face and jumped to save Katharina from the hands of the man attacking her. It seems that Vlad then wounded the priest with his sword. On April 2, 1459, Vlad Ţepeş (who had been voivode of Wallachia again since 1456) in anger at the high taxes levied by the Saxons in Brasov and at the intrigues of the city leaders, destroyed all grain crops in Burzenland. (The Burzenland [Romanian: Țara Bârsei] is a historical area in southeastern Transylvania, with Brașov [Kronstadt] as the most important city.) He ordered the arrest of hundreds of traders and merchants who came to the fortress with goods, storing them in near the city's slums, in what is now the Bartolomeu district. He intended to have them impaled. The wives of the merchants in the city attacked the house where Katharina lived, beat her, shaved off her hair and took her to the pillory on the town hall square. She was pregnant with Vlad's second child. Vlad got very angry when he heard that his beloved had been beaten and humiliated on the town hall square. He threatened to set Brasov on fire. However, in the end, through negotiations, he managed to secure her release. He then spared the Saxon merchants whom he had actually wanted to have executed in Bartolomeu. According to another anecdote, he kept Katharina's braids, which he is said to have found, until his death. He is said to have even hit his first wife Anastasia when she found the pigtails hidden in a wardrobe, Although Vlad loved Katharina very much, he did not marry her. In 1460 and after the suicide of his wife Anastasia in 1462, he is said to have repeatedly asked Pope Pius II for an abolition of his marriage, allegedly in order to be able to marry Katharina. However, the Pope refused. Vlad and Katharina are said to have had five children together: Vladislav (1456), Catherine (1459), Christian (1461), Hanna (1463) and Sigismund (1468). After Vlad's violent death, which is said to have happened on December 14, 1476, Katharina is said to have returned to the monastery she had spent five years in her youth. Some sources claim she died in 1479.

We don't know what she died.

https://www.facebook.com/search/top/?q=Vlad%20and%20Katharina

https://www.facebook.com/search/top/?q=Vlad%20and%20Katharina

Thank you all for your support ❤️

Hellsing © Kohta Hirano Artwork © Amikartest FanArt © Amikartest Do not steal or claim as your own

This is the original painting of Kathain Siegil

This is one is my old anime drawing of Katharina Siegil

This is one of Katharina's jewelry that Vlad has given to her.

[ruiniel]

Prickly thorns, tender roses

Fandom: Castlevania series (2017-2021)

Rating: Mature🔞

Relationship: Alucard/Original Female Character

Characters: Alucard, Original Character(s)

Story tags & warnings: Inspired by Castlevania, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, POV Original Character, 'Happy Ending I Promise', Adventure, Post-Castlevania Season III, Eventual Smut, POV Alucard, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Bloodlust, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Canon-Typical Violence, Non-Canon Relationship, Imprisonment, Disillusionment, Paranoia, Not Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, Gore, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Blood Drinking, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Emotional Sex, Drunken Confessions, Guilt, Mental Anguish, Heavy Angst, Monsters, Dark Romanticism, Personal interpretation of post-season III Alucard

Summary:

Set after the events of Castlevania (Netflix) Season III. After the betrayal of his young apprentices, Alucard feels barely alive in his lonesome castle. Days wear on, chipping away at his mind and sanity. And what is the son of Dracula to do with this unwanted visitor, suddenly come at his doorstep? Often the prickly thorn produces tender roses - Ovid

AN: You're being cursed with my first ever Alucard longfic from 2020. Not even rewritten.

I. Refuge

He looked outside the wide arching window, where heavy rain fell upon the world on a cold afternoon. This was the fourth day in a row when the even thrumming persisted against the silent walls of the castle. But then, at least my tomb is dry inside, he thought wryly. The door to the chamber opened with a dust trodden creaking to allow its master passage.

He paced through one of many endless hallways of the ancient structure with his elegant gait, one hand reaching behind his neck. Long fingers halfheartedly glided through fair, unbound hair. He descended the wide set of stairs, lost in thoughts of all and nothing, his bright golden eyes dimmed as he recalled meandering streams of forgotten times.

As ever, his gaze strayed to the wide painting adorning the wall to his right, depicting two figures. Blue eyes filled with purpose and kindness stared back at him; lately it seemed they were alive. He watched the other figure immortalized on canvas. Menacing but contained, it was yet one of the rare, if not sole existing representation of his father void of his renowned merciless and sullen might. He appeared...

Almost human. He lowered his eyes in a frown.

“Adrian! Adrian stop your fleeing this instant!” her voice still rang through the corridors of his mind, accompanied by her light scent of lavender and rosemary.

Caring arms wound around him. “I know you are loath to attend when the sun is so bright outside, but your lessons are not to be trifled with,” the fair-haired woman told the vision of her bright son, whose childlike face puckered in exasperated annoyance.

The images faded to nothing before him, leaving him in the solitary company of his half-human heart and its weak, endless beating.

His mother had always trusted them more than was perhaps wise. Now, after having barely survived an attempt to his own life at their hands, he was beginning to understand the determination of his father, if only an iota. He would never, and could never accept the unfathomable way in which his infamous father Vlad Dracula Ţepeş had chosen to dull his pain. Attempting to wipe humanity off the face of the earth as his last death cry had been a frightening goal even to his generals - and an achievable one at that, which made it all the more necessary to be thwarted.

Necessary. It was necessary.

How interesting that you feel the need to keep telling yourself that, an antagonizing thought hit him with the force of a physical blow. It spanned from a different corner of his mind, one come alive only after the harrowing event of a past not far removed. He drowned in the silence of the vast hall, where sparsely lit torches shadowed broken furniture and the echoes of a great and lavish legacy; memory returned him to the recent past. When he thought he’d found a compress to the aching void left behind by the departure of the Speaker and the Hunter. When he thought he was nurturing the flicker of humanity that drove a part of himself. But he’d mistaken betrayal for sincere interest and companionship, and with it came proof that humanity was burdened with it.

Their corpses may have rotted away by now, he was not sure. He had not gone outside ever since. Not for work, not for gathering or tending gardens or even delving into the rich knowledge of the Belmont vault he guarded, close to the castle of the father he felled. Not for feeding like the vampire kin of his father would. But lately, he found the endless struggle for power within leaning more towards his vampiric side rather than the soft, carefully crafted steadfastness inherited from his human mother.

The downpour continued outside. The sound of his steps his only company, the tall figure changed his direction in the great and empty abode, seeking the library. Loneliness had ever been his mate, but now with the disillusion of recent events, where he had been forced to end two beings he’d cared for, well, it seemed seclusion would be his forever tenant. And he had cared for them, and would have imparted with the humans all his knowledge in time. They came knocking at his door in search of a master, after all. He had done his part, though perhaps failing to account for the impatience defining human race as a whole. And failing to recognize its ruthless desperation owed to the brief flames which were human lives. Yes, he had stalled. And yes, he’d grown accustomed to their presence. Mistakes to learn from. 

Forced by circumstance, he ended their lives. The wound was still there, yet raw and seeping. And even as he speared their bodies through and hung them before his gates, he considered retrieving them afterwards for proper burial.

But then he had not.

Let them stand guard to my secrets, as was their wont. Let the others see. Fear was what they knew best, and what drove them. And it will drive them away from here. Was not living death endured better in solitude?

He walked instead of using his lightning fast shifts in space, his form weakened from the intentional renouncing of sustenance. Even blood would do, though he denounced the taste of it to the heavens.

Having descended the stairs and into the grand entry hall, just as he was about to take a left towards the library, there was a desperate and insistent rapping at the great doors of the castle. His movements turned stealthy in the blink of an eye, and the following second found him at the other end of the hall. The strikes had ceased and instead, the tall doors slowly opened. He rescinded locking them at all since setting the bodies of the young warriors Taka and Sumi outside. And truth be told... did he even need or want protection? His thought was severed by the immediate assail on his senses; the incensed and fearful scent of warm, human blood.

Who on earth would dare go past the horrors at the gate to enter here?

She ran. She ran as fast as her feet took her, through wood and fen, stumbling over gnarled limbs and underbrush protruding from the forest bed. Branches and tree boughs scraped her cheeks. Leaves caught in her pitch black hair as the woman stumbled in her flight, wary of the trampling hooves drawing nigh, gaining on her. It had been unwise to linger, most unwise indeed. But now here she was, losing ground the closer she heard the desperate whinnying of horses.

“Get back here you damned slut!” one was calling with ire in his bloodshot eyes, a heavily bearded man in robes of black and gold.

The woman was on her last remaining strength, and she faltered, near falling to her knees. And her eyes were deceiving her, as ahead materialized the walls and gates of an abode. No... that was no mirage or a fancy of the mind. The gates did exist! The great doors were indeed physical, and closer with each beat of time. She lunged forward with renewed hope, the primal will to survive taking precedence and fueling her desperate flee with a burst of strength. Soon the trees were sparser, and she reached a clearing of sorts, bolting straight towards the heavy metallic doors.

Were those—

Her heart dropped to her feet as the escapee gaped, wide eyed, at the two bodies impaled before the entrance to the castle. The woman turned to look behind her, where the riders pursuing her so fervently had skidded to a halt at the edge of the clearing. Their eyes were set on the same hanging, rotting corpses, the wide archways and tall towers of the ominously silent building. Their faces then focused on her, and hatred shone bright and dark through their eyes. They hurled insults and threats as far as the wind took them, but seemed to dare go no further.

The young woman wavered, and straightening her back, pulled the tattered cloak about her shoulders. She walked closer on hesitating steps, the faint scent of decay assailing her senses.

She looked back to the riders. They were still observing her, determined, waiting to see what she would do. If she fled back to the forest, she was theirs. The woman narrowed her eyes at them before looking back to the silent entrance.

The only way, Ravenna. Squaring her shoulders and steeling the shivering of her wearied and buckling feet, she rushed straight to the castle doors, striking at them until her fists hurt. When no answer came, she looked back to her pursuers, only to see them slowly approaching from the other side of the clearing.

Desperation taking hold, the woman groaned and with one last shred of an attempt she halfheartedly beat at the doors. “Please!” she cried.

Nothing.

Just as all hope failed her, there was a sharp noise of metal sliding upon metal from the inside, and a ghastly wail; the doors opened.

NEXT

[tgrailwar-zero]

The standoff was tense. AVENGER's Lamenting Exterior snapped back on him in the flash. The staredown was marred in thick silence before CASTER finally spoke, smiling as casually as one would at a meeting between friends.

"Reminder that this is nothing personal. Just the throes of a Holy Grail War."

MOONCANCER was sending a Servant. He was headed there, but it was a matter of if he would be able to make it in time.

"Foreigner… how are you feeling?"

She scoffed, her hands gripping her paintbrush tighter.

"If you're askin' if I can fight, I'm fine. Code Casts aren't respondin', though. You should be worryin' about yourself, you were movin' slow during the confrontation with Alter-Ego and took a few nasty hits. Still, if we need an extra boost, I can always put Toto-sama in the driver's seat…"

AVENGER didn't totally understand what that meant, but she had a point. Without Masters, his movements and mana consumption had been sloppy, unfocused, and actively detrimental.

FOREIGNER's mana was actively rising. It was inky. Thick, pulpy, unnatural and disgusting. But necessary. This was the dilution of a power much, much more unseemly.

...RIDER was nowhere to be seen. There was a chance that he left- considering he was Masterless, a fight like this would be his one and final battle- if his enemies didn't kill him, he'd most likely run out of mana. That, or perhaps his reasons were more personal. Or he was flanking, and playing it safe. Lots of potential options on that front.

Music was a choice. But he'd need to play fast. Same with attacking. And while he was fast, there was no telling what kind of counterattacks these Servants had up their sleeves.

CASTER stared at the two Extra-classes, her eyes narrowing as her smile widened.

"Well, perhaps it's a little personal. Your Masters are quite unique, yes? They're a threat that I'd rather stamp out sooner than later. At least before Saber can get a bead on you. Perhaps you can hide in your second shell when we finish this one. Lancer, are you ready? Our victory here cements a step forward for the Blue Faction."

LANCER stepped forward, his mana swelling around him.

"I am Vlad Ţepeş! The Voivode of Wallachia! Infidels that stand before me, ready yourself for annihilation, and pray that our Lord is merciful to your souls in the afterlife!"

A True Name reveal. A spike in mana. That most likely meant that he was going to use his Noble Phantasm…

For most Servants, it would be a trump card. Holding one's True Name so close to their chest that even the slightest hints would be a tactical disadvantage. However, this was Vlad the Impaler. His name alone carried a level of fame, weight, and fear that allowed him to be more powerful than his time would allow. His maddened devotion rendering him immortal in the annals of history.

To him, in this form he held, hiding such a True Name would be ridiculous- because it would be alleviating his enemies from that fear.

And his enemies certainly felt fear. A chill ran down AVENGER's spine, his own True Name lost, but the sparking flames of the sins that held him down began burning and toiling within his stomach. Fear. Guilt. Anger. Agony. Facing the Son of the Dragon would mean death, his body nothing more than another corpse on a pike in the lands of Wallachia.

...Speaking of grudges. It'd be a risk, but there was always CONDUCTOR. Revealing the existence of AVENGER's source of hatred would be a massive boost in power… but at the same time, the drawbacks would be notable, no matter how successful the actual trigger was. Still, neither CASTER nor LANCER seemed as if they were willing to back down.

-

[coffeewithcutcaffeine]

— in which Vlad Dracula is graced with the most delightful news.

word count: 3,372 words

warnings: implied/referenced miscarriage; pregnancy; pregnancy sickness; extra dosis of love and tenderness

a/n: Here, beloveds, have a sweet (and absolutely not self-indulgent, nooooo never) moment of pure bliss and happiness before I throw that man into more pain and misery and blood and— Also, expect a man madly in love — it is Cătălina’s world, and Vlad is just blessed to be living in it.

➨ also available on AO3

September 1459, Curtea Noua, București, Wallachia

The hall overflows with the warm glow of candlelight and lively music, mingling with the enticing aroma of roasted meat and the echoes of sincere and profound laughter. Among the voivode’s dear and cherished guests indulging in the joyous celebration of the construction of the New Voivodal Court in București, her laughter stands out the most, pure and unrestrained, like a celestial bell tolling in the very heart of the hall. Tonight, she will not be confined to the shadows. Cătălina has yet to reach the age of twenty-eight, and her spirit still brims with life like a flower in full bloom. In the ambience of the youthful night, the meticulously crafted façade upon her countenance slips away amidst the merriment, momentarily unveiling the face of a carefree nymph whom she has long come to deem a distant memory.

She has deliberately chosen to avoid the ever-present curious eyes at the court, recognising its virtue for both her and Vlad’s sake. The seclusion of her home where she often remains allows her to weave at least some poor semblance of a veil of privacy to shield both herself and their son. It is for the best, she always reasons with herself. Her presence provokes many and she has never been one to silence her voice. But within the chambers of her home, she sometimes feels as though she has become a rare jewel locked within the confines of the treasury — precious enough to return to look at but safely hidden from the insatiable hunger of prying eyes, always patiently awaiting someone to brush off the dust from her.

She is well aware that ingratitude should not consume her as a torrent of stern admonitions floods her mind whenever her thoughts stray into this despised realm of sentiments. This is the path she has consciously and willingly chosen for herself. This is the life of a royal mistress, laden with sacrifices she has long anticipated would be demanded of her. It bestows upon her liberty and power that only a few chosen women in existence will ever graze their fingertips upon. It eases her existence, as well as his. It makes their son’s life tranquil. Safer. More secure.

Nonetheless, in these scarce but all the more cherished moments, she revels in the company of those dear to her, once again becoming a woman of flesh and bones who savours the sweet taste of freedom that holds such profound importance in her heart. Tonight, she is engulfed in a place of boundless liberation where obligations and duties fade into oblivion. The tumultuous world outside becomes a distant murmur, drowned by the enchanting melody of kindred spirits. Embraced by the glow of innumerable flickering candles, she glides across the floor in perfect synchrony with the tunes that permeate the space all around her.

When she pauses and brings the cup of red wine to her lips, different sounds begin piercing through the air — the resonant and deep voices of the men standing by her side as they engage in conversation. The spell that held her captive is broken; the enchantment of the moment dissipates like a golden mist fading before her eyes. The matter-of-fact nature of their words shatters the carefree atmosphere. Her brother’s voice gains clarity, his words gradually becoming more distinct with each passing second.

“—although we ought to reconsider the decisions regarding the archers you have recently recruited.”

Amidst the whimsical musings and daydreams that capture the minds of others, her elder sibling has always stood rooted to the earth. There is no room for idle fantasies, for thoughts of what could possibly take place under different circumstances. Dumitru values the realm of reality and practicality above all else, and few matters possess the power to divert his focus from the tasks at hand. His sister might have initially helped secure his position, but Dumitru has become indispensable among the dregătorii, revered for qualities unique to no one but him.

“What is the issue with them? They are competent soldiers,” Neagoe’s dark eyebrows rise in incredulity, and a hint of agitation infuses his voice with a sharpness that slices through the air like a blade.

Dracea roughly hits the dark-haired spătar on the shoulder. “A blind man would shoot better than them.”

“No!” Cătălina cries out and places a hand over her heart in feigned distress, halting their conversation in an instant. “I do not wish to hear a thing about state affairs this evening. This is meant to be a night of enjoyment! Anything else can wait until tomorrow.”

Cătălina’s gaze momentarily strays away from the festivities and the smiling faces of the three men in front of her, settling upon Vlad across the room. Her eyes trace the contours of his muscular back accentuated by the richness of his green attire, long black curls cascading down between his broad shoulders. Engrossed in conversation with some of his dregătorii, he leans forward, intent on catching every uttered word amidst the noise of merriment enveloping them. In that fleeting instant, it appears as though he remains oblivious to the world unfolding around him. With his back turned to all others, she does not doubt that the subtle delights of the evening indeed elude him.

“Or has he truly infected all of you with his inclination to work even in his sleep?” Her words carry a subtle touch of melancholy, intertwining with the flimsy threads of sadness woven into the slope of her brows.

And Dracea — for his heart shatters whenever he notices even a mere hint of sorrow on that angelic face of dreams — enfolds her in his embrace and whirls her with a speed that mirrors the cadence of the music. Her laughter, before so joyous and bright, now rings hollow as she clutches the cup in her fingers, afraid to spill the crimson liquid.

“What is that frown, my lady? Do we bore you with our discussions?” he asks.

“Impossible. There is never a dull moment with you, Dracea.”

“There is something heavy on your mind. I can tell,” he inquires as the amusement in his voice turns to gentle concern, the embrace of his tall figure shielding her from the eyes around and offering her a brief shelter for composure. Sweet Dracea, always being the selfless and devoted protector.

A heaviness indeed burdens her mind, causing her stomach to twist and churn with silent anguish. Cătălina is a woman who has been tested by a fair share of life’s trials, yet now feels weakened by dread. No longer free to live and breathe for herself, she must decide for two, making her the most vulnerable of all — a mother bound by a love forever intertwined with her own existence. For weeks, she has been awakening with worries, praying fervently for smooth, uncomplicated days ahead. She frets over the uncertainty of the future, but above all, she fears that the delights and expectations of life may slip away from him unnoticed. The more he thrives as a ruler, the more he suffers as a man, the words hover on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows them like bitter liquid, denying them their flight into the world.

Instead, she presents her companion with a fragile smile. “All is well.”

“You are aware that he cannot take his eyes off you, are you not? He keeps stealing glances any chance he gets.”

“That is the least of my worries—”

Before she has a chance to finish her sentence, he spins her once more, spins her with a force that sweeps away her worries and stirs up laughter flowing from her lips. But in moments of joyful recklessness, when fits of laughter make her chest constrict and ache, and her cheeks turn red with exertion, the new reality suddenly whispers its presence and brings her to a halt. An unexpected unease unfurls within her and disrupts the fragile serenity inside.

A weak tremor courses through her, a response to the unwelcome feeling clawing at her guts from within. Her stomach churns and twists into hardness that lodges deep inside her as though she carries a weighty stone at its core. Cold sweat coats her body, drenching her skin like an icy deluge poured upon her, and droplets trickle down the curve of her spine. Her hands, clammy and slick, tremble with the fear that the cup may slip from her grasp and clatter upon the stone beneath her feet. With every passing second, her grip on the small piece of metal tightens, becoming unyielding, her sole anchor amidst a world that spins and slowly dissolves into darkness.

The customary warmth of her complexion wanes, surrendering to waves of nausea in a sickly shade of green as she clings to Dracea’s sleeve, yearning to break free from his embrace. Her gaze frantically searches for solace in the weighty doors that lead outside. Her breath falters, grappling against the tide, while her rapid heartbeat echoes the rising panic filling her veins. The anticipation of fresh air consumes her thoughts as she pushes the tall nobleman aside and thrusts the wine cup into his hand.

“Are you feeling well?” his voice is laden with worry.

“Excuse me for a moment,” she barely manages to squeeze out as she hastens her steps towards the doors, the sickness weighing down her feet like lead.

As she stumbles out of the hall, her brother calls after her. “Cătălina—”

The growing distance between them drowns out his voice. She swiftly turns to the right and runs outside beneath the shadow of the stone arc, escaping the fiery inferno that the hall has become. She barely holds herself together as she descends the broad steps leading from the residence before her sight blurries and her knees give way, almost bringing her crashing to the ground. She fears her stomach turning upside down in a wave of sickness may unleash the torrent and make her vomit. The world around her sways as she succumbs to the pull of weariness, her body seeking respite from the overwhelming storm within.

Sit. Sit. Sit.

Finally, Cătălina sinks to the cold ground, pressing her back against the stone wall to steady her weakened body. She draws her knees to the chest and hugs her bent legs, damp and trembling fingers clinging to the richly embroidered skirt of her dress. She leans back the crown of her head and rests against the sturdiness of the wall behind her. That seems to bring some relief — her vision begins to clear, her guts no longer feel like being swayed back and forth. The frantic pounding in her ribcage subsides.

The freshness of the late September breeze soothes her senses and offers respite from the sickness raging inside her. With each inhalation, she gulps on the air as if it were her first breath in this world, savouring the way it seems to cool her from within. The drumming in her ears gives way to the muffled sounds of revelries emanating from inside the hall, the laughter of dozens of guests mingling with the ceaseless melodies of music. Life carries on without her, and she is grateful for it. She longs to be separated from it, if only for a brief moment, to exist in solitude, undisturbed, with only the starry skies above and the fresh air caressing her damp skin as her sole companions.

The moment of solitude is shattered like glass as the thunderous rhythm of boots reverberates on the stone steps. From the corner of her eye, Cătălina catches a glimpse of a green giubea glimmering in the soft glow of the torches. She remains hidden in the shadows, silently observing his frantic quest to find her. He searches in every direction, his gaze sweeping across the surroundings with the meticulous precision of a soldier scanning the fields of battle. When he calls her name, and she discerns the tinge of growing alarm lacing his voice, she leans forward instinctively and extends her arm towards him.

“I am here,” she says, astonishing herself with the fragility and weariness in her voice.

Vlad rushes towards her without a moment’s hesitation, dropping to his knees by her side. With urgency, he clasps her open palm in his, his other hand gently caressing the side of her face. Calloused fingers trace a path over her cheek, all while his emerald orbs explore her figure with deep concern, searching for any signs of harm or wounds.

“What is the matter, my love?”

“It seems that our new acquaintance shares your liking for making a grand appearance.”

“What acquaintance?” he asks, confused eyes searching hers for the hidden meaning behind her words.

Consumed by fear, his usually razor-sharp mind becomes muddled by the myriad of scattered thoughts and is unable to comprehend the hints that surround him. He remains unaware of the subtle movement of her palm that she lays over her stomach, a gesture filled with an unwavering sense of protection and love. Only in the gentle caress of her hand over his chin does he find his way back to Cătălina’s presence, captivated by the endearing curve of her lips. Memories flood his mind, for he well remembers that smile — he is reminiscent of the time she first revealed to him she was expecting their son, her smile radiating with a brilliance that defied any attempts at concealment. Her face is just as resplendent now, unadulterated joy dancing upon her lips.

“Vlad,” soft laughter escapes her lips, and her words confirm all of his assumptions with resolute finality. “I am with child.”

In a sudden whirlwind of motion, she loses track of how he pulls them both to their feet as seconds flash by in a blur of light. She only comes back to her senses when she finds herself suspended in the sky, with a canopy of stars above her head. Vlad’s strong arms hold her above the ground by her waist, and a yelp of surprise fills the air. Her fingertips sink into his shoulders, anchoring her in the heights and preventing them from toppling into the earth below.

“Is that true? Is that true?” he cries out with unbridled excitement, and her gaze drifts towards the doors, anticipating the intensity of his voice to awaken the curiosity of every soul within the court.

“Would I ever lie about such things?”

He playfully shakes her as a cascade of laughter spills from his lips, clasping her tightly in his arms.

“Put me down! I will be sick again,” she lets out a squeal, her feet instinctively kicking in the air.

Vlad, a man of impulsive nature yet never careless, would never dare inflict harm upon her. He carefully lowers her body to the ground, ensuring that every ounce of her is cradled securely in his arms. With utmost tenderness, he cups Cătălina’s beautiful face in his hands — he cannot tear his gaze away from the graceful arch of her brows, the delicate sprinkle of freckles adorning the bridge of her nose like the shimmering constellations painting the night sky above them. The subtle curve of her cupid’s bow guides him unerringly to a pathway to a world of infinite pleasure. Their lips meet in a slow kiss, and she can taste the red wine lingering on his tongue. In that moment, she wonders if this is what home can also taste like, a fusion of warmth and familiarity that caresses her senses and leaves her longing for more.

It is she who withdraws first, her hands resting upon his broad chest. A tangled web of thoughts and emotions engulfs her mind, making it difficult to unravel the words, arrange them in a coherent meaning. She wants to try, must find a way. In this sacred space they share, where masks are cast aside from their faces, they have promised honesty to one another — life is already full in deceit enough as it is. No need to weigh these treasured and scarce moments of privacy with lies. And so she labours, shaping the unspoken truths that dwell within her soul.

Cătălina seeks solace in the steady rise and fall of his chest, her gaze drifting beyond his shoulder and into the abyss of darkness to avoid looking into his eyes. “I have been meaning to wait a little longer before telling you.”

“Why?” he asks with sincerity in his voice, and she feels the bitter taste of bile rise in her throat like a venomous serpent slithering upward.

“What if it ends in disaster? Again?”

She senses the fleeting shadow that crosses Vlad’s face, a reflection of the memories from two years ago that have haunted her since discovering her pregnancy. A ghost from the past whispers in his thoughts, intertwining with her own — he remembers, too, remembers the crimson pools of blood staining the linen bedsheets, the chilling embrace of Death inching closer, its skeletal fingers poised to encircle her throat. Her face, pale as a spectral apparition; legs curled up to her chest in anguish when she sought solace in the tear-soaked pillows.

But those were also days of great turmoil and pressure, and despite reasoning with himself that a stillbirth was often an inexplicable occurrence of nature, he could not shake off the weight of his own culpability. He recalls being pulled in countless directions those days, needing to be present in a thousand places all at once — at court, in council, on the battlefield — not finding himself nearly enough on the threshold of her house, a place he swiftly grew to call home. Days would pass before he held her in his arms again, their son nestled between them like a tender bud.

He entangled her in the ceaseless stress with him, hoping she would bear its weight upon her shoulders alone. He will not let that happen again.

“It will not,” Vlad utters with unwavering conviction, his voice a gentle caress as he places a kiss upon her forehead.

“You cannot know that.”

“But we have more experience now than we did back then. Even more than we did four years ago.”

He catches the flicker of hesitation in her brown eyes and offers another reassurance. “I will keep your condition a secret until you feel prepared and at ease. No one is required to know.”

That seems to help, for Cătălina’s anxious frown is replaced by a feeble smile. She nods swiftly while his hands envelop hers, remaining unmoving on his chest, their fingers intertwining like vines.

She tilts her head towards the heavy doors and the bustle of the evening behind them. “You should return. Your guests are waiting for you.”

“They would not notice my absence. Half of them are already drunk.”

But his protests are in vain as she turns him around, her hand pressing into the small of his back. “It is your night, my love. Enjoy it.”

“And you?”

“I am going to lie down.”

“Then I shall see you later,” Vlad murmurs against her cheek, his lips grazing her skin in a tender kiss before reluctantly pulling away. But he lingers, his footsteps dragging as if he is tethered to her by an invisible thread.

She urges him to depart with a gentle, yet insistent push, a soundless command dancing upon the curve of her lips. Only then does he finally yield, hesitantly walking away. He finally runs up the steps with a spring in his step, bursting into the illuminated space. His arms outstretch in a gesture of apology as he is engulfed by the figures of guests encircling him, concealing him from her sight.

Cătălina watches him disappear from her spot in the darkness of the night, and an odd sense of serenity envelops her, like a tide that cleanses her soul of the fears and worries that besieged her mind mere moments ago. The joys of life would never elude him, not if he could help it. The weight of the land could crumble upon his weary back and crush him, yet he would persistently claw his way back to their embrace.

In the depths of her heart, that devotion is all the assurance she needs.

This piece is a genuine labour of love, and it was exciting to portray Vlad not only as the legendary warrior and ruler but place him into a tender moment of sheer humanity, showing him in the role of a lover and father. There is also something very endearing in taking the focus away from what other people mean in his life and instead putting it on how others perceive him in theirs. This is also my very first time introducing four very crucial characters in Vlad’s story, but especially Cătălina, Vlad’s mistress and the mother of his children — I hope you will love her as much as I (and Vlad!) do.

Of course, explanations and references are below:

The newly constructed royal residence mentioned in this piece is now known as Curtea Veche (the Old Court) in the heart of Bucharest, but because it is mentioned as just finished palace, I have decided to call it Curtea Noua (the New Court) instead. The official residence of the voivode remained at the capital, Târgoviște, at that time, so this just serves to differentiate between the two palaces. Vlad ordered its construction at the beginning of his second reign, and it was finished in 1459. On September 20, 1459, he issued a document in Slavonic, specifically referring to the “fortress” in Bucharest as his “princely residence”. Other documents were issued here in 1460 and 1461. It was quite a modern building in the Renaissance style — I recommend looking at the digital reconstruction pictures online.

Cătălina is based on a real-life person, though I have taken the opportunity of using artistic liberty to truly craft her character from scratch and flesh her out to be as multi-dimensional and complex as Vlad is (and trust me, she is quite a character) — this is because we know virtually nothing about her. What we know about the real-life mistress is that she was from a Wallachian noble family and is the only mistress we know of (which means Vlad was either a very faithful lover or very protective of his privacy). She was also a mother of Vlad’s son Mihnea and later married quite an influential man when Vlad was taken prisoner. (For those who do not know, I am not mentioning the man’s name as I do not want to drop the big spoilers! 🤫)

Yes, a pregnant woman is drinking wine in this piece. In moderation, she only takes a sip! People living in the 15th century were not aware of the damaging effects of consuming alcohol during pregnancy (but the baby will turn out healthy and strong, don’t worry). This is one of the things that seems incomprehensible to us today but was considered normal back in history.

As for the little Dracs with Miss Cătălina, you have noticed several mentions of a mysterious, already living son throughout the work. I am taking a bit more liberties with Vlad’s children, mostly because I was desperate to see him dipping his toes into the role of a parent a bit sooner than he (probably) did in real life — I hope I will be forgiven there! But fear not because yours truly is certainly not forgetting to mention the most famous of Dracula’s sons, the future Voivode Mihnea, who is the source of the happy news in this piece. Historical sources mention his year of birth to be somewhere between 1460-1462, with the majority leaning towards the latter year. I have chosen the year 1460 in my works simply to allow my fictionalised version of Vlad to enjoy some time with Mihnea before he is snatched away from his family for thirteen years. As for the mysterious elder son whom I have decided to name Mircea, he is mostly a fictional character (Mihnea was officially the eldest in real life), though I am using some bits from the little information and speculation we have about other sons. More about him soon!

Dregătorii were the boyars forming the voivode’s council. It was the group of most powerful men in the country, right after the ruler, and each held an important office at the court. You can see three dregătorii mentioned by name in this piece, two of whom really existed (Neagoe Craiovescu and Dracea de Măneşti) and one of whom is fictional (Dumitru Costescu, Cătălina’s elder brother). Neagoe is also mentioned in the story by the office title of spătar, the commander second in rank in the army after the voivode.

Giubea was a long and wide coat, often lined with fur, worn in the past by nobility.

[autumnmobile12]

This is an interesting and really vague line, and it’s unfortunate Zamfir’s arc is probably the most rushed subplot in the series.  (I mean, I didn’t really care for what Sumi and Taka had going on, but at least they got a brief flashback explaining their motives.)

So let’s dive into the historical context here:

Since it’s founding in 1310, Wallachia was ruled by the House of Basarab, a family that some historians believe may have migrated from Asia.  Wallachia’s first ruler on record was Basarab the Great.

After the death of Mircea the Old in 1418, a direct descendant of Basarab the Great, the ruling family split into two factions:  Mircea’s descendants through his sons known as the Drăculești and the descendants of his brother, Dan I, known as the Dănești.  This split would become the defining feature of Wallachian politics for this time period.  During the last years of Mircea’s reign, he named his only legitimate son Mihail as co-ruler to ease the transition of power after his death.  Within three years of ruling on his own though, Mihail was overpowered by the Ottoman Empire and the boyar lords under him defected to his cousin Dan II and Wallachia broke into a civil war.  Mihail was killed in the spring of 1420, after which several of his illegitimate half-brothers took up the Drăculești line’s bid for power, fighting the each other as much as Dănești faction.  It’s like Game of Thrones but even more chaos and the bastards are 100% valid players in the eyes of the law and society.

Castlevania takes place in 1476, so in between this year and the year of Mihail I’s death, rule of Wallachia (the Voivodate) would change hands 24 times and see a total of 10 separate rulers, only one of whom would die of natural causes.  (In comparison, England’s throne saw three different occupants in the same amount of time.  Although, one of those three was a usurper and one died under mysterious circumstances of the ‘probably murder’ variety.) So Sypha coming out and guessing that Zamfir is the last of the nobles is thought-provoking in that the royal court was already a hostile place even without Dracula bearing down on the capital.

Zamfir’s psychosis may have deeper roots than what happened when Dracula attacked, and I really want to explore that further.  ‘Last person of noble birth’ can have a few meanings.  The Wallachian nobility were the boyar lords, whose power and influence was dependent on wealth and/or land.  At court, there was the princely council who advised (or schemed against) the ruling prince, and there were also a few court positions that weren’t part of the council.  More to the point, Wallachia’s society behaved the same way as most European nations did at the time: ‘You have no power for you are but a woman.’

As for the mummified corpses in the Underground Court, in the interest of loose historical accuracy, the dead prince could only be Vlad III Dracula of House Drăculești.  In November of 1476, Vlad III usurped the throne from Basarab III, who had held it since 1474 after killing his predecessor Radu III (Vlad III’s younger brother, actually.)  In December of that year, Basarab III returned to Wallachia and took back the throne, killing Vlad III in the process.  Basarab III would live another four years.  In addition, the capital of Wallachia was moved from Târgovişte to Bucharest this same year.  So intentional or not on the creators’ part, the show roughly matches up with the historical timeline.  There’s also the fact that it’s not entirely clear exactly how Vlad III died and there is some speculation by historians that Bram Stoker’s Dracula and the historical Dracula only share the same name and the latter was not the actual inspiration for the former.

It’s a bit of a stretch to say Vlad III Dracula and the vampire Vlad Dracula Ţepeş were intended to be two separate people in the series, so I won’t go out there and make that claim.  The mummified royals are probably just nameless artifacts for the plot and we are definitely in speculation, headcanon, string and thumbtacks territory now.

Still, the ‘last person of noble birth’ line does have me wondering what Zamfir’s connection to the court is aside from ‘leader of the Târgovişte resistance.’  Daughter of a courtier, daughter of a council lord, or daughter of the ruling prince himself?

[imheredisappointingmyparents]

Texting. Cassaras: So I adopted three kids - Sammy, Thea and Lennox… Vlad: THANKS GOD, I HAVE PEOPLE TO TELL YOUR EMBARRASSING STORIES FROM OUR YOUTH Cassaras: Vlad Ţepeş Dracula, you are menace to society

[vvizardz]

Finally put together my character inspo board for my Morbius. People keep asking about and complaining why I made him a big boy and not thin 😩 because I can that's why Caustic - Slayer - Dracula Vlad Ţepeş David Xanatos - Sylas Briarwood - Jonathan E. Reid

[vladdocs]

Vlad had a sister? That’s certainly something I was unaware of! Is there anything known about her? Also for clarification, did Vlad III have his 2 brothers and sister from the same mother and father and Vlad IV was the only half sibling?

Vlad had indeed a sister but we don't know much about her, tho there is a little reading about her and her descendeds called "Gheorghe I. MAREŞ „Urmaşii dâmboviţeni ai Alexandrei, sora lui Vlad Ţepeş" She was mentinon by Radu Serban in a document from 1604 January 20:

"And then gave the late Vladu voivode Tepes up the aforementioned dowry villages to his sister, Alișandrei, great-grandmother of Danciul the Lazarus and Voinea the viceroy, up to the ancestors of the reign's servant of my liege." Here is her acestry:

Kinda hard to say if they were full brothers but Mircea and Vlad were very close in age (Mircea was 1 or 2 years older) Radu was a lot younger (around 5-8 years younger than Vlad) but those age gusess are made by when they were first time mention in a document. There wasn't anything about Vlad Dracul remarrying in that time so they were most like full broathers (their mothers is also unkown, just guess out there in the wilds of the internet)