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darlingofvalyria · 1 year

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❝I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage. I will not be swept aside.❞

[ The Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should have known his wife better— or at least, her ire, for when his trysts with the bastard Snow reached the Spiders and soon, the ears of his Princess Consort, rage and war drummed for Winterfell, demanding heads.

—Maestre Kevan, Volume IV of The Bastard Eater, passage chapter under 'The Flame that Sung for the North'. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 10,062 ] [ series masterlist ] | jacaerys velaryon x targaryen aunt!reader (aegon's twin sister), one-sided aegon ii x reader, jace x sara snow

contains— canon divergence - manipulative reader, targcest, smut, angst - post-vizzy t death, rhaenyra is queen - mentions of children, pregnancy, childbirth - allusions to infidelity & character death(s) - targaryen madness, revenge, domestic violence (not jace), unhinge behaviour, intense use of 'bastard', profanity, gaslighting, guilt-tripping - this is basically gone girl, you gone girl jace - dark fic - mentions of depression (aegon ii), allusions to suicide (not reader) - nsfw: oral (f receiving), breeding kink, creampie - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— i didn't think i was going to do the sara snow thing, but herewe are. also i just wanted an excuse to go absolutely ape shit. reader gets very intense, like thoroughly unhinged. this is literally me supporting women's wrongs. it is also quite insane that this reached 10k and it's still just the first part lmaooo + comment, reblog & like at will!

"THAT FUCKING BASTARD! THAT GODSDAMNED, WHORE-FUCKING STRONG HALF BREED!"

Your shrieks echo stone and shadow, interrupted only by the things you pick up and hurl. Anything your hands grab, you throw and spit obscenities against, rage and tears ruin your pretty visage. The fury swept past your cherub features, a dragon breaking through the Hightower seams, upending fire and roar from the pits of your being.

"HOW DARE HE?! I GAVE HIM AN HEIR! I BROUGHT HIM PEACE! I BETRAYED—" you roar, pulling your pearl dagger— a gift from your Strong Bastard of a Husband — and throwing it to your vanity mirror, glass shards exploding. "— MY KIN!"

"DAUGHTER, PLEASE!"

Arms wound across your torso—hardened and chain-mail — as you fight against your bounds before a pain flashes to your cheek. Your rage quiets, hard breaths from your lungs. You turn your tear-stained anger to your mother and her palm, fright and terror on her regale visage.

Death of a spouse becomes the Queen Dowager in her pale blue robe and unbound spirals of auburn hair. Peace had begotten a realm that is balanced on the lineage you had produced for the Queen, her heir, and your own, as the new Princess of Dragonstone. With Otto Hightower for evermore banished to Oldtown, Kings Landing had been brought to a flowering kindness.

Queen Rhaenyra's ascension had been a wondrous affair, fit the for the first crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Not a Queen Consort, not a Queen Regent. An heir who rose for the crown always meant to be hers.

But the calamity that brewed in her ascension... no. You paved the peace. T'was you who wrangled the Great Houses that proved allyship to your twin brother's banner, you who blessed her with tranquility of a rule that will be known for ages that will precede you all.

And now her son... her son dared to destroy everything.

A conversation floats above your head, by your Queen Mother and her sworn shield, the Ser Cole, but you barely hear anything past the ringing in your head.

The Targaryen Madness the sheep so call it, an idle voice, faint and familiar, whispers in the niches of your brain. It has infected you so. It breathes, fuelled by the air wrought by your husband's betrayal. It sings, sweet love. It sings.

"—your grace, I urge to hold her—"

"—she is my daughter, Ser Cole, I am not in danger. Release her."

Justice, the voice shrieks? Screams? But it is so soft in your head, a wail of a memory, a woman or a man? must be had. No dragon falls in such disgrace.

The tight wound over your torso is unleashed but the knight is not far, tensed to cage you, when your mother grasps your elbows as you grab hers, nails digging into the thick fabric of her hem that she still winces, your grip steel-tight.

"My darling, please. I cannot help you if you do not speak what ails you." She brushes her hand desperately across your face, smearing your tears, trying to find the daughter she bore past the savagery and madness that beholds you now. "What has happened?"

You draw a tightened, harsh breath to your lungs, rattling your bones that you quiver in your attempt for sanity.

"I am being shamed, mother," you whisper. Stark, violet eyes meeting the worried round, brown of hers. "The Strong bastard is whoring himself to another, a Northern bastard."

A cackle falls your lips as alarmed gazes are exchanged above your head.

"Y-You cannot say such things aloud, sweet girl," your mother hushes your madness, pulling you close to her chest as she shoots a glance at the door.

Criston checks outside, but only your maids linger. Dyanna presses a finger against her lips, catching the knight's eye, and the rest scatter, surely to make sure that no one that need not know of their mistress' words is within reach. A shiver still runs his spine. He will never get used to the quiet, almost non-verbal way your connection worked and reached. Your Spiders weave webs all around, even as their mistress sunders with rage.

"Mayhaps you are mistaken, for sure the prince is loyal, and he adores you—"

You pull back against her, teeth bared. She flinches and Ser Cole steps forward, wary. "It is the third missive now that I have received. Did you think I would not have confirmed twice— thrice? I didn't believe it the first time! But three people have now confirmed that all this time, in the guise of rallying his mother's cause in the North, he is spending ample time with the Lord Stark's bastard sister. His bastard fucking sister!"

Your mother's horror catches that of Ser Criston's, but your fury is your own, you are a dragon trapped in the ruin of your own making, of the webs you had spun so cleverly to get to this point, and you cannot stop.

"I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage, my blood spilled the birthing bed for it." A cry leaves your lips as your grief and rage pools like ichor from your chest to the floor. Alicent is torn away from you— your nails had gone through her robe and she had cried in pain, a mimick of your own, a mother to a daughter to a mother to a daughter, a cycle, an Ouroboros — and you fall to the floor, grasping at your chest.

"I will not be swept aside. I will not be ignored."

A gasp falls from your lips as your mind moves to a quiet, still place. The tremble fades, your rage and grief whirls, collects, as you push it all back inside your chest.

Your madness must be sharpened for it be used as a sword.

And you cannot let him be happy in another's arms.

If you cannot drag them to the Hells, sweet dragon, the idle voice hums, hisses? Screeches. Your ancestors— all of those who have succumbed to dreamy madness — appears in the corners of your vision like soldiers. Awaiting for you to join them. Awaiting the blood that you will spill.

Then you must raise the Hells unto Winterfell.

"...my daughter?" Alicent calls, hesitant. Cole hovers but does not approach, standing guard in protection of the Dowager. It breaks her heart to see you this way, a young woman still, much older than she was when she married but only because you had always sought your future. You had always had a hardened scale, far stronger than she.

Even when you made your entrance to the world— the unmeasurable pain of bringing not one, but two heirs into the world, her firstborns, all at once — you had never cried. The maestres, maids, they worried for you, as your twin brother had not stopped crying, so alive and red, raw from the wound of being fresh.

But you... you had not made a sound.

The entire weight of your being— your mind, your emotions — even then, you wrangled them close to your very centre, never letting them stray too far from the edges of your fingertips. As if any release must be made with a perused thought. An incentive of reason.

Even then, you plotted every step you took.

Now, Alicent watches as her firstborn daughter suctions all her emotions— that Targaryen madness that plagued the blood of her husband, his ancestors — and made her ploy.

Against the husband that dared make a fool of her.

The silence beckons nightmare. Old fear flickers inside the Queen Dowager.

"Where are my daughters?"

"What?"

"My daughters," you repeat, a hair's breadth louder than the first time you spoke. Your eyes flutter upward. The deadened gaze curled Alicent's heart in fear. "Where are they?"

"In the nursery, with the twins and Maelor. Helaena and Aegon are watching them."

You offer your hand up mutely, and Cole exchanges one last, lingering look with the Dowager, before offering his own. You stand up, thank him softly, and brush and clean up your face to the best of your ability. An utter calmness over your visage.

"Tell no one of what I had told you," you say, fixing your hair and rubbing the red from your cheeks. One minute there is madness, the next there is nothing. There is only a girl. A woman. A princess. "No one knows apart the three of us, and if you ever decide, Ser Criston, that nigh is the glorious time for you to betray my mother or I, know that the last thing thing oyu will fear is the Stranger's hand when I am through with you."

Your mother shouts your name, horrified. "What are you thinking? What are you plotting?"

You cup Alicent's face, smiling ever sweet. "Your innocence will keep you safe, mother. All I ask, for the heart you keep for your children, that you keep this between sealed lips and tilted chin. You know nothing, yes?"

"... Yes. Nothing."

You place a tender kiss on your mother's head. "Keep Daenera and Aemma safe for me. Aegon and I are flying to Dragonstone promptly. Sweet Helaena does ever so get overwhelmed by watching all of the children by herself."

"D-Dragonstone?"

Your sweet smile touched with poison, stretches. "It is high time I take a dragon for myself, don't you think so?"

While an insecure obsession had fraught your younger brother about claiming a dragon, you had met it with indifference.

For how can you not mourn the loss of Aemond's sight, staring in quiet horror the entire time as the maestre did his best to salvage the muck mess of blood and nerve endings, before the old man had shaken his head, and you turned to the small bowl that contained your brother's eye, unable to look at anything else.

Not even when your mother's rage was met with apathy and anger, her demands for justice nothing more than a woman's insanity, a mother's grief that must be swept away, tucked under a chin and a sadness she will never get rid of.

"Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon."

Your soft-hearted, darling, baby brother. None of his words had thawed the freezing of your heart, the grief under the swell of your breastbone.

Your own mourning was kept between teeth and tongue, as you had slept with your siblings that night. The four of you, tucked under the wing of the other, Aemond close to your chest as possible, as quiet, hot tears ran down your face. Every moan of pain or whimper he made in his sleep tore at each new vein inside of you.

"Dragons are the symbol of our House's power," Aegon had once said, windswept hair you tried to tame with your fingers, smelling fresh of Sunfyre and winds.

"And yet, there were no eggs in our child beds." He stiffened while you smiled sadly, curling your twin's hair away form his face, making him presentable and dusting the bout of sand that managed to find his leathers. You had been scolded long before by your grandsire of how you coddle Aegon, how you defend him, mother him more than your mother ever could, but you cannot stop. You were meant to care for him, tethered you once were inside your mother's womb together, you hold him steady now.

Whenever he was lost, whenever his sadness overtook him, wrung your brother dry of life, you bat the Stranger's hand and bring him back.

"But we have proved them wrong," he insisted. "All of us, even Aemond with Vhagar— the war queen, Visenya's dragon — we have claimed ours. Daeron all the way Oldtown has Tessarion, even Helaena has Dreamfyre. And yet you insist..."

You wound your arms over his torso, keeping him close in a silly hug where you sway and dance him around. A laugh escaped him while you inhaled the scent of smoke, soot, and that grime stench of beast.

Aegon on his good days lacked the bottle-edge of wine, of cheap salts from the waft of the soiled, Silk Streets.

This was your brother. No one else.

"I fare better without one," you whispered in his ear. "I appear innocent, sweet almost, without a beast in my command. They look at me with nothing but pity and the urge to protect me. Our father likes me like this, his poor, lovely daughter without a dragon of her own, listening so intently to his histories of Old Valyria. Our sister is eased, as one daughter is plagued by dreams and struggles with the real world, while the other cannot even claim a dragon of her own. Poor princess, Hightower blood must have thickened in her veins. She too, is no threat."

You pulled back, smiling at him. "They like me better like this. Pitiful, compliant, nothing but a sweet and pretty flower that sways in the Spring breeze. A beautiful decoration but no more."

He rubbed a thumb on your arm, a worry knot on his forehead. Aegon adored you but he struggled to piece together where your plot lies. You are a web-spinner, forever dancing out of reach, catching prey and lengthening your intricacies. "Is that why you hide your training with Aemond alone? Ser Criston is mother's sworn shield, he would not mind—"

"I will not place my secrecies to a knight with a soiled cloaked," you snorted. "No matter how tall he stands beside our mother. I trust no one but my kin. And I know that no matter how heavy you drink, sweet Aeg of mine, my secrets are your own."

He took your hand, kissing the back of it, stare impregnable. "As your blood is my own, our fire is one flame. I go where you tell me to."

You kissed his cheek, a reward, laughing. He smiles proudly at the sound. At this time, you dangled yourself to your brother as bait as the pressure from your grandsire to make him King started rising. You had been given notice that he had been talking to House Lannister, Wylde, even some Riverland lords.

You did not mind becoming Aegon's second wife. Just as his namesake, he will have his Rhaenys and Visenya. Unlike the Conqueror however, he would adore his Visenya more than a true flower. Helaena would enjoy that far better.

"And if I tell you to jump?" you half-purred.

"I will ask you how high."

Memories and choices break and tide as you scramble for hold on the rocky cliff face. Dragonmont in the dark is a behemoth beast, a screech or two breaking like lightning crackles, or the familiar drum beat of wings before the silence consumes once more. The stench of fire, of beasts and carcasses helps cloak the darkened night.

"Udligon ñuha brōzagon, Answer my call," you hiss into fraudulent emptiness, hands gripping rocky edges until your blood beads, "you fucking lizards."

"Have you gone mad!?"Aegon shouted, trying to pace with your run to the dragonpit.

A rocky laugh broke out from your being, not deigning that with a reply. Aegon huffed angrily.

"Alright, tell me this then. How are you so sure I'm not just about to put you on a bleeding volcano to die? We claim your dragon in the morn, sister. First thing before we break our fast. I'm sure by then, Vermithor or—"

You whipped your head around, pulling halt. "I leave tonight to claim my dragon. Whether it is you and Sunfyre who gets me there, or Aemond and Vhagar, is no matter to me. I will claim one tonight. It is up to you to decide now if we tell Aemond or not."

Aemond, whose anger is wounded tight, the barest excuse for war always at the edge of his hum. The misstep at Storm's End had cost him everything. Had cost your mother everything. Queen still, Alicent Hightower had bent the knee and offered her life in exchange for mercy. Before Rhaenyra passed judgement, Viserys I had passed.

It didn't matter that you had ensured a higher dosage from the Harrenhal witch in his usual milk of the poppy. Your spiders moving with ease through the silent channels you had established long before your own flowering.

The Red Keep had scrambled, the Heir with it. It was enough time for Lucerys to have come out of the red, confirmed to live through the worst of it without as much as a broken bone. Arrax however, had been badly maimed, and would no longer take flight. But he and his rider would live. Aemond would live. Alicent would have her son. Rhaenyea will have hers, and the crown.

Kevan had done his duty unto you while you settled the storms in Dragonstone. You rewarded him handsomely.

Aegon sighed. He too, would like your honour avenged, but not for the sake of war. "As you wish, sister. I hope you know what you're doing and I am not about to send you to your death."

Just like what you did to your mother, you reached forward and cupped his face. If before, your touch stills his heart and floods his cavities with warmth, a flash of fear strikes the twin son at the eerie smile on your face.

"Skoros morghot vestri? What do we say to the god of death?"

Aegon blinked. "Tubī daor. Not today."

You smiled. "Trust me, sweet Aeg. It is not my death the Stranger will take. Not until the fjords of the North are at my mercy."

"Iksan kesīr sir naejot māzigon ñuha sikagon pakto! I am here now to claim my birth right!" Your scream echoes and falls, repeating back to you. There is a hum, like an electric current that sizzles and pops inside your blood and marrow, and you scramble higher and higher on the rock. Your blood does not sing for the dragon lairs, but above. Up and up, jagged edges cut your skin and dress, the wind whipping with sea mist, but nothing, no one, can clamour you as you reach the peak.

At first you see nothing but darkness and hollow sounds. But you let your eyes adjust, a hiss breaking out of your dry lips as you stumble. You look down. What you first thought were rocks and wayward bones of cattle is bigger.

Whale? No.

Dragon. Dragon bone.

You look and will every sense that your eyes do not. The smell that is drowned— iron. Bones bigger than a person. Than cows and whales. Bones of fearsome beasts. Darkness moves, taking form, more than shadow. Scales hewn rough and jagged, as if stone themselves. Midnight black moving with the gentlest of sighs.

As soon as you realise what— or who — is in front of you, the eyes open with an intelligent gleam. Your heart jolts at the emerald irises that gaze back at you, slitting at the appearance of a human.

'The stench of death follows him', the voice of an old keeper hums into your ear. You no longer remember who told this to you, but the words ring true in your memory. 'Scales of midnight, as if hewn from darkness and death. A harbinger, your grace, an omen of the darkest nightmares.'

"Rytsas. Hello." You smile, ever sweet, ever charming.

This is a thread you had never felt before. Not one of your own making, but something older. A golden thread that led the eyes of Daenys the Dreamer. That spun the ties of Aegon the Conqueror. The voices that herded your madness had gone quiet in the mad rush to get here, but now their presence thickens. Words you cannot hear, nor understand, flood the silence as dragon met rider for the first time.

Keepers and historians have called him he, but every bone in your body tells you that the being before you is a she.

And wouldn't that make sense? A cannibalistic being is a woman?

She opens her maw, only ever slightly, smoke and fire crackling out of it. Molten lava in the belly of her insides tease the cool, night air and warms you.

Her version of a smile. Hello, she seem to say.

"Māzīs. Come," you say, giggling. "Dohaerās. Serve."

That night, you took your first flight.

That night, the Cannibal took her first flight with her first— and only — rider as well.

❝ . . . It is said that the formerly named "The Cannibal" had been entranced by the hunger of his new— first and evermore — rider. Prince Aegon the Elder who had escorted his twin sister that very night with Sunfyre, had looked up in alarm and fright to a maddened screech. Excitement and laughter pouring out from the newly bonded Dragon and Rider had soon turned fear into awe.

Gaelithox, she had been named as they had ridden until dawn broke by the rider who loved her 'till the end of their days, was said to have seen a mirror in Her Grace. The fathomless hunger for blood and organ from the same bodies of their kin. For Gaelithox ever hungers and satisfies for the same meat as her, at the height of her grief and ire that fuelled the Queen Consort to climb Dragonmont by hand, she too hungered for the throats of her traitorous blood.

Gaelithox will only have one rider in her whole life, as she found no same twin soul as akin in the Bastard Eater Queen. Their bond moved as if two bodies beheld one soul.

She shied from humans, and oft found too rough with other dragons. Vhagar was an exception, oft seen acting as an elder sister to the Queen's dragon when neither royal rode them and played in the skies. Smaller dragons were forbidden to approach her however, nor was she allowed in the dragonpit after almost devouring the flightless Arrax.

She died two moons after the Queen's death, delivering her final flames for her rider and would never more breathe her infamous green flames akin to Wildfire, ordered by the Crowned Heir, Princess Daenera Velaryon. It is said that the princess attempted to bond with the cannibalistic dragon but it refused.

The dragon spent her last moons in heartbreak, oft seen in Dragonstone and the Red Keep, circling her rider's most favourite places. Her final resting place is at the very top of Dragonmont from whence the Queen claimed her. It is said that the Queen's crown, the one the King Jacaerys had gifted her after the birth of their first sons, the Princes Laenor and Gaemon, is said to be placed there, as well as a portion of her ashes.

It is said that the King and the Queen's twin brother, the Prince Aegon, personally made the trek in remembrance.

It is widely suspected that Aelyx, Princess Daella's dragon, the youngest child of the King and Queen, may have been Gaelithox's only existing hatchling for he too is made of rough, midnight scales. The dragon that bred with her remains to be unknown. ❞

—Maestre Kevan Noratz, Volume X of The Life and Lies of the Emerald Flame, passage chapter under 'The Time of Hunger: Gaelithox'.

You leave Gaelithox to a mournful goodbye on Dragonstone, pressing your forehead against her hard, scaly head, promising to come back, of exchanging her diet for fat, juicy whales, for more wind-whipped rides, before riding back on Sunfyre with Aegon. The younger dragon would not rise from the beaches in fear of the cannibalistic elder, but you made ensuring promises to teach Gaelithox not to chew your dearest brother's dragon.

You had gone most of your life without the feeling of a bond beneath you, warm and alive and wild, and the roar and stench that though new, felt so familiar in your ribcage— you will fly again. And with your brothers beside you. With Helaena and her lovely Dreamfyre.

To think they had taken this from you too, to placate them. To play into their hands like a mewling kitten.

No more.

It is paces before fast is about to break when you both touch back down to Kings Landing. The Keep busying with its occupants, servants and maids bolstering with quickened feet to ensure the lords and royals are awakened with full, poached meals, dresses and coats readied for their lords and ladies, a new, glorious day under the Reign of the Black Queen.

"What now?" Aegon asks, trying to keep with your pace but he is fatigued, failing to stop his yawns. The excitement of last night had come upon him like a fog, and he is missing his bed. Hells, he is missing the bed he stays with his wife if it meant he would get a full night's sleep in the hours of the day.

"Now, we speak nothing of what happened."

He turns to you, frowning. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." You beam, nodding in favour of soldiers and maids who bow in reverence to the Crown Princess. You know you smell of dragon and night, and you need a bath. And to talk to Dyanna before you seek your daughters. "I will need time and people. The board must still be set for me to perfectly execute what I have in store."

"Alright." He yawns again. "I'll be in my quarters, passed out, if you need me. Please do not need me until sup."

You laugh breathlessly, grabbing his hand and giving it a wet kiss. "I will give you your rest, be assured. Kirimvose, dōna lēkia, Thank you, sweet brother."

The words are simple, said in a quiet murmur heavy with love and meaning. Aegon presses a loving kiss to your head, unable to stop himself winding an arm around you.

"Syt ao, va moriot, ñuha prūmia. For you, always, my heart."

As you break to each other's chambers— his, to sleep, you, already meeting Yna and requesting for a bath — you don't notice the lurker that watched the intimate moment between twins, humming in amusement before it moves to follow you.

Back in your quarters— your marriage quarters as Jacaerys had requested that you forgo having your own, not wishing to part with you — the maids are already busying themselves airing the room, moving to follow your usual routine. The only thing breaking it is the tub now in the centre.

"Thank you," you say to Yna as she picks out the pins from your hair, shrugging off your dress in the process as soon as the maids had untangled the lace behind you.

"Call for Dyanna," you tell them as they bow and leave, the door clicking softly behind them. Plans must be made. Bath for now.

With the world stifled for a second, left with only you and your thoughts, you plunge your body under too-hot water, sighing against the aches and pains in your body. Dragon-riding is a new endeavour to your muscles, and though enjoyable, was still too new.

You sigh as tears fall from your eyes, blinking exhaustedly against soft, humming daylight. You had always known that love, as it is, is a maiden's folly. A foolish, hapless play meant to fool young girls into thinking the world is kind; a pretty place.

It was an even farther thought from you, a princess of the realm. At a young age, it has been drilled to you that your womb is a rare commodity. Your body has never been your own, a piece meant to be moved in a bigger game that you are used for, not play.

You weren't stupid.

If there's a few things Otto Hightower had ever granted you, apart from gifting you his keen prowess in moving power beneath your fingertips, in hungering for more, for better— it is understanding what each person is, who they can be, how you can move them. A flatter, a flair, a push. As a man, there is much to be desired about your grandsire; he used people, used family to pursue power, but you can't truly fault him for that as you were the same.

You just took better care of the people under your wing.

And for Jace, you had banished him.

The worst part, you knew there was a good, fat chance you would care for the princeling. He was a kind man, a sweet man, and with a guiding hand, you could forge yourself the best husband for yourself as much as you can mould a great king and a wonderful father. Women's hands are ever carved to mould and prod men. We stand behind, a presence or a hand, an echo of power.

But your Jace had surpassed it all, and in the moons leading up to your present day, to giving him his heirs, two beautiful daughters, the promised full Valyrian colouring in the silver hair in Daenera, your eldest, the wide, violet gaze in Aemma— the name of his mother's mother, a request of him that you had kindly, graciously fucking agreed to — of course there is a part of you, the girlish, tender heart that you long thought you had buried to get here, would fall for the brown-eyed, wondrous man.

You sink deeper into the tub, sighing as you let yourself unravel—

When you feel it. A presence in your room. It's soft. Silent. Not a lot would feel as such, but as paranoid as you are, as you keep your spiders clean and pretty with your dewy-eyed webs— you know better.

Your mind runs with ideas on who it might be, and come to a few people. No true name rises. The Red Keep is flooded with spies and traitors. You test your luck, sitting up on the tub, raising an arm over the lip of it and flicking water with your fingertips.

"If you are here to kill me, I'm afraid it will be a lost cause."

He laughs, sardonic and edged and familiar, jetting a tingle down your spine.

Well. There's getting a calm bath.

"Perceptive as always, niece," he says, heavy footfalls approaching now that he has been caught. "I'm just here to say hello."

You raise your eyes, mouth curled but unsmiling at the man who acts as the biggest thorn to your plots. Daemon Targaryen has never fallen through your webs, on guard against your flatter, your push, or your flair. Of course, taking the position of his daughter might have forever burnt that road, but you would think he'd ease up just a little bit when his wife, the Queen, had warmed to you considerably.

Unlike your mother, you had never been hostile to your bitch of an elder sister. Just like your plots for Aegon and Jacaerys, and nodding along to thread your father had started but abandoned, foolishly thinking the realm would follow without him fully ensuring your sister's claim to the throne— you carefully maintained a polite farce with Rhaenyra.

Ultimately, this became a boon to you, as she had responded positively to your abrupt marriage to her son, even reminding her deranged guard dog of their own marriage. The cream to your lemon cake had been when you birthed Aemma, the Queen's most favourite grandchild thus far. When she was a babe, Rhaenyra was never far; almost, always holding your daughter, cooing at her cheeks, remarking her likeness to her namesake with pure fondness.

But Daemon Targaryen knew, in the deepness of his marrow, that there is something wrong with you.

"Hello," you answer primly. He laughs, leaning against the passage to your open balcony. "We could have had this elating greeting at fast, if you wish to break it with me and my own."

He scoffs, unable to hide his disdain at the thought. It breaks his stare of your naked visage. Men. "I would rather jump to the fighting pits, good daughter."

"How rude. Is that all?" You meet his gaze steadily, tilting your head. "If it is not obvious yet, good father, I am bathing."

An amused smirk. "I can see that." Lecherous fucking geezer. "No matter. I just have a... curious thought, a wonder I suspect you may be able to answer. See. Truly odd it is, for the keepers to alert me this morning that Sunfyre had taken a ride past the Hour of Owl." Your heart thuds in your ribcage and you do your best to keep your expression mildly irritated. "Not with one, drunken rider, but with another. It had taken them hours, only coming back when morning had already presented in the air."

He steps forward, slow, menacing, until he reaches the edge of your tub and crouches. Your gazes are still unmatched in height, defiant as yours might be.

"The distinct smell wafts them, a Keeper said, and one suspects that though one dragon left last night, two might have come back this morning for he had seen another fly away." His fingers dips into the water, swirling the steam without breaking eye contact. "I wonder if you know anything about it, darling niece of mine."

The mocking emphasis is not lost on you. If the Queen is the Realm's Delight, you were Darling of the Realm. A sweet, merry girl, the secondborn daughter of Viserys I who frequently fought for the plight of the small folk, who gathered friends of all kinds of lords and ladies no matter the standing of their houses to her own, visiting far lands and charming every person in any room. Who made any feast brighter, always sparkling, always the darling.

Less of a dragon, more of a fairytale.

You sit up, leaning, baring your breasts completely to him as you pull yourself up on the ledge he is crouched from. He leans back, only slightly, as you smile demurely. Sweet. Tart. On the edge of pulling his head and hitting it against the copper tub.

"I am unsure of what you suspect, or is accusing me of, kepus, uncle," you purr and there's a twitch in his mouth, a widen in his irises— men are so fucking simple — "I had been feeling down last night, as my husband, as you know, is beyond my reach at the moment as he rallies alliances for the good of the realm. My brother had simply offered to take me out riding, trying to quell my loneliness with an excitable flight I had never been afforded."

You tilt your head. "Even if there had been a dragon binded to my own, why why would I not regale the realm with news of my success? I have longed for a dragon of my own, but alas, I have not quite succeeded where most of the family have." You pout. His eyes flicker. "Mayhaps I am more Hightower than I am Targaryen."

A huff leaves his lips, the amusement in his smile arching to his dark, dark gaze. Before you can react, his hand had comes forward to hold your chin in a tight grip, your jaw aching soon enough at the fingers that dig against your skin, wanting to bruise, to break.

Though a tremble passes your body, you keep his stare, gritting your teeth as the pad of his thumb brushes your lips. Moments and desires thrum between a charged hatred.

The lust is twisted from wanting to fuck you to wanting to kill you. The line is not simple. Maybe that is your fate together.

But he can't. You are well too ingrained in his family now, loved by the people he cared about. You are untouchable. For now. This is a warning, waiting for you to stutter, to show your hand. Any show of your true intentions... he is more than happy to swing Dark Sister across your throat.

He releases you without another word, standing up and leaving through the front door, the door clicking shut.

You sink back into the bath, letting the water engulf you.

Your daughters are moons apart in birth, and there are only a few differences between them that people oft remarked they could be twins. Daenera is taller, spindly. Built like Aemond when he was younger. Her hair is spun moon and eyes of mullish blue. It reminds you of Daeron's eyes. You had named Daenera yourself, a gruelling birth that took the entire night. You promised Jacaerys he could name the second. He had chosen Aemma for a girl, Laenor for a boy.

Not a few moons later, you were with child again. Your husband pinked at the cheeks at the chiding from his family. When she cried into the afternoon sun—Aemma was born mid day, during a council meeting — he pain did not stop the laugh that came out of your mouth from the horrified expression from the Master of Coin as your water broke.

Aemma had a sweetheart face, cheeks much fatter than her older sister's, with a yellowish tinge to her hair, curlier too, reminding you of Aegon. And Aemma laughed more, her deep, violet eyes always half closed as she exploded in giggles and bright, sunshine happiness.

Sons they might not be, but you had given heirs for the throne. And for them, you would do anything to keep their futures intact. Bond with a dragon, face the Rogue Prince, upheave Winterfell. Anything.

You flounce to the nursery where you know the two would be, smiling sweetly at every person you pass as they bow in reverence. Most wore sights of confusion, their greedy eyes and wagging tongues drinking in the deep, emerald glisten of your gown.

It's an old dress, one you keep in the corner of your collection. It isn't as if you had forgo the colours of your mother's house, but playing court meant every movement, even the clothes you wear, can be meaningful. And since your marriage, your Jace liked you in Velaryon colours.

"A goddess come to bless," he gasped against your collarbone, keeping your legs high on his waist as he rutted into you before his teeth sunk on your skin. As newlyweds go, there is not a lot of teasing to be had for your husband to curl against you in a darkened alcove. Merely wearing his favourite colour on your skin has him panting like a dog. His favourite dress is a seafoam blue that dragged longer against the ground in a soft, almost-gossamer material with a silver belt.

Enticing him never took long, but you enjoyed the dance presented. You enjoyed the dark hunger that filled him until he grabbed you to take you because he just had to take you.

The fresh wound slices deeper as you imagine all the things Jacaerys is doing to the so called Sara Snow. The emerald green of your gown shimmers with your anger.

"Fucking bastards," you can't help but say aloud, nodding at the guards posted on the nursery as you hear the squeals of your daughter and the calm, even voice of your brother.

"Muña! Mother!" Aemma squeals, untangling herself from being pressed against Aegon's side as the children— Daenera and Jaehaera — cuddle around him, before running to you. Helaena is on the floor, entertaining baby Maelor. Your mother, hands twisting against her own, stands vigil by the window, staring far ahead.

You catch your secondborn, giggling as you pressed kiss after kiss on her face.

"I see everyone has started without me. Where is Jaehaerys?"

"You were late, sodjisto, aunt," Jaehaera grins gummily. Jahaera is only a year older than Daenera. Your daughters, five and a half and five respectively. "Jaehaerys is with kepus, uncle. They are training."

"Smart girl." You meet your brother's gaze, whose eyes had notably been staring at your dress, mouth turned down. "Why don't you three play with Helaena? I shall speak about Name Day gifts for your Uncle Joffrey for a bit, hm?"

As Aemma shrieks something about cakes, and Daenera dutifully kissing your cheek in greeting before she takes Jaehaera's hand, you turn to your brother and mother.

"Aemond?" you ask softly, keeping your voice out of earshot. Alicent shakes her head. You nod. "Good. We don't want him inciting a war before I have mine properly planned."

As the Dowager draws in a sharp inhale, Aegon grabs your hands, the worry pulled taunt in his eyebrows. "Are you seriously contemplating war, sister? Isn't there a better way to punish them?"

"What punishment does a man regale in?" you hiss, stepping close to him. "Or the Queen's heir for the bloody matter? When Aemond nearly killed Lucerys, and he confronted me as if I had ordered Vhagar to tear through his brother, I thought I had put to bed any doubts in our marriage. It seems that men stray, regardless. My daughters may be his heir now, but what is to say that bastard wildling he's found himself cock deep in produces a son? Will he shame me with a mistress? Or will he shame me with a second wife?"

Your mother's lips tightens, her fingers paling at how tight she is gripping her nerves.

"Bastard or not, if he takes her to wife, I will be nothing. Make that babe a son, and the realm will rally for it. Daenera is his heir. My daughters will not be forgone. I will not be pushed aside. This is mercy, brother," you say softly, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. "My last one. It requires time, moons, to unfurl. It requires seeding doubt and unfathomable inadequacy. Better if Aemond is none the wiser, Helaena the same. But I will need both of you for this to work. It is the only time I will ever ask. For me. For my daughters."

"And you will punish Winterfell with a war?" your mother asks, frown pulled deep. "That is the plan?"

"I will not. I won't do such a thing so blatant, mother, you know me better than that. But this is my last mercy, and it will be the last. For the next time he offends me so, I do not care if Rhaenyra feeds me to Syrax. I will put a dagger through his heart, heir or not."

The Prince Jacaerys comes back not a week later. Though he comes back to the same castle with the same occupants— your shiny new threads gleam. The stage has been set, a play ready to act. You had sent more spiders in the North, keeping a close eye to every blasphemy your husband has been enjoying in the absence of his duties, and as the rage in you quietly grew with each new whisper, your determination hardens.

You mark each indescretion. You keep a tally.

You count for each fall your blow will land on him.

Vermax lands with a screech and a heavy thump, your husband leaping off him with a grin on his face, matching the one you own, waving your arm joyously with Aemma in your arm and Daenera beside you, holding to your skirt as she grinned at her father.

Aemma wiggles under your hold, and you let Jace get close enough before you set her down, laughing, "Okay, okay!" Her laughter carries through as she scrambles like a bull to her father. A squeal peals out of her as Jace picks her up just in time and tosses her in the air.

"Want to meet kepa, father, sweet girl?" you whisper to Daenera, running a hand down her hair before she nods, breaking out into her own sprint, hugging her father as he greets them with laughter and kisses.

You let them have their time, and this, at least, eases your heart truthfully. A kind reminder that Jace adores his daughters.

You stay at the edge of the entrance, your too-wide grin softens into a smile. You were dramatic, nothing new about that, but even in the pale, pearl blue of your dress in silky, Myrish lace, the emeralds in your heavy, golden belt winks. Green ribbons twisted in your hair alongside fresh flowers. When the trio of your family treks toward you, silver-haired babes clinging to your dark haired prince, you serve a wink at the girls and they untangle themselves from their father while you stepped forward.

A choreographed dance, not giving him time to think. To pause.

Every step is calculated, every item on your body— the silk, the small seahorse that locks your dress behind you, the tint on your lips to the oil in your hair and body — is made to perform. You engulf him in you as if you want to suffocate his senses, your arms wrapping around him with sweet kisses pressing on his face, his neck.

Most in the dragonpit looked away, others, scandalously amazed and enchanted, watch as the princess is undeniably enthralled with her lord husband.

His laughter rumbles across his body, infecting your own, smelling of dragonback and crisp winds. You wonder if your nose is more heightened, you would be able to smell his whore in him, but you don't. It's just him. Your Jace.

Your body moulds against his as his arms tightens around you. When you lean back, you sweetly press a chaste kiss on his lips, grinning.

"What is this?" he huffs a laugh, meeting your doeful gaze. Your fingers curl around his chin, his cheek, idly tapping and touching as if you are committing so much newness to memory.

"Kostagon iā ābrazȳrys daor jaelagon zirȳla valzȳrys? Can a wife not want her husband?" you ask softly, pressing a few more kisses before sucking the last one just under his ear. His body shudders. You hide your smirk. "Skori ēza issare qrīdrughagon tolī bōsa? When he has been away too long?"

A yearning look tints your gaze from under your lashes, and you have to stifle the winning smirk as guilt pinches his face.

"My apologies, my wife. I did not mean to be away from you for long. From the girls." As his eyes flick to his daughters, your mask momentarily sharpens into clear distaste. The urge to dig your fingers into his eyes until he is bleeding and screaming under you is one you tamper with great distress.

Did not mean...

Did not mean to have a dalliance with another woman?

Did not mean to fall into bed with a fucking bastard, you insidious cunt, while I await here with your heirs?

Your anger thrums, nestled deep in your heart, it breathes. You school your face the moment he turns back to you, bringing your hands to his lips, kissing each finger with reverent tenderness. His brown eyes smoulder, rubbing your bare— irises widening — back.

"If you wish it, I can be on my knees for my apologies, my princess."

Your mouth curls. "I'm afraid that might have to be quite later, my prince."

"Huh?"

"The Dowager Queen hoped to congratulate you on your successful campaigning. Reaching as far as the North so frequently, we planned a feast for your return." Eyes shinning, you cup his face. You hope the guilt eats him raw from the inside out. Like worms. Like termites. Hungry, hungry, hungry. "We have never been more proud of you, I have never been more proud of you."

You laugh brightly, ignoring the way he squeezed you just a bit harder that mere second the same time his eyes tightened. "The moment I told the girls of it, they had begged to dance with you." Then you bit your lip, frowning slightly. "I... I understand if you are tired, 'tis a long journey after all, I did try to tell them you might want to rest, we can sneak you—"

"No, no, my heart, of course I would be happy to, I— I want nothing more." He brings you close, face disappearing into your neck. "Thank you. I love you."

You hum, carding your fingers through his hair. "As I love you."

For the rest of the feast, you dance just at the edges of his fingertips, ensuring that you permeated his sights and senses despite it. A game. A dance. When he thanks revelries who congratulate him, who ask him of his adventures, you proudly stand beside him, dutiful as the wife that you are, spearing him with compliments as much as you can. Hands squeezing his arm, your oils swallowing him with your smell.

When dinner came, you take chances massaging his thigh, sliding a salacious grin that had him blushing, ever so sweet, green— making you wonder what kind of fucking bastards do that he finds your attention so swallowing.

You don't let up.

Whenever he, in turn made a move, you sidestep, flutter a smirk, a wink; always escaping, letting him grow frustrated as the night went on.

Your one respite from taunting him had been when he danced with his daughters, making a gallant show of asking them, even Jaehaera. Giggles and spins, the ladies of the court fawn and coo.

Even now, you're making him to be the perfect man. The endearing husband, the wondrous father, the brilliant prince, the perfect lord.

To execute your plan, it must be made with a surgical precision. A slice that guts him to his knees, that breaks his spirit and quenches the whispering, wicked madness nestling with your ire. On another cheek, he must remain upright and upstanding, as to keep your daughters' future in perfect order.

You catch the domineering gaze of Daemon Targaryen, idle as he is, on the side of his distracted Queen, talking to a highborn lady. You don't look away as you toast him your cup of Arbour Red before you pucker your lips for a taste. Your eyes move to where your husband is already looking, flushed red and sweaty from all the dancing, your girls, preening and giggling around him.

You tilt your chin at him, a challenge in your gaze, before you slowly pull your lips away from your wine, stained red.

His throat bobs.

It will be a long, arduous game. Full of pitfalls and tightened webbing. One trip can kill you. But once the machinations are in order, once everything and everyone is in their proper places... oh, you cannot wait for the dance the dragons will make.

A flutter, a simpered footstep. Then a rustle of a dress as one bows.

"My lady," Dyanna greets behind you.

"Hm?"

"The spiders in the ice have met the pup in the snow."

"And?"

"The pup is not suspicious, in fact, they might go as far as to say that the pup is lonely. Though others largely understand her existence... no one likes a bastard."

You snort. "No, they don't, do they?"

"The wolf cares for the pup though, and is largely protective of his only sister."

"Hm. Complicated, but not impossible. Have Meera change the tone of my missive. A softer edge. Sweet but not overtly. Ensure the prerogative of politeness. Then have it sent to the Rookery. The proper channels."

You sigh, taking the edge of your braid and twisting through the ribbons your maid tangled between them. Tonight, you had elected Targaryen colours. A black dress akin to scales and a low, exposed back and dipping front, held together in red ribbons and silver chains. One that might be too on the nose, but the constant, feverish stares from your husband made it worth it.

"We have to ensure a good relationship with the Warden of the North, don't you think so?" You have not looked away from your husband since your maid came, and as he whispered something in Daenera's ear, nodding off to her grandmother with Aemma towed, he turned towards you, one stride after another.

"Precisely what I thought, milady."

"Go," you order her for the last time, giving her your cup, just before Jacaerys reaches you.

Game, set.

Worshipping you has always been something Jace excelled at. At the least, his cock was much larger than most, and without the preparation of his tongue and mouth, it burned. At most, he oft found himself holding your shaking thighs, your head and shoulders left on the bed as he feasted on you like a man starved, hungered for your nectar, the sounds you make, and the shaking of your body as you reached your peak on his tongue.

"J-Jace, please, I—" Your breath stutters, a hiccup escaping your mouth, but he is not letting up. On his knees as only a lordling can with his back straight, he is holding your thighs, your lower back, eating your cunny for the third time of the night.

As soon as he had reached you, he grasped your waist, whispering against your hair in a rumbled groan, "You are torturing me so, my wife. We leave. Now."

"Now?" you echoed, amused. "This is a feast in your honour."

"My honour is already hanging by a thread. The revelry will go on without us. I want to have my fill of you."

And fill he had. He didn't even wait to get you out of your dress before he had pushed your skirt upward, gone on his knees, and got his tongue inside of you.

Now, you are overwhelmed, overstimulated as you are hazy, gripping the wrecked sheets as your peak reached you once more. A strangled, breathy cry of his name falls between your lips as your back arched impossibly so, and instead of letting up, this seemed to fuel him harder, the muscle of his mouth working harder inside of your cunt, hands digging into your flesh to keep you steady.

It builds with a stimulation unending, and just as you're on the throes of your last high, it builds again, quick and fast this time, shuddering gasps of, "o-oh gods, g-gods, Jace!" is the last thing you are able to shout before your fourth peak breaks against the shudders of your last one, your wetness exploding, and you start crying before he lets up.

Your blubber becomes laughter, and he is soft as he lies you down, massaging your thighs as you twitched. He hovers above you, running gentle hands across your arms, kneading through skin, before he reaches your face. He's still in most of his clothes, his long white shirt and breeches, but his mouth is covered in your wetness before he wipes it, obscene in the prettiness of his face and messy locks from where you had tugged and grabbed.

He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, so close to your body, all too tangled in your soul, and can feel his hard cock upright and wanting against your belly, but he pays it no mind. Concern mars his features as he brushes down your hair.

"Are you alright, my love? Too much?"

You shake your head, brushing your hand down his chest. "N-no, I am well. I just never did that before."

He smiles, kissing your closed eyelids before he brings you close to his chest, cuddling you deep. "You deserve all the pleasure I can give you," he says against your hair. "I have been gone far too long. Consider it my apology."

You hum, eyes open. "Apology for what? You were doing your duty, nothing more, ñuha zaldrīzes, my dragon." You feel him stiffen as you keep your voice soft, caring. "I understand duty far better than you. It is what I love most about you."

You look up, taking his chin between your fingertips as you stared at those warm, brown eyes. "You, who carries your honour like a shield and your duty like a sword. I feel as if the gods had blessed me a husband far better than I should have had for I know I do not deserve you."

"H-how can you say that? You are—" He swallows. "— You are the most excellent woman. The mother of my children. You... You are the one I do not deserve."

Your head falls back against his chest, gripping his shirt. Only by your teeth had you stop yourself from screaming.

You curdle, you keep, you poise.

"My love?"

But you pay him no mind, pushing him on his back as you straddle him, your hands working quick to unlace his breeches until his cock slaps against his stomach, end red and swollen. A sharp hiss falls from his lips as your hand tugs on it once. Twice.

He calls your name, spits it really, eyes blown with lust as he holds your waist, unsure if he should lift you off him or grind you against his aching cock.

"I want you inside me," you whimper, plead, feeling his cock twitch at your words, your false, yearning gaze. He mistakes the burned tears of anger in your eyes as unbridled want. "I have gone so long without your warmth, your cock, swelling inside me, your seed nestling deep, taking root—"

"Yes," he gasps, fingers digging into your doughy sides, pulling you up, moving you around whilst you grabbed his length and directed inside your wet, hot cunt inch by inch, filling you so thickly you can feel him in your throat. It takes time, patience and grit, but you're wet enough and you're determined. Once he's fully inside of you through a choked moan of your own, his neck arches, head thrown back. "Fuck! Yes, y-yes, there you are, my g-good fucking girl."

You move slow at first, taking him, bracing one hand on his knee, almost testing the feel him of back in the familiar contours of your cunt. Veins pop between each groan and choke that shudders through him whilst praise, your name, the possessive titles— my love, my wife, my princess — is spit in between.

When the heat tightens in your belly, you shift positions, placing both palms on his chest, and riding him without abandon, bouncing up and down as you watch with a sharp eye as his release builds. His hips move on their own, fucking up in you as you meet his thrusts with equal vigour, and it's delicious. It's heated. You grind your swollen folds against his mon and your cries make him thrust up harder into you, calling your name, denting your doughy hips.

You don't stop, your pleasure at the back of your mind, wanting him to unravel, to break— a final cry of your name dissolving into a choked moan, spilling his seed deep inside, the continuous snap of his hips digging it deeper into your womb.

But your last peak is still tightening, so you press a quick kiss on his chest, a bite really, before you continue to chase your own high, a hiss slipping his lips but moving your hips with his iron-grip, stutters of, "d-do it, reach your high, f-fuck! fuck!"— Your head throws back, nails digging his skin as your cunt clenches his cock in a vice grip, forcing his hips to snap up once more, twice, until you fall, slumping against him.

When he kisses the top of your head, murmuring words you ignore, you close your eyes.

Your plan is in motion. The missive will be sent to the Lord Stark, in pursuit of an innocent friendship. The spiders you have placed on the Northern bastard are set, and a dragon flies in Dragonstone with your bond in its blood.

Your Jace is home. He will fall in love with you all over again. His wonderful daughters and darling princess, he will regret the events that have transpired in the cold. In his head, he will make promises to do better, to be better, that whatever happened is a blip. A mistake that will not happen again. but you know, he will trip. He will wander once more.

But you will make sure that the next time he does so, he will regret it for the rest of his days.

Because it is not you who will burn Winterfell to the ground.

It will be him.

Your plan moves, your web is perfect.

Now, the spider waits for the idiot fucking flies to feed on.

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yandere-wishes · 1 year

Text

‧ ₊˚✧ Do Not Weep Hydro Dragon ‧ ₊˚✧

Summary: There's a crack in Neuvillette's heart that bares your name. He sheds a tear for you each day. Yet once you return to Fontaine with your fiance. The cracks and tears begin to grow.

Warnings: Yandere behavior, stalking, arranged marriages, affairs.

Author's note: I'm sorry 😭💔😭💔

There've been rumors circling around Fontaine. Ghostly whispers floating between coral-tainted lips and fervid ears. The rumors spoke a bittersweet name. One Neuvillate had long since buried. At first, the notion of your return had felt like a bad dream. like the roar of a tsunami before it crashes on shore. Terrifying yet, ultimately unreal. He'd summed the rumors up to some traveler who bore your mien. To an erroneous article by the steam bird. Anything. anything at all.

Anything that wasn't you.

It wasn't until after a particularly grueling trial that he'd witnessed the truth behind these rumors. There you were in all you're glory. Gleaming akin to the finest pearls laying dormant in the primordial sea. Your expression, when he could catch it, was gleeful, delighted, A drastic contrast to his last unfortunate memory of you. His eyes follow the delicate movement of your gloved hand as it stifles a cheery giggle pouring from your cherry lips. It's only after noting your delight that he becomes conscious of the gentleman accompanying you. A ginger with bloodthirsty eyes and a soul that reeks of carnage.

A splash of heat rolls down Neuvillet's cheek. Right before a splash of cold splatters across his temples. his attention narrows on the sky, as the

clouds begin to weep. What once was a peaceful sunny day shatters like a wine glass on porcelain tiles. Humidity threads through the air robbing him of his breath.

It's raining.

How fitting, Neuvillette thinks as he watches you and your companion run to find shelter.

Neuvillette recalls your smile almost as clearly as he recalls your pulse under his teeth. The taste of your flesh as his teeth left bloody love bites in every wrong place. He remembers saying I love you, albeit there was more to it than that. It had started with I love you and ended with every truth he'd forgotten how to tell. He had shed his human masquerade, in the hope of finding true love. You had screamed that night. You had screamed every night since.

Neuvillette thumbs through his memories. As the rain outside grows more ferocious. He remembers you standing by the sea, he remembers you telling him the phobias that ran deeper than blood.

You hadn't been from Fontaine, not originally. A fallen gear from an ancient automaton whose kin resided across the sea.

You'd been raised in the ways of the hydro court. Even if 'raised; was too generous a word. Morphed or sculpted may have been more appropriate synonyms. You grew up clawing at your own skin, trying to find who was underneath the layers of mindless expectations. You'd been raised as a lady and grew into a harrowing beast that feasted on the stars.

Yet even creatures of unparalleled strength had their weaknesses. Even ever-blessed vision wielders bore a certain Achilles heal.

Yours so happened to be your incompatibility with your foster nation. Or rather with the water itself.

When people asked, as some had tended to do. You'd weaved them tales about serrated Pisces and dorsal-finned leviathans with open maws awaiting their prey. You don't tell them about the vastness, the dark blue landscape that feels all too wide and all too endless. You don't tell them about the things you swore you've seen lurking beneath the infinite waters of Fontaine. And you most certainly leave out the parts about the creature who engraved fear upon your bones many moons ago before you even knew how to walk.

Neuvillette remembers your eagerness to leave. That had, ultimately, been your bonding point. He'd been an outcast. The supreme justice was ever only relevant when he upheld the law. And whilst Supreme Justice Neuvillette was revered and adored by all. Plain Neuvillette was nothing more than a shadow of evaporated water that hunted the streets of Fontaine. You had never wanted to mingle with the people. Keeping everyone at arm's length. Maybe it was fate that had brought two lonely souls together all those moons ago. Maybe it was something else.

He had loved you. He swears it on the Hydro archon ( or any other Archon who lacks Furina's fickleness) He'd tried to show you that the waters of Fontaine meant you no harm. He'd even shown you his true form, the utmost assurance. Maybe that's why you fled. Maybe that's why you'd left him heartbroken one morning when the sun didn't rise.

It had rained that day. As well as the following days. Until the surrounding islands ceased to exist.

You'd left him hollow and alone.

Yet your return made the cracks in his heart fester.

Neuvillette had taken it upon himself to cloak you in his watchful gaze.

He'd come to notice how you and that dreadful Fatui Harbinger you'd come to associate yourself with. Rather liked taking long walks

where the sea kissed the shore. He'd also noticed a ring of Snezhnaya Alexandrite perpetually wrapped around your finger.

Neuvillette's footsteps are heavy as they collide with the concrete. He's closer today. So close he can practically smell the scent of citrus and eucalyptus. If he reached out with his powers he could surely touch you, feel the warmth of your body bleeding into him, just like old times. He misses you, yet a part of him pities your return. Neuvillette's grey eyes follow your desolate gaze. It rips open one too many wistful wounds.

"So then Teucer said...Hey darling are you listening?"

Childe's eyes follow your frozen glare, tracing your line of sight straight to the menacing waters that refuse to part from your side. You hear your lover mumble a faint 'right'. Before you feel his silk-clad fingers dance across the back of your neck. Flirting with the chilling fear that rolls off you in waves. You pin your body to him, finding comfort in the familiar scent of his cologne as you bury your head in his neck.

"I'm truly sorry for this darling" Sincerity rolls off his tongue, percolating into the tender kiss he presses to your temple. "I've just been feeling...down lately. Like this inexhaustible sadness is going to swallow me whole. Fontaine was the only place I could convince the Tsaritsa to transfer me for a short while. I just, I need a break from it all." You answer him in a low melodic hum. You get it, truly you do. Sadness is a poison, acidic in nature. It engulfs one's soul. Melting away their purpose, their resolve. Eating away until it reaches their hearts, their desires. It leaves behind empty shells and broken pieces too fragile to ever fully mend.

Who better than you to understand the pains of being soulless, bereft? A mere shell awaiting a miracle that had died long ago.

There's a voice, carved from velvet and silk. It rolls across you like a tidal wave. Potent yet soft. It whispers your name and calls out in hopes of mending broken hearts. You turn to look behind you. All you see is the endless sea.

It's only on the fourth day of your visit that Neuvillette permits you to see him. Actually, see him. It's no longer his ghost that haunts you nor the empty waves that he commands beckoning you by name. It's him, really him. His glare is relentless as he leaves a prolonged kiss on your knuckles. You're in the middle of a conversation with that dreaded harbinger. Something about his older sister wishing to take to shopping upon your return to Snezhnaya.

"My darling it's been all too long, how fare thee my-"

He's cut short, how rude. Yet far be it from him to expect proper mannerisms from the Fatui.

"Hey, I'm having a conversation with my betrothed. Don't interrupt." Childe's eyes morph into his own glare. One which promises blood and violence. The fates of those caught on the other end of said glare are never pleasant.

"As the chief justice of Fontaine, I have to right to interrupt any conversation I see fit."

Despite yourself, you let out a laugh. Choke the fear down with a cup of Fonta and ask Neuvillette to join the two of you. It's the nostalgia talking really. Some remnants of the past collide with the present causing your heart to adopt an unsteady rhythm.

It's after that event that Neuvillet permits his presence to be seen by you and your "lover". He's always a mere breath away, following under the guise of being a gracious "tour guide". But tour guides do not wrap their arms around a lady's waist when her fiance isn't looking. Nor do they sneak kisses behind open parasols. You haven't protested about any of this. Maybe your fear of the hydro dragon has perished, replaced with a yearning for your former lover. He prays to every star in Tyvat for this to be true.

It's on the day of your departure that you receive the bad news in the form of an army of Gardemeks. Childe is being arrested, something about a serial disappearance case. Something about a trial. It's a ruse you feel it in your bones. Neuvillette personally appears at the docks and holds you in his arms as you weep. He assures you this will all be cleared up soon. That you have nothing to fear.

But you do, you have all so much to fear. Neuvillette permits you to stay at his house whilst the trial takes place. He traces the shimmering blue of your veins with his lips. He says he loves you, that he refuses to let you slip from between his fingers ever again. He'll keep you here. Keep you safe. Away from the Fatui.

Away from Ajax.

How he wishes he could tear the universe apart with his teeth. Part the oceans and bury the two of you under it. He dreams of keeping you by his side away from everyone else. Neuvillette is the chief justice of Fontaine, it's a prestigious role, one that demands trust. Yet maybe, just this once. He'll have to find the accused guilty regardless of the evidence.

Tag list: @rebeccawinters @fangirl-katwithclaws @starshiningsirius

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naffeclipse · 8 months

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I've been musing over a few thoughts inspired by this ask about a mafia-ish style of Apex Polarity without it being too close to Pearl Eye, and after watching a few videos of Orcas hunting their prey (which included dolphins), landed on a sort of Mafia inspired Apex Polarity AU

Also not to add another Y/N to Orclipse's growing collection but this Y/N is a white-beaked dolphin. Look! They're so beautiful!

Sirens are cunning, brutal, and take everything with teeth and claws. The strongest kill and maim at a whim. As a siren who's not particularly strong, though incredibly agile, with a tail streamlined and dark gray with white patches, fins curved and mostly black, you're somewhere at the bottom. You're doing your best to survive and avoid trouble. You pick your battles and you pick your escapes, and most importantly, you stay alive.

But then you do something really stupid: you venture where you shouldn't have.

You don't usually swim so far up north but you're hungry, and the thought of a few tasty squids distracts you from the silent waters and vast, blue emptiness. You realize a bit too late that you're not the only one hunting.

You catch the first orca siren in the distance as a dark figure, and then another. Two who immediately cut through the water, charging straight for you like shadows. Though you turn tail and bolt, you quickly spot them in the corner of your vision. They easily keep pace, their size and strength overwhelming as they flank you on both sides, wide grins flashing their deadly teeth. You can hardly look at the mismatched color of their eyes as you dodge and weave, diving down only to be cut off by one with midnight blue colors at the tip of his flukes, and shooting off to the left just to almost be snatched by the black-bone claws of a siren with bright yellow fins framing his head.

They're toying with you. You know that for a fact in how they just barely keep back, corraling you onwards, draining your already spent energy, and picking at your panicking pulse. You have no choice but to avoid the edges of their jaws and the tips of their talons, and swim in the direction they want.

You near a field of ice floes floating on the water, and though you cut into the jagged structures dipping into the sea, the orca sirens never lose you. A desperate need for air pushes you onward. One small drop of hope still burns in your chest. Despite the aching of your muscles, you steal a gulp of oxygen and dip back down once more, charging away—

Only to run smack into a third orca siren.

This one grabs you, his burning red and orange colors filling your vision. The other two orcas join to help their kin keep you in place long enough for you to truly regret ever venturing here. Between the three of what you can only assume are brothers, hands hooked over you shoulders, claws clutching your wrists, and palms pressing into your hips, you're a fish caught in a net.

You brace for a voilent end. It never arrives. Instead of digging into your sweet meat, the sirens offer you a deal. The tips of sharp fingertips trace your jawline and the soft inside of your arms and down your slick tail while they explain.

You keep watch for human ships and report back when they're getting close, and in exchange, you get the best food you can imagine, the entire Arctic Ocean to swim, and anything else you'd like. The best benefit? You're under their protection. Of course, they expect utter loyalty from you. You are no one else's. Failure to devote yourself to this work and the brothers would mean a grisly fate, but hey, you're nothing if not eager to not be torn apart. So you agree.

You have a few questions about this whole arrangement, struggling to understand why they, powerful orca sirens, bother with a smaller fish like you when they could rip you limb from limb and be done. What's with the human ships? Why task you to this? Are you just fodder so they can keep their fins nice and unscabbed? They reassure you that they'll explain in due time (the sunny one booping your nose, much to your chagrin), but for now, all you know to know is that the human ships are a problem, and you are their solution for it. You've never really encountered humans before, but they've never really encountered sirens, or so you thought.

The burning red one lets you go, but you don't slip away too far before he tugs on your flukes and tells you to follow him. It's not a request. The darker blue one leaves for a moment, jetting away as the other two guide you to a nice resting place on an icy shore. They introduce themselves, and then their brother reappears with a squid in hand, half dead, and an insistence that you eat—they could tell during the chase that you didn't have all your energy.

And that's how you unwittingly join a very powerful pod of orca brothers who may or may not be teasing and taunting you simultaneously.

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marylily-my-beloved · 4 months

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INTRO POST!! ♡

»»-----------► I HAVE A MICROFIC BLOG: @marylilymicrofic IF YOU LIKE MARYLILY AND LIKE MARAUDERS YOU SHOULD GO FOLLOW AND WRITE FOR IT!! I MADE IT WITH @icarus-last-fall

»»-----------► I made an aesthetic blog where I’ll be making mood boards and stuff !! It’s called @aesthetic-crows ♡

»»-----------► MY #1 WIFE RIYANA I LOVE HER GUYS @im-on-crack-send-help

»»-----------► Hiii! I hope you guys are prepared for like 4 fandom related posts a day and random rambles + shitposts ♡

»»-----------► My name is Fatimah, I am a minor (so plz don't be creepy) make any nicknames for me that you want ♡ She/they, arab, muslim, pansexual, infp, im just a girl ♡

»»-----------► MY AO3 <33 Go check it out I write marauders fics

➥ Lily and the Princesses of Power (ongoing). She-ra au, marylily fic, background ships as well. Lily escapes from the Death Eaters leaving Mary behind. 5/? Chapters ♡

➥ Back at that Party (finished). Canon AU, marylily fic, background dorlene. Mary & Lily have a disagreement at a party and forced to sort it out together. 1/1 Chapter ♡

➥ Good Luck Babe! (finished). Canon AU, Lily x Narcissa wedding fic, end game narcissa x lucuis. Lily gets invited to Narcissa's wedding, and warns her about what could happen to her, and then dies a couple of years later. Main Character Death, 1/1 Chapter (based on Good Luck Babe! by Chappell Roan) ♡ (tumblr link)

➥ Burning Stars (finished). Canon AU, Bellatrix x Alice fic talking about their relationship in Hogwarts and how it ended. very angsty, hurt no comfort. 1/1 chapter ♡ (tumblr link)

➥ Strawberry Mentos (finished). Modern AU, marylily fic based on 'strawberry mentos'. Short and pretty cute and sweet. Getting Together fic. 1/1 chapter ♡ (tumblr link)

➥ Letters to A Happier Life (finished). after war AU, marylily. Lily is already dead, and Mary discovers their old letters after she obvliated herself. 1/1 chapter ♡ (tumblr link)

»»-----------► SOME LINKS TO MY FAVE POSTS I MADE

Black Sisters Dialouge

Mary Macdonald Deep Dive

Dorcas Meadowes Deep Dive

Black Sisters Deep Dive (sorta)

Peter Pettigrew Deep Dive

Blue by Billie Eilish = Andromeda & Bellatrix

Skinny by Billie Eilish = Lily Evans

Chihiro by Billie Eilish = Dorcas Meadowes

Lacy by Olivia Rodrigo = Dorlily (Dorcas x Lily)

Apple by Charli XCX = Evans Sisters (Lily & Petunia)

24/7 by The Neighbourhood = Jily modern AU

Bellatrix & Sirius Comparison

Microfics

»»-----------► I am obessed with Chappell Roan and women so much its not even funny anymore

»»-----------► I love writing fanfics, reading anything (plz give me book & fanfic recs), baking, listening to music & playing basketball ♡

»»-----------► I love hearts, pearls, rings, aesthetic stuff, pink and purple, uquizzes, cats, my moots & lipgloss ♡

»»-----------► DNI IF

Rasict Transphobic and/or homphobic Islamaphobic Zionist / supports israel Sexist Discriminate against people for any stupid reason

»»-----------► Fandoms: ♡

・❥・ Harry Potter/Marauders fandom. Gryffindor. Lily, Mary & Remus kinnie. In love with James Potter & Pandora Lovegood ♡ (fuck jk rowling I do not support her) (jkr should go die)

・❥・She-ra (2018 reboot). Harcdore catradora and scorfuma shipper. Entrapta kinnie and I am in love with her ♡

・❥・ PJO (Percy Jackson). Percabeth and Valgrace <333 Cabin #8. Pretty sure I kin Annabeth. My favourite charcater is Bianca ♡

・❥・Hunger Games. Have not finished the series yet but working on it <3. In love with Johanna ♡. Need to read half of Mockingjay & TBOSAS ♡

・❥・Heartstopper. So excited for season 3, read all of the books on webtoon. Tori & Tara lover ♡. Darcy, Elle & Charlie kinnie. Harcore Tara x Darcy shippers ♡

・❥・ Young Royals. Harcore Sara x Felice shipper & Stedrika (stella x fredrika) & of coure Wilmon and Henry x Walter. Wilhelm and Felice kinnie. In love with Maddie ♡

・❥・ ATLA & LOK. I love them so much, I love Korra and Katara & Asami. Toph + Zuko kinnie ♡ Harcore kataang and toph x suki. getting into zutara but kataang will always be the otp. I have almost all the comics for ATLA ♡

・❥・TDP / The Dragon Prince. love love love love, I got sooo back into it after season 6. protect my boy terry!!! ♡ rayllum my loves. sorvus my heart. fuck viren. probably a soren kinnie... ♡

・❥・Probably more but I can't remember rn ♡

»»-----------► My tags and other random stuff <333:

➥ Pride Month headcanons: #fatimahs pride headcanons 🤍 ➥ Daily Headcanons: #dailyyapfromfatimah🎀 ➥ Random stuff: fatimah yaps 🎀 ➥ Headcanons (doesn't matter which fandom): #Fatimahs headcanons 🩷 ➥ Deep Dives & Random long rambles: #Fatimahs deep dives ➥ My Writing (either here or a link to ao3): #Fatimah's writing 🌸 ➥ Asks: #Fatimah gets an ask woah ➥ My irl life: Fatimah’s life!! »»-----------► Quotes ➥ marauders: Fatimahs marauders quotes 🩵 ➥She ra: Fatimahs she ra quotes 🩷 forgot the rest lol ♡

»»-----------► Music: Conan Gray, Sabrina Carpenter, The Weeknd, Olivia Rodrigo, Chase Atlantic, Suicidal Tendencies, Hozier, Ariana Grande, Beadadoobee, Chappell Roan, Billie Eilish, Ethel Cain, EMELINE, Lana Del Ray, The Neighbourhood, Arctic Monkeys, CAS, David Bowie, Queen, Mitski, Cavetown & girl in red ♡

»»-----------► I LOVE ALL MY MOOTS IM TOO TIRED TO MAKE A LIST BUT I LOVE YOU GUYS <33333333

»»-----------► I usually yap only about the marauders and/or she-ra but will occasionally yap about anything and everything else <3 please send me asks for anything you want I love asks and your like personal comments on my stuff ♡

the dividers are by @cafekitsune & the images are from Pinterest ♡

random ass stuff bc i love that !!

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ofsappho · 1 year

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Magindara

When invaders threaten your home, life, and people, you, a sirena, strike a desperate bargain with Dream of the Endless to save them all.

Dream of the Endless x mermaid!reader, one shot (for now)

Tags: war, gore, torture, death/murder, mentions of SA, slavery, things that generally come with colonialism

Inspired by the episode “Jibaro” from the Netflix show Love Death + Robots. This one shot draws heavily from Filipino mythology, culture, and history. I ENCOURAGE and INVITE people who don’t come from a Filipino background to read this story and enjoy! There is so much beauty to be had in cultures of color, for everyone. Just as I have read many stories steeped in Greek, Celtic, Norse, medieval England, etc cultures, without coming from those backgrounds, I humbly ask you do the same and entertain this little fic. Thank you. I may write a follow up if there’s interest. Glossary at the end.

From the banks of your river, you can hear the horses.

Metal plate clangs and screeches against itself, swords jostle in their sheaths, and shields bump where they rest on armored backs so loud that you want to scratch your sensitive ears out, just to make the sounds stop.

Your ates and kuyas hide deep below in the caverns known only to your kind. When you close your black eyes, you feel them tugging at the edges of your mind like little lights in the deep darkness of the sea. They believe that will be enough to save them.

Only you have braved the surface, because only you know what these strange men upon their strange beasts want.

They want the gold in the dark, fertile earth. You don’t understand why - it’s just shiny metal. Only the dwarves under the hills covet it. But the men who ravage your lands and your kin like wildfires, grasping everything and destroying it in the same breath, care very much. They want the never-dying orchids that line the banks and the brilliant emerald green vitality bursting from every leaf and vine that could keep a mortal alive for a thousand years. They want to feed their glory on your broken bodies. They want to take the people you protect for slaves, the women shamed and disgraced and the men subservient and humiliated.

You’ve seen it for yourself.

You’ve tasted the water of streams running red with blood, the iron like acid on your blue tongue.

You’ve swam farther and seen enough to make you hate. Families torn apart, children with their hair cut off and given names in an ugly language, forbidden to speak their own - the same language you speak. Fathers dragged onto large ships, larger than a butandíng, never to return. Altars burned. The men put your red sisters who live in the balete trees, their hair tangled with vines and lovely, fierce, flickering yellow eyes, to the flame. You witnessed their dying howls and curses for vengeance.

Some of the white-haired annani have already begun to clip their pointed ears, tear the crowns of flowers from their hair, and even cut out their tongues so as to lock away the magic these men desire, never to be spoken again. “There is no place for us,” Those tall, graceful elves told you. “We will be gone in a generation, by sword or by starvation.”

They’re coming.

The jungle is quiet as it has never been in a thousand years.

You could no more hide your tail, glittering blue and turquoise, with long, sweeping fins like ferns, than you could hide the long sweep of hair that reaches your waist, or the ink-black lines embedded on your skin, painting your face, your neck, and your arms with the story of your people and your home.

The calls that echoed from the depths of the river have stopped. It seems that your family has accepted that you won’t come back.

You look at your webbed hands, test your claws against your flesh. What is one magindara to a hundred conquistadors?

When the men spear you, they won’t just be slaughtering a mermaid. They’ll be killing the stories you keep. Centuries of stories. Countless names. Each pearl around your neck is a tribe, full of the old songs of grandmothers and the new rhymes of babies. You’re draped in thousands of shimmering strands of pearls.

You may not be the cleverest, or the most beautiful, or the one with the sweetest voice…

But you can be the bravest.

“Lord Morpheus,” You intone, frowning as the syllables ripple wrong and harsh from your throat.

You’ve never spoken to any of the gods beyond your islands before. “Dream of the Endless.” All you can do is hope and pray this one listens and comes to you in time. Will they be kind? Will it be merciful? Will he, or she, save your home?

Perhaps such a god does not exist at all, and you are praying to wind and sunlight, and soon your guts will color the cerulean water purple and black. The strange men will defile your body, no doubt. A week ago, you crawled from your river to cut down the corpse of a long-gone ate from a stake, jagged holes ripped into the tail of her corpse that made you vomit and her dead eyes full of pain.

Once you’d laid her to rest in the water, she dissolved into nothing. “Prince of Stories,” You sing. That is what faces everything you’ve ever loved if you fail.

“I beg you, save us. Save our stories, our dreams. We call for your aid.”

The men bark at each other. Any moment now, they’ll see you, your hands raised and your face tipped towards the heavens, inky flowers blooming on your forehead and cheeks and crocodile teeth tattooed on the sharp line of your jaw.

A new quiet falls over the world. Like nighttime, when things are resting, not dead.

You have called, and I answer.

A being stands on the banks of your river in the shape of a man. His hair is blacker than Bakunawa’s maw and his eyes are filled with gold and silver stars brighter than any you’ve seen before. His pale skin carries no markings.

He is as grotesquely, menacingly beautiful as the razor’s edge of shark teeth, as a great python curling in a tree, as an eagle with its claws stuck in the beating, bleeding heart of a monkey.

You feel the weight of his gaze on your brow heavier and hotter than the sun on the longest day of summer, burning out the truth in your heart. “I would bargain with you, Dream Lord. For my people, and my land, and my home, which I love more than my own life.”

What would you have me do? When Lord Morpheus speaks, his voice pours through your mind ringing like the purest, clearest freshwater.

The many jewels around your throat, pearls, sapphires, rubies, diamonds, plates of beaten gold, click as you swallow nervously.

The dream king stands so tall that he could touch the sky if he reached up. And he doesn’t look away or blink. You can’t read the inhuman planes of his face whatsoever, you can’t find any familiar sign in his long limbs that might bring comfort. For all you know, you’ve spelled your doom.

“Keep them alive. Keep our names and spirits alive. Bring our stories into your kingdom so that we won’t be forgotten. That is what the men want. They want to raze us to the ground and rebuild the world in their image but we will not go.” You pause. “We will never, ever go,” You growl, fierce and deadly, around a mouth full of fangs. In your words you pour the horrors you’ve seen, combined with the beauty surrounding the two of you.

The hot, muggy air, the warm rain, the scent of night-blooming jasmines. Orange mangoes, bursting with sweetness, bamboo sticks clacking as joyful youths dance in and out of them, laughing gaily. Rolling drums. Bright feathers tucked into black hair. A toddling child reaching out to her grandmother with a chubby-cheeked smile, pressing the back of the withered, ancient hand against her little forehead. Love, so much love.

I have not walked these lands before.

You found traces of Lord Morpheus scribbled in the margins of paper and in the back alleys of lost dreams. Your last and only hope.

When you went to Diyan Masalanta, she wept and showed how the soldiers bound her hands. When you cried out to her brother, Apolaki, the sun god called back and said the invaders took his shield.

Bathala is gone. Mayari is gone. Lakapati is dead. The conquistadors stripped her naked, cut her ribs from her chest, and planted her bones in the fields they set their slaves, your people, to work.

“They say you are Endless. You preside over all beings in all places. Please, I beg you, preside over us. Are we not worthy of your favor? Do we not deserve to live in your dreams and nightmares?”

If Lord Morpheus refuses you, you’ll cut your throat before you let your enemies have you.

He tilts his head like he can hear your thoughts. One shining hand stretches out, almost as if to touch your face. You sing prettily, little siren. You draw back with a start. Why is there hunger in his voice? A hollow, all-consuming, terrifying hunger?

You know what it feels like to starve when the fish are scarce. This is leagues away, a typhoon to your trickle of rain. Shadows bloom under his hollowed cheeks. His pupils eclipse his brilliant aquamarine irises.

He’s-

He’s aching.

Morpheus flashes his bone-white teeth as he bends at the waist to examine you further. His gaze traces your tattoos, your large, frightened eyes, and your body beneath the necklaces and bracelets.

As scared as you are, as convinced that you’ll bleed the instant his fingers brush your blue-streaked skin, your numb lips move.

“I vow to you now, Lord Morpheus, before every god and being I know, that should you render us this aid, I will give you anything within my power to grant that you wish.”

Anything?

“Name it, my lord, and it shall be yours.” With that, your eyes flutter shut as you await his judgment.

You can’t hide from him, even in your mind. You don’t see him, but you feel a straining pressure build where he prods at you, pushing on the fragile edges of your being like he’s cracking a duck egg. He claws and scrapes until-

I will aid your people.

You open for him like a sampaguita flower. Dream of the Endless picks through your soul like he’s picking blossoms, you feel how much he wants with every brush, every long moment where he sticks his fingers in and relishes the feel of you. Nothing has ever touched you like this before.

He’s on his knees on the riverbank, the dark soil pressing into his clothes. His hands clench the rocky edge of the bank. Your wet hair sticks to your back as you rise up, close enough that you can count his night-black eyelashes. There’s a dizzying amount of them.

“Thank you. Thank you. Salamat-po. And your price, majesty?”

You’ll do whatever he wants. Does his thirst demand souls? You’ll harvest them by the dozen. You can picture Lord Morpheus unhinging his jaw, swallowing those soldiers whole. Their swords wouldn’t even scrape him going down. Riches? You have no use for them if you’re dead. He can take every speck of wealth to be had.

You. I want you.

Your sisters and brothers wail. They sense the foreign king tearing at the flesh binding you together. They feel him taking a knife to your indigo heart and cutting it loose from your body. Your head tilts back as you gasp for breath and see him hold the organ aloft. Dark blood trails in rivulets down his wrists.

“I-“

There are no creatures like you in my realm. So I shall have you, in every way that I wish, and you’ll obey. Those are my terms.

Your tail lashes in the water as if you fight hard enough, you can swim away. The cavity pulses with searing, unholy pain. You’ve made a mistake. You’ve summoned- He is an aswang, a devil, a soul-eater, you’ll never see your home again, you’ll never touch the water you’ve known since birth.

Lord Morpheus brings your heart to his mouth. His lips are beautifully-formed. You can’t find it in yourself to hate such a wondrous creature. Even your amethyst ichor looks more beguiling when he’s covered in it.

It was never a question. “Yes, my lord. I accept these terms.”

His white teeth stain purple when he sinks them into your heart.

Glossary:

Ate (ah-tey) - sister

Kuya (koo-yah) - brother

Butandíng - whale shark

Balete tree - very cool large tree native to Southeast Asia

Annani - elves from the stories of the Ibanag people, who look like humans with pointed ears. They are kind guardians of the forest and often share healing knowledge with humans if treated with respect.

Magindara - mermaids from the folklore of the Bicolano people. Beautiful half human, half fish guardians of rivers/streams/lakes/the oceans, who sing to lure fisherman and warriors to their death but leave children unharmed.

Bakunawa - a great mythic serpent and god/goddess of darkness. Various myths place Bakunawa responsible for eclipses.

Diyan Masalanta - Tagalog goddess of love, war, childbirth

Apolaki - Tagalog god of the sun and war, patron saint of warriors, soldiers, modern day patron saint of Filipino traditional martial arts (Kali/eskrima/arnis) practitioners

Bathala - the Tagalog supreme creator god

Mayari - the Tagalog goddess of the moon, war, revolution, and justice. She fought her brother Apolaki for dominion over the heavens.

Lakapati - the Tagalog goddess of fertility, food, bounty, balance, and prosperity. She represents both male and female and has both male and female genitalia. Patron saint of queer/trans people.

Sampaguita - the Filipino name for sambac jasmine, the national flower of the Philippines

Salamat-po (sah-lah-maht poh) - thank you (utmost respect) in Tagalog

Aswang - overall name for the malicious/demonic/monstrous beings in Filipino folklore. Vampires, zombies, ghouls, organ eaters, cannibals.

I hope you guys liked this! Let me know if you have any questions or want to read more from this.

#the sandman #magindara #sandman #the sandman comics #sandman comics #the sandman tv show #sandman tv show #dream of the endless x reader #dream of the endless x you #Dream of the endless #lord morpheus #lord morpheus x reader #lord morpheus x you #Morpheus #morpheus x you #morpheus x reader

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targaryen-slut · 2 months

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[Sketch by me]

Name: Graemyn Targaryen, known as the most beautiful Targaryen throughout the Seven Kingdoms during Aegon's (the first) reign. Nicknamed 'Graemyn the Beautiful.'

Title: Prince of Dragonstone, eventually becomes the General, and known as a power warlord.

Age: 17 years old just BC, around 20 when Aegon went to Old Town with Visenya and 26 when the conquest ended, a few months before Aegon's 28th name day.

Height: 5'5 (before the conquest)

Personality: Greedy, ego-filled and manipulative. He is sly and uses his charm and beauty to always get what he wants. Eventually becomes cruel when descending to madness. Respects women. Sees his House as superior and the closest to the Seven. Can be very grumpy when he doesn't get his way.

Brother: Aegon I, who is two years older than him.

Sisters: Rhaenys and Visenya.

Marriage status: none according to the maesters.

Sword name: Dragonbane (Valyrian steel).

Dragon: Moonryder, became known as 'the Silver Prince.'

Hates: The cold, the North and waiting (hates waiting is an understatement), but the North was the ultimate testament of his hatred when he once went with Visenya - he despised it.

Description by the maesters: The silver of his hair was believed to be so white, one would have ought it to be the very snow of the brazen North - the whiteness, a beauty unmatched, held an elegant glimmer that would shimmer beneath sun's glowing and golden warmth.

But his eyes...they were a different tale.

They were like violet, iridescent pearls, his pupils sharp and attentive, yet what laid beyond them was a mystery not even his own sisters could not fathom. Even as a young child, those eyes of his would stare out upon the storming sea, watching the waves cave inwards upon the blackened shores.

[Character Sheet Sketch]

[Moonryder, the Silver Prince]

Maesters' description of Moonryder within Fire & Blood: A beautiful silvery-scaled, male dragon, that spilled sounds a kin to a melody matching that of a whale's song.

The scales themselves were covered in a blue accent that would shimmer beneath the sungolden rays.

Moonryder is believed to be a species of dragon that could have once thrived upon Valyria before the doom, a species lost within the currents of time.

But the bond between Graemyn and his dragon was believed to be unbreakable.

#oc #original character #game of thrones #house of the dragon #hotd #got #george r r martin #house targaryen #targaryen #targaryen oc #asoiaf #twoiaf #fire & blood #dragons #art #fanart #artists on tumblr #procreate

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francesminos-tt · 2 years

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Velaryon brothers dragon au

Lucemond, jacegon and joffron

A complied version of my thread fic!

Dragons had been extinct in Westeros for over a century. The seven kingdoms united under Aegon the last dragon and his two queen consorts, one of whom was a dragon to fight the Night King. All dragons died in the battle. The Seven Kingdoms remained independent but they swore their loyalty to the Targaryen Dynasty. The Targaryen King was called High King. The current High King of the seven kingdoms was Aemond Targaryen, who ascended to the throne after his older brother Aegon went missing during a voyage to their ancient home, Old Valyria.

King Aemond’s agents informed him that there were suspicious activities in the ruins of Driftmark, a remote island that was once the home of the Velaryon dragon flight.

“There is a boy who calls himself the Blue Prince, your grace.” The chief agent reported. “He declares himself a dragon, a descendant of the Dragon Queen Visenya. He has a small army of cutthroats who are fiercely loyal to him. Blue Talons, they are called.”

“Sounds like another clown who tries to take advantage of our weakness during conflict.” Aemond said. There was constant conflict in Westeros, different kingdoms fighting each other trying to get more lands and privileges. Now, the Reach was fighting the Iron Island.

“It probably is, your grace. Although,” The agent paused before continuing, “the boy speaks of Valyrian magic. He requests an audience with you.”

“I have no time nor interest listening to a self-entitled maniac.” Aemond was ready to dismiss the agent when a third voice chimed in.

“Well, well, no need to be so defensive, my king.” A boy walked out of the shadow in the small council room. He couldn’t be more than four and ten, truly a boy, in a very extravagant outfit with intricate embroidery of dragon scales on his shoulders, pearls adorning his neckline, and a sash across his chest like royalty. He had soft curls and a pair of hazel eyes with slit pupils. His nails are long, almost talon-like, in a light blue color. He didn’t have to introduce himself. He must be the Blue Prince.

“How did you go pass all the guards?” Aemond demanded, his hand resting on the legendary sword, Blackfyre.

“I have my ways.” The Blue Prince shrugged, looking bored. “Your guards are rather incompetent. Maybe I can have some of my Blue Talons stationed in your keep. You could use more capable guards.”

“Seize him!” The agent called. Several knights rushed in to surround the boy, but he neutralized them with a single flick of his hand. All the knights fell to their knees, their eyes clouded with mist as if they were enchanted.

“I am Lucerys Velaryon, the Blue Prince, last of the Velaryon dragon flight. I request an audience with Aemond Targaryen, High King of the seven kingdoms.” The boy said in the most regal manner Aemond had ever seen.

“I have information that suggests there are more of my kin who might still be alive. I am here to help restore the glory of Targaryen Dynasty, if you will let me, my king.”

Aemond stared in awe at those slit pupils that promised danger and destruction, but also glory.

No one trusted the newcomer to the court. The Blue Prince, as he called himself, was a pretentious man, curious, cocky, with no respect for nobility. The ladies liked him for a quick flirt, the lords were wary of his rude questions, but the traitors feared him. The Blue Prince’s army of cutthroats had found and executed more traitors than High King Aemond did when he first ascended the throne.

King Aemond was known to be cruel that he killed his own mentor when the man adamantly insisted Aemond’s older brother Aegon was still alive.

King Aemond was the only one who was glad of Prince Lucerys’s company.

“He’s no dragon,” A lord from the Stormlands whispered, “He’s a siren who has enchanted the king.”

“Careful, my lord. The walls have ears.”

“The king is dealing with the devil. We must eliminate this threat-”

The lord never finished his sentence because a shadow launched on him from above, a small whelp torn his face into shreds before breathed dragon flame on it.

“Let me remind you, good lords, I am indeed a dragon, though not fully grown.”

Lucerys licked the blood from his talons after changing into human form. A group of assassins seized the remaining lords per their master’s order.

“If you will excuse me, I have important matters to discuss with the king.”

Later, in the king’s private study, a pearlescent whelp was purring on the king’s lap. Aemond scratched behind a blue scale behind the whelp’s ear, making him puff out a small trace of smoke.

“They say having me as your adviser is dealing with the devil.” Lucerys said, chewing on a piece of raw meat.

“More like dealing with a spoiled child.” Aemond relied, his quill never left the parchment.

“I am no child. I am twice your age.”

“You are literally the size of my palm.”

Aemond signed his name before putting away the letter he had been writing. He turned his gaze to Lucerys, running his calloused palm down the whelp’s tail. Lucerys huffed and shifted on Aemond’s lap, now his blue belly was exposed for Aemond to caress. The little dragon was so warm that Aemond feared his skin might burn if he continued to touch Lucerys, but Aemond paid it no mind. One should expect to burn when dealing with a dragon.

“There was only one bed.” Lucerys observed, circling the small but well decorated tent.

“And I am only one person.” Aemond replied as he shed the last piece of armor.

“It’s not fit for a king.” Little dragon prince huffed and sat down on the bed, which was incredibly soft considering they were on a trip around the realm.

“As far as I know, you have your own accommodation, blue prince.” Aemond said teasingly, standing in front of Lucerys to let the little dragon resting his talons on Aemond’s undershirt.

“I must make sure my king is well accommodated and safe.” Lucerys used his sharp talon to slice open Aemond’s shirt, careful not to slice open the king’s skin as well.

“What if they smuggle an assassin in? Or a whore?”

“Then I shall have the lord of this land answer to my rage.” Aemond pushed on Lucerys’s chest, making the slender figure drop onto the sheets. The king wasted no time to climb onto his most trusted advisor and lover.

“I can burn them down.” Lucerys said between shower of kisses, “Shall I burn them down for you, my king?”

“Not so fast, my prince.” Aemond was always fascinated by Lucerys’s skin. How could Lucerys have such soft skin while his dragon was covered in sharp and rough scales?

“Seems like my king’s mind is elsewhere tonight.” Lucerys smiled as he wrapped his legs around Aemond’s waist.

“I can’t focus on anything when you are spread out in the bed like a feast for me to devour.”

“I must take responsibility and tend to my king’s needs then.”

Lucerys’s words were lost between their lips. He purred when Aemond scratched behind his ears.

“We will have enough room to rest,” Aemond whispered in his ear, “you can change to your whelp form after I am done with you.”

“These are not the words you should say to a cherished lover.” Lucerys tired to protest but Aemond’s lips on his inner thigh made him dizzy, all witty retorts forgotten.

Aemond only laughed. It seemed the legend was true. Targaryen kings are dragons on their own.

Aegon looked in horror at the piece of raw meat thrown at his feet. The meat was still dripping blood, a salvage odor making Aegon, a well pampered prince, gag.

“What‘s wrong?” The massive dragon who gave Aegon the meat asked him.

“Jacaerys, Jace, my dragon friend and savior.” Aegon said in singsong voice. He was using his best pleading eyes. “Is there any chance I can have cooked meat, please?”

The dragon Jacaerys tilted his horned head, confusion in his golden slit eyes.

“You humans are very demanding.” Jacaerys said. His tone was neutral; it was more like an observation than a reprimand.

“We humans aren’t fit to eat raw meat.” Aegon gestured to the dead lamb in front of Jacaerys. “Unlike you divine creatures.”

“Fine.” Jacaerys opened his massive jaw and breathed a trial of dragon fire at the meat. The meat was burned to char almost immediately. “There. Satisfied?”

Aegon scratched the back of his head. He glanced at Jacaerys, the dragon looking rather pleased with himself, like he had just indulged a small child. His greenish scales looked almost brown under the shade of the Valyrian ruins.

“We will have to talk about human customs more, my friend.” Aegon said, “If you are to fly me back to Westeros and claim my birth right.”

Jacaerys nodded, a golden ring in his curled horn crinkling in the wind.

“What’s this job again?” Joffrey asked as he moving silently through the dark woods with his companion.

“Investigate the murders.” Daeron sighed, lack of sleep wearing his patience thin. “Seriously, you have asked at least 10 times since we hit the road. Are you drunk or something?”

“You were with me at the tavern. You know I am not drunk.” Joffrey moved aside to avoid a thick thunk in the path. He gave Daeron a devilish smile. “Or are you too embarrassed to notice my doings, Citadel boy?”

“I am a well accomplished knight from the royal family. You should show respect.” Daeron rolled his eyes. The looming tower of Harrenhal could be seen in the morning fog.

“A well accomplished knight doesn’t do dirty jobs with a cutthroat.” Joffrey shrugged. “Why is the Citadel so interested in the murders in Harrenhal anyway?”

“There is some report about sighting of a dragon. The Citadel wants to make sure it’s not true.”

“How can they be so sure there is no dragon?” Joffrey stopped at the path leading to the main tower of Harrenhal.

“Dragons are extinct after Aegon’s time.” Daeron turned to look at Joffrey, a cutthroat known for his stealth and cruelty. “It’s common knowledge, even for assassins like you.”

“Are they?” Joffrey’s voice came from behind Daeron.

Daeron felt hairs on the back of neck stand. When did Joffrey circle behind him? What was the sharp talon pressing at his neck?

“You really should have done more research, Citadel boy.”

Jacaerys’s human form was the most handsome man Aegon had ever seen. When Aegon told Jacaerys so, the dragon just laughed and thanked Aegon’s compliment. Jace thought Aegon was merely being polite, but in all honesty, Aegon was telling the truth.

Jacaerys finished another cup of wine, the fifth one in the last hour. They were at a lavish tavern in Volantis, a place even Aegon, the prince of King’s Landing, hadn’t had the opportunity to set foot in. Jacaerys gave the owner a few intricate gold coins from the his hoard, and the owner promised them free flow of the most precious wine in the house.

“Is the wine not to your liking, my friend?” Jacaerys tilted his head, a shining golden earring dangling from his left earlobe. Jacaerys didn’t look exotic; on the contrary, his human form was an average build young man with brown curls brushing against the base of his neck. His eyes were a greenish brown with slit pupils, same as his dragon form, the most attractive part of his face in Aegon’s opinion.

“I never thought one day I would be getting this question.” Aegon joked halfheartedly, nursing his own wine. “Most people think that I will get drunk by horse piss.”

“Is this supposed to be a joke?” Jacaerys asked, despite consuming alcohol at a far more faster pace than Aegon, he didn’t seem to be buzzed at all. “Forgive me, I am not familiar with human customs. I have never met any human except you.”

The confused look on Jacaerys’s face made Aegon chuckle. It was nice to have someone not regard him as a useless drunk for a change. What’s more, he just learned he was the first human to befriend Jacaerys. Even if Aegon didn’t want to stop at friends, it warmed his heart to know he was somehow special to Jace, just as Jace was special to him.

“So you had never saved another dumb human who almost drowned himself after crashing at the shore of old Valyria?” Aegon asked, leaning in to Jacaerys.

“Humans avoid the Valyrian ruins. Not all humans are as brave as you.” Jacaerys said sincerely. “That’s why I agreed to accompany you back.”

Aegon’s heart swelled at the words. He was always viewed as a failure, an incompetent drunk who wasn’t fit to rule. His brother Aemond was more popular with the nobles. Aegon went on a reckless trip to explore the ancient seat of Targaryen dynasty, hoping to find some legacy to prove his worth. Aegon didn’t expect to find a full-grown dragon, not to mention said dragon was kind enough to save him from drowning. Jacaerys looked so kind, generous, and handsome that Aegon couldn’t help but kiss him on the lips. If Jacaerys asked, Aegon would tell the dragon that this was a human custom to show gratitude.

“Do you have any brothers?” Aemond asked as he snatched the parchment Lucerys seemed so fascinated to read. It was a family tree of the Targaryen kings.

“Huh?” Lucerys pouted slightly but let the king take away the parchment without a fight.

“Brothers, or sisters? Since you seem to be so interested in studying my family tree, I wonder if you know yours.” Aemond lifted Lucerys and sat the dragon prince on his lap.

“You mean clutchmates, my king?” Lucerys reached out to take the eye patch off, revealing the striking sapphire underneath.

“I didn’t know that’s how dragons call their siblings.” Aemond took the soft hand stroking his scar and brought it to his mouth to plant small kisses on the knuckles.

“I told you, I am the only dragon left, last of my kind.” Lucerys said, “Although the witch who helped me hatch told me that my egg was the last clutch from the dragon queen Visenya. There were supposed to be three of us, but one of the eggs was lost in the conqueror’s war; another cracked and died.”

Aemond was lost for words. He wasn’t particularly close to his own siblings but at least his siblings were all alive. Well, except for Aegon, who was lost at sea trying to sail for old Valyria, but Aemond hated Aegon to an extent that he stopped regarding Aegon as his brother a long time ago.

“My condolences, sweet Lucerys.” Aemond called the spoiled dragon prince nick names to cheer him up. He knew Lucerys liked to be called all kinds of silly names, including when they were consummating their sacred union.

“Don’t be, my king.” Lucerys smiled, sharp teeth visible between his lips. “Your reign is strengthened by my support as the last dragon. You don’t want too many dragons flying around the realm, do you? That will make my unique place beside you lose its privilege.”

“There can be a thousand dragons out there but you will always be the unique one. My dragon consort.” Aemond pressed their lips together as he sneaked a hand into Lucerys’s loose shirt.

Lucerys all but purred. A pair of small ruby studs adorned his ears.

Joffrey was losing patience. He was taught never to lose patience but a certain annoying knight made him want to forgo all his learning and let his dragon instinct take control.

“You can’t just kill a lord.” Daeron insisted, placing himself between Joffrey’s sharp talon and a frighten lord.

“Why can’t I?” Joffrey gritted his teeth. “Do you know what he did? He supported blood magic under his roof. He killed innocent pregnant women and used their unborn children to restore the life force of a dragon egg.”

Daeron pursed his lips and said nothing. He didn’t know if Joffrey was telling the truth although a part of him knew the dragon was honest with him. Joffrey was always honest with him.

“The dragon egg is you.” Daeron stated out the obvious. “He was trying to revive you.”

“I was never supposed to hatch. I should remain dead.” Joffrey pushed Daeron aside to drag the lord to his feet and pointed his talon to the lord’s neck. “I was conscious the whole time. I witnessed their monstrosity but wasn’t able to stop them then. Not now. Now they will pay for their crimes.”

Daeron tried to stop Joffrey but he was too late. The talon slashed open the lord’s neck, almost beheaded him. The lord was dead within seconds.

“Get out of my way, Citadel boy.” Joffrey licked off the blood from his talon. “I didn’t kill you last time, but I might kill you now.”

“You won’t. I have indeed done my research and I discovered a pattern. You only kill men who had blood on their hands.” Daeron had no idea if Joffrey would stick up this pattern. He was risking his own life but Daeron didn’t regret it one bit. Maesters at Citadel warned him of lures, of vile creatures who would shatter the resolve of the most honorable man. Daeron didn’t believe he would subject to such allure but he was wrong.

“Don’t get too smart. And stop following me.” Joffrey turned to leave, only to hear the stubborn footsteps following him. He could fly away but he didn’t. Joffrey didn’t know why.

“You know, a monster that man might be, but at least he did one thing right. He brought you to this world .” Daeron was silent for a while before speaking.

“The biggest sin in his life.” Joffrey replied. “Certain things better remain dead. Dragons are one of them. I will make sure to kill every single one of my remaining kin.”

“What about yourself?”

“Maybe I can give the honor to you.”

If Joffrey turned back now, he wound see the determination in Daeron’s eyes. This annoying knight was determined to annoy Joffrey for all eternity.

“What part of the word run don’t you understand?!” Joffrey hissed exasperatedly, pressing at his shoulder where blood was staining his shirt. There was a barbed arrow head embedded in his flesh minutes ago from an ambush, but Joffrey pulled it out without second thought.

“Shhh, quiet.” Daeron peeked from where they were hiding, inside a hollow formed by tangled roots of an ancient tree. “They haven’t left yet.”

“If they stay any longer, they won't be able to find their way back.” Joffrey wrinkled his nose as he could smell the rot in his own blood; the arrow must be poisoned.

Daeron gave him a confused look, which made Joffrey laugh. This insufferable mortal wouldn’t leave Joffrey side, not knowing he was putting himself in grave danger. It was not that Joffrey would hurt him, not yet anyway, but the enchanted forest rumored to be able to swallow men whole.

“When I told you to run, I actually meant it.” Joffrey sneered, trying to ignore the numb feeling spreading from his shoulder. “This forest is alive. It changes constantly that no man can navigate their way around. But the woods cannot trap me. As a dragon, I can simply fly out. That’s why I told you to run when I was luring our enemies into the woods!”

“You expect me to run after you took an arrow for me?” Daeron ducked his head to avoid a few twigs dangling from above. He squeezed himself in the hollow beside Joffrey. The hiding spot was so cramped that not a single sheet of paper can fit in their tightly pressed body.

“Well, that was the rational choice. A small arrow won't hurt me but it will probably pierce through your weak mortal heart.” Joffrey was trying very hard to stay conscious, the poison starting to cloud his mind and making his whole body go limb.

“You saved my life, Joffrey. Why you have to put it that way like you don’t care about other people?” Daeron sighed as he cranked his neck to listen to any incoming footsteps.

“I don’t care about other people.” Joffrey said, more of a reminder to himself. His eyelids were now heavy like lead, eyes almost rolled back as he pressed his burning cheek on the cool shoulder plate of Daeron’s armor.

“Joffrey?” Daeron felt the dragon’s incredibly hot breath on his neck, burning his skin. It was too hot even for dragon standards. “Are you all right?”

“I will be.” Joffrey swallowed a lump in his throat, “Just, give me a minute.”

Daeron remained absolutely still, supporting Joffrey’s weight as best as he could. The dragon shivered slightly as if he was cold, despite his burning temperature. Joffrey seemed to be in a state of illusion as he mumbled incoherently into Daeron’s neck, thick curls brushing against Daeron’s collar bone. Daeron hesitantly brought his hand up to hover above Joffrey’s waist; the only thing that stopped him from wrapping his arms around Joffrey was the dragon’s threat before they hit the road not to touch him under any circumstances.

But Joffrey was not conscious. He couldn’t have known. Daeron was just comforting his dragon friend. Before Daeron realized what he was doing, he had already wrapped his arms around Joffrey’s waist and was holding the dragon tightly to his chest. There were footsteps outside so Daeron had no choice but to press Joffrey’s face into his neck to muffle any rambling sounds.

Daeron had no idea how much time had passed. It could be minutes, or hours, but Joffrey finally let out a shaky breath and regained his consciousness.

“How are you feeling?” Daeron asked, rubbing a soothing hand along Joffrey’s back, “You seemed to have lost yourself.”

“I had a dream.” Joffrey whispered, the normal harshness in his tone was gone, now he only sounded gentle and tired. “A bad one. People died because of me.”

Daeron waited for a few minutes but Joffrey remained silent, so Daeron understood his dragon friend didn't want to share more. Joffrey was always private about his past, and despite his curiosity, Daeron didn’t probe. All Daeron knew about Joffrey was that the dragon was hatched quite recently, but he was induced to grow faster than he naturally should, which had affected his body, making him hard to maintain his dragon form.

“It was only a dream.” Daeron was about to say something more, but a loud bang from outside interrupted this tender moment. Shouting and screaming could be heard over their mingled breath.

Joffrey cursed under his breath. He pushed at Daeron’s chest plate in an attempt to get up, but the hollow seemed to collapse in on them, making the already small place more cramped and suffocating.

“Get out!” Joffrey kicked Daeron out literally before stumbling out himself, barely avoiding to be crashed by the tree.

Outside, it was chaos. The woods had come to life; the ground caved in, trapping their assassins and the branches wrapped around those grown men, strangling and killing them. The grasses beneath Joffrey and Daeron’s feet crawled up their legs in an attempt to trip them, but with a swift move of his sword, Daeron sliced the vile vegetation in half.

“We need to get out of the woods!” Daeron yelled between swings of his sword.

“Lose your armor.” Joffrey said, using his own sword to fight off all the twigs and grasses.

“What?”

“Lose your damn armor!” Joffrey yelled back, “I can’t carry both you and your stupid heavy armor on my back!”

Daeron barely had any time to process what Joffrey meant before Joffrey changed into his dragon form. In front of Daeron was a black drake with golden lines on his chest and the tip of his wings. The drake was about the size of two large horses, barely able to carry a grown man on its back. The drake, Joffrey, poked Daeron with his snout, golden eyes full of impatience. Daeron set out to work quickly, shedding his armor plates, leaving only a thin shirt and tunic on. He grabbed his sword and mounted on Joffrey’s back. The drake struggled a few times, and with great effort, he finally took off.

Lucerys had an ominous feeling the moment he woke up that day. First, the other side of the mattress was empty and cold, indicating Aemond had already gotten up. The lack of body heat and his lover made Lucerys grumpy. Second, he couldn’t find his favorite bracelet, a beautiful piece made from carved gold, with a large ruby embedded in the middle. It went perfectly with his ruby stud earrings. Rumor had it that the ruby on the Blue Prince’s bracelet was more precious than the one on the conqueror’s crown. Lucerys himself might or might not have contributed to such rumor.

Aemond was caught up in council meetings today, which, in Lucerys’s opinion, was a complete waste of time. Even his agents were better politicians than Aemond’s councilmen. Lucerys had suggested Aemond to dismiss his useless small council and employ some wise advisors and capable soldiers.

“I can’t rule with schemers and cutthroats.” Aemond replied to Lucerys’s suggestion. The king was a terrifying man but he was no tyrant. He ruled with honor and justice.

“Why not?” Lucerys raised an eyebrow in exaggeration. Aemond just laughed and shifted Lucerys over so the little dragon could sit comfortably on his lap. Lucerys didn’t remember the rest of their conversation because of the intense love-making.

Lucerys was enjoying his tea while examining a tome from Old Valyria when he received a report from one of his most trusted agents. There was a witness report of a dragon flying in the direction of King’s Landing. Lucerys almost tore the tome in his talons to shreds.

There was no way any dragon survived other than him. But, was he sure? Lucerys cursed himself for not bothering to check if there was any trace of his kin. Lucerys was confident to face any threats from mortals, but from his own kin? The Blue Prince was not so sure.

Lucerys met Aemond at the gate of the Red Keep. Apparently, the king was alerted as well.

“Are you sure there is a dragon flying towards here?” Aemond asked Lucerys’s agent, but the man in light leather coat ignored the king, turning to Lucerys for instruction instead.

“Speak.” Lucerys commanded as he stood beside Aemond. “Anything you say to me, you can say to my king.”

“Positive, my prince, your grace.” The man nodded, “It’s small black drake. One of our men reported that it had took flight from the Kingswood.”

“No way. The Kingswood was cursed. Nothing can come out alive.” Aemond said in a stern voice.

“Not if it’s a dragon.” Lucerys pursed his lips. “Westeros magic has no effect on dragons. The Kingswood was not cursed; it was merely enchanted by forest witches.”

“Is it hostile? The drake?” Aemond put a hand on Lucerys’s shoulder to calm his lover.

“No indication of any hostility. But it seemed to be injured on the wing.”

“How large is it?” Lucerys was desperate to know if the drake presented any threat. Lucerys might be a powerful dragon, but he was hatched mere decades ago and was now just a small whelp. He could beat an average drake with his cunning, but he was no match for a full-grown dragon.

“About the size of –” The agent didn’t have the chance to finish his sentence because a shadow appeared at the horizon. It became larger and larger as it came near the Red Keep.

Lucerys squeezed Aemond’s hand, digging his talons into the king’s skin, drawing small beads of blood. One king’s guard was ready to come forward, but Aemond dismissed him with a glare.

The shadow was now close enough to make out what it was. Surprisingly, it was not a dragon. It was a horse, not even a war horse, just a common horse mostly found in farms. There were two men mounting on it, one with short silver hair cradling his companion, a young man with dark curls and ashen skin.

Lucerys let out a sigh of relief but Aemond seemed to be surprised to see them. Lucerys noticed the blonde’s hair was the same shade as Aemond.

“Stop right there, brother.” Aemond raised his voice with all the authority he had. “One step closer, and you will be executed by breaking your exile.”

The horse was pulled to an abrupt stop.

Daeron dismounted, and carefully held Joffrey’s limp body to his chest. Joffrey was still unconscious, which worried Daeron to the core and was the reason why he rushed to King’s Landing on the horse he had stolen from a farm, all honor and knighthood standards forgotten. Joffrey collapsed after exerting himself, and he remained in a deep slumber for the past three days.

“To what do I owe the honor, brother?” Aemond stepped forward as several guards behind him drew their swords, including Lucerys’s agent.

“I come in peace.” Daeron said, although he didn’t the king would believe him. Daeron was Aemond’s younger brother, a third son with no titles and inheritance. Even though Daeron never wanted the throne, there were men trying to rebel in his name. Aemond exiled his little brother after he took the throne.

Aemond didn’t answer. Daeron was surprised to find another figure beside him, a slender young man with a youthful face and a sneer lingering at his lips. Aemond was never one for company, but he seemed to be comfortable around this man.

“Speak your purpose. Don’t keep your king waiting.”

“I merely ask for assistance. My friend is injured and I hope the court maester can cure him.” Daeron casted a quick glance to Joffrey before looking up.

“Why should I grant you such assistance?” Aemond was still not convinced that Daeron came all the way to King’s Landing without any ill intentions.

Before Daeron could speak, Lucerys came forward. His chocolate pupils were slit and had a blue hue to them, intimidating and enchanting at the same time.

“I am afraid we have to receive your brother, my king.” Lucerys said, narrowing his eyes, “I smell dragon from his companion.”

#lucemond #joffron #Jacegon

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