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randomdragonfires · 3 months

Text

Parallel Lines, Act I

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | He fears her proximity, and she fears his distance. As war looms, they’ll have to learn to make their marriage work to find comfort in each other.

Or at least, try.

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader

WARNINGS | 18+; SMUT; Angst; Complicated Relationship Themes; Emotional Negligence; Infidelity; Major Character Death; Aemond and his issues are a warning on their own ok?

AUTHOR’S NOTE | All Valyrian lines were translated from english using a free online translator. They are likely to be grammatically wrong - but I don’t even know man. Yeah.

WORD COUNT | 9.5k - and not a single word is beta read. We die like warriors, I guess?

The moonlight spilled through the series of windows of her husband’s - not theirs, his - apartments in the Red Keep, casting a silvery glow over the austere elegance of the chambers. His wife stood by the window, her silhouette framed against the backdrop of the night sky, the soft rustle of her gown the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

She turned slowly, her gaze sweeping across the dimly lit interior, taking in the cool, stone walls that seemed to absorb the flickering torchlight. She glided through the hall where intricate tapestries depicted dragons in flight, their scales shimmering with threads of gold and silver. The grand fireplace dominated one wall, the warmth emanating throughout the space from the burning logs within. She folded her arms into her chest, as if to preserve the heat as she shivered from the cold night - her thin nightdress didn’t help. Above the mantelpiece, Vhagar's fierce eyes followed her every movement, a fierce presence in paint.

Moving through the chambers, she passed through his personal library, every page a stern reflection of his interests. Shelves of dark, polished wood lined the walls, filled with ancient tomes and scrolls, their faint scent of aged parchment and leather permeating the air.

He mostly smelled of smoke, fire and leather. Of books and dragons - both of which he is passionate about.

It makes sense then, that no one will ever catch a whiff of her perfume on him.

They were far from passionate, after all.

In the center, his heavy, ornately carved desk was strewn with maps and documents, a well-used quill and inkwell ready for his expert hand to wield. She leaned on the table to look at it all, and spun one of the wooden markers between her nimble fingers for a moment - as she had seen him do countless times - before leaving it back where she found it.

She stepped into the bedchamber, its stark stone walls softened by the rich, crimson fabrics of the large, canopied bed. Dragons were subtly woven into the bedspread and curtains, a constant reminder of the Targaryen lineage that she had married and given birth to.

How long has it been since she laid with him on this bed? More than a year, she surmised. They did their duty on their wedding night, and the Mother was graceful enough to make his seed quicken in her immediately. She laid with him for a few weeks after - and when the maesters made it known that she was with child, that had stopped.

A good wife knows how to keep her husband satisfied, they said. Her husband never sought her out. If the whispers of the few around her were to be believed, he frequents a whore in a Silk Street brothel.

Was she not a good wife then?

She gave him a son. He may be sickly, but he is a son nonetheless. Surely it must count?

With a weary sigh, her eyes shifted to the adjoining armory, where Aemond’s armor and weapons were meticulously displayed. This part of his room exuded an air of readiness, a silent promise of the warrior who would soon return to his space.

From the whorehouse, no doubt.

She turned back to the window, her thoughts as fluid as the shimmering waves below. The apartments were a microcosm of her husband's existence: regal yet austere, scholarly yet martial.

And no sign of marriage, leave alone happy or healthy. How could there be, when he doesn’t feel half the happiness with her that he does when left alone with his beast or books?

There was no hate between them, surely not. Her husband was agreeable, but that was that. There was never any doubt in her mind that he did not want her - or the idea of her - but had to marry her anyway. There was no passion, and she could count with two hands the number of times they have lain with each other in the past year that they have been married - even that was before she had become with child.

There was nothing, truly.

She tried with him, initially. But any illusion of interest that she thought he may grow towards her was shattered the moment she heard that the very night that she’d met him, he was seen moving out of the castle grounds and into the Street of Silk.

He didn’t even bother with making it discreet.

Their wedding was a morose affair. They were the very picture of a royal couple, but neither felt the part - more like a pair of chastised children made to listen after a screaming bout. Even when he took her, he took her from behind - and she was fully clothed. It was nowhere close to the slow exploration that some of her ladies promised. He’s a scholar, he’d be willing to learn for your pleasure, they had said. He’d not even kissed her after their wedding ceremony, not once - he simply demanded that she get on the bed, and took her like an animal while the Small Council and their families watched her eyes pool with painful tears.

What had she done to warrant such embarrassment? She didn’t know what she’d done to make him shirk her so, but it was the way it was. It just was.

When he kept calling her back, he’d taken to offering her wine when they were finished. She didn’t linger when her goblet was emptied. She simply walked out, and wished him a good night.

He never once asked her to stay.

When the news of the babe in her belly had arrived, she’d been relieved - she’d never have to lay with a man who did not want her, ever again. He didn’t seem overjoyed either, and simply hummed with a hand on her belly.

“There is blood of the dragon in you now,” he said. And then he let his thumb run over her cheek. It was the softest he’d ever been with her, and she relished those few seconds. For a moment, he looked so peaceful and content… a stranger. That’s when it occurred to her that perhaps there’s more to Aemond than what he lets anyone see.

She could have fallen in love with him, if he’d cared enough to show her. But it seemed that he’d only viewed her as a duty and a burden.

The ghost of his touch lingered, and she brought her own hand to her cheek as though the warmth still remained. What did the whores have that she did not? Or was it the same whore each time?

Jealousy is unbecoming of a princess, she reminded herself. But so is unhappiness and a constant sense of dread, surely?

Her thoughts were interrupted as the door swung open. Her husband strode into the room, immediately aware of her presence. She felt the shift in the air and watched as the shadows of his boots slow, absorbing the sight of her. He removed his cloak with a fluid motion, letting it fall onto his chair before approaching her with the deliberate grace of a predator.

“Wife.” His voice was clipped and devoid of warmth, as though addressing a servant rather than the mother of his son.

She turned to face him, the pale moonlight highlighting the tension etched across her features. "Husband," she responded, mirroring his tone, though a flicker of hurt glimmers in her eyes.

Do you think of me as I think of you? Do you think of me at all?

A heavy silence settled between them, thick with unspoken words. Her gaze scanned his face, searching for any trace of the man whom she foolishly once thought would love her. Instead, she found only the cold mask he wore, a fortress against the world and his own buried emotions.

Against her.

“Has the council kept you long?” she asked, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. They both looked outside the windows, with her leaning into the railing while he stood with his hands held back, ramrod straight.

Always on guard.

“Long enough,” he replied, his eyes drifting to the dark expanse of the bay. “There are matters that require my attention.”

“And our son?” she asked, a touch of warmth infusing her words at the mention of their child. “Will you see Aerys tonight?”

For a brief moment, something softened in Aemond’s gaze, a fleeting shadow of tenderness. She must have imagined it - it was too fleeting and quick to hold any kind of weight.

She was jealous of her own son, for he elicits more from Aemond than she ever has, as little as it is.

“Perhaps. If time allows.”

She nodded, turning back to look at him; to see him.

The weight of his indifference settled over her like a shroud. The Blackwater Bay stretches out before them, vast and unchanging, mirroring the growing distance between them.

“I worry for you,” she murmured, her voice almost swallowed by the night. “War will come to us soon, will it not?” If it hadn’t come so far, she knew it would now. Vaemond Velaryon’s rolling head and King Viserys’ worsening condition only made sure of it.

He stood rigid beside her, his posture unyielding. “It is my duty,” he said, as if that alone suffices.

“I know,” she replied, sadness threading through her voice. “But you are more than your duty, Aemond. You are Aerys’ father and my…”

The emotions were high tonight, higher than they’d ever been. She didn’t know why she sought him out. There has been ample evidence to support that he would not care, and yet here she was.

She wanted safety, and the only person she could approach is the one who has never made her feel welcome or safe in any capacity.

Who else do I have here?

The tears mangle her vision and she swallowed what threatened to follow.

“I have given you a son.” She trembled, her voice threatening to give way to s stream of tears. “The shadow of war looms upon us, and you’ve set me aside and I worry…”

He lifted his head just slightly as the words sank in, but she was too dejected to care about his acknowledgement. He may be cold, and his reactions to her come far and few in between - but she could not bring herself to mull over it too at the moment.

“War is coming. I am as certain of it as I am of the sun rising on the morrow and I know you are too -” He opened his mouth to interfere, but she was quick to not give him the gap to take over her speech. “Do not insult my intelligence by suggesting otherwise.”

“I was not.”

She turned to face him, a whirlwind of emotions swirling in her eyes as she wondered why the Gods had not seen fit to give her a husband who loved her. He was beautiful, a cruel irony that made her anger flare even more. Despite all the hurt he had caused, she could not help but feel drawn to him. To hide her tears, she looked to the floor, trembling as she forced out her next words.

“I know you do not love me. I know you do not want me. But I… I have given you a son. An heir to continue your legacy, and that… I like to think that it would be reason enough to ask you to not forsake me. We have not supported each other all this time, but the least you can do is assure me that you will keep us safe.”

A flicker of something unrecognizable flashed in his eye, and he turned to face her fully, leaning against the window arch. “Did you… truly think that I would leave you to die if it came down to it?”

“You haven’t given me reason to believe that you’ll want me around.” Her voice was bitter, dripping with contempt.

He was ethereal as he reached out, holding her jaw between his thumb and finger, bringing her closer to his porcelain skin and alabaster hair. Her gaze flitted about chaotically, struggling to meet his eye. Her body shivered from the cold, torn between wanting him to let her go and needing him to hold her tight.

“You are my wife. I swore to the Gods that I would honor and protect you. You and Aerys are my family, and I would be slain a hundred times over before I see either of you hurt. I may not be… I may not be the man you want, but I can assure you that I am an honorable husband who will safeguard you and our boy.”

She did not know what she expected. A declaration of hidden love? Certainly not. But somehow, his assurances fell short. “Honorable.” She tested the word on her tongue, finding it the most bitter sound she had ever uttered. Her cheek alarmed him, and she spat venom. “Honorable?” His grip on her chin tightened, and she took it as a sign to continue.

“I know you frequent the Silk Street brothels. I know you’ve been going there since the very first day we met. Unless the professions of whores have changed, it is safe to assume that you are not honorable or loyal. And if you are, it is certainly not to me.”

A whore out there enjoyed her husband’s undying devotion, while she sat in the castle hoping and praying he would recognize her, let alone love her.

His expression shifted, a storm brewing behind his eyes, but he did not release her. The weight of her words hung heavy in the air, a chasm of pain pulling them apart. She met his intense gaze finally, tears brimming in her eyes, the anguish of their fractured bond laid bare for him to see.

He tasted of smoke and fire, and yet her mouth craved him anyway. He was an eternity away from her—always, always—and yet her fingers yearned to touch him.

“I do not go there for…” He took a long breath before completing his sentence, almost as if he needed his composure to simply survive.

Not there for what? Was he not fucking the whores? What else could he possibly do?

“Do you think I do not know the sacrifices you have made?” His voice was a harsh whisper, a mixture of anger and something deeper, almost pleading. “Do you think I do not feel the weight of our shared duty, the responsibility to our son? My responsibility to you?”

“But you have never shown me,” she whispered back, her voice breaking. “You have never given me a reason to believe that you care, that you see me as more than just a broodmare for an heir!"

For a moment, they stood frozen, the distance between them both physical and emotional. The moonlight casted a cold glow over their figures, highlighting the stark contrast between their proximity and their separation.

“It is not easy for me.”

“It should not be hard to love your wife. Or at the very least respect her.”

“I—”

She brought her hand up to stop him before any more of his lies spewed out and stepped away from him. She walked to the door at an amazing speed, her skirts swishing past as she tried to get out before her tears spilled out. In a late change of heart though, as her hand rested on the door latch, she turned.

“No lady should beg her husband to love her. No matter if he is a prince. It is beneath her, and I am no different. I will not beg…” If she had looked at him properly, she’d have noticed him flinch at her damning words.

“I will not beg you to love me after dismissing me all this time; I do have my pride. But I will beg you to save my life if it needs saving. That is all I ask.”

“You never had to ask.”

She took a breath and drank some leftover wine in the goblet next to her, not caring for whose it originally was. The thought would make her retch usually, but she was beyond caring.

“Your mother… she loves me surely, but I think she doesn’t like me very much. Your sister and I never managed to understand each other. Your brother… well he is a mindless lecher. I can’t quite figure out your grandfather at all. And you… you know what we’re like. I just… I worry that in this impending war within kin, I will be forgotten and left to die simply because my job is done with the birth of my son and I am too close to the storm and you don’t care and I don’t want to die. I don’t want anyone to die-”

“You are my kin.” he said. It made her smile, albeit a woeful one. “You may need to remind me every once in a while.”

He didn’t respond. She simply left.

And even now, he didn’t ask her to stay.

She wished he did.

Aemond stood by the hearth, cradling their feverish son in his arms.

Dressed in his somber blacks, he looked every bit the stern warrior, yet the gentle way he held Aerys belied that image. The babe was flushed and fretful, his tiny hands gripping Aemond’s hair and tugging insistently. Aemond hissed softly at the sharp pull, but did not dislodge the child's grip.

“Byka zaldrīzes,” he grumbles. It is strict, but not unaffectionate - she was familiar with that tone. She’d watched him use it with their son often when he thought no one was looking. [Little dragon.]

From the doorway, she watched them. They looked like a loving family - the devoted mother standing watch, her eyes filled with affection as she observed her husband and son. But appearances were deceiving, and both of them knew the truth beneath the surface.

Aerys, in his restless state, grabbed at Aemond’s eyepatch, tugging it down and exposing the scarred, empty socket. Aemond’s expression tightened as he shifted the boy from one arm to the other, quickly adjusting the patch back into place. In that brief moment, their eyes met, and she glimpsed the vulnerability he so meticulously hid. He seemed to close himself off even more, as if shielding his heart from her gaze.

It was a deep, almost dark blue. She noticed, she always noticed.

“I came to check on him before luncheon,” she said softly, breaking the silence that had settled like a heavy shroud. She always ensured that she made a solitary routine of her visits, ensuring that he’d have time alone with her son like he seemed to want. To be together - as a family - stumped her beyond belief, no matter how second nature it should be.

What was he doing here?

Aemond nodded, his voice measured as he recounted the maester's instructions. “The maester believes he will grow healthy with time. We must be diligent with the poultices and draughts.” His tone was clinical, as if discussing a strategy for battle rather than the wellbeing of their son.

She watched as he laid Aerys gently in the cot, the child’s feverish grip slackening as he drifted into a fitful sleep. She approached, brushing a strand of hair from Aerys’s forehead, her touch tender and light.

Aemond stepped back, retreating to the armchair close to the cot where a goblet of wine awaited him. He took a long sip, his gaze fixed on her as she sat at his foot, and peered in to take a look at their son. Facing away from him, she began to sing softly. Her voice, though tinged with sorrow, was soothing, and Aemond’s stern expression softened as he watched the scene unfold. For a moment, the room was filled with a fragile peace.

The Seven Gods who made us all,

are listening if we should call.

So close your eyes, you shall not fall,

they see you, little children.

Just close your eyes, you shall not fall,

they see you, little children.

She didn’t say anything and let the silence engulf them both when she finished her song. She then turned around and sat on the floor near his feet, her back leaned against her son’s cot as she looked up to face her stoic husband. After what seemed like an eternity, he spoke - his words measured but with the intent of concern. He spoke them like he was testing them out on his tongue.

“The maesters… they say you’re being given herbs as well.”

She nodded, feeling the weight of her exhaustion in every fiber of her being. The birth had been horribly hard on her body, leaving her depleted and fragile. Only now was she beginning to regain her strength. The whispers of the servants echoed in her mind—comments about how all this suffering was for a sickly child. But those whispers meant nothing to her. She would move the ends of the earth for her son, no matter what anyone thought.

He was the blood of the dragon. Dragons do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep, and she would not allow her son to be any different.

“Ever since the birth, I have grown… weak,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “Aerys took a toll on me when he came.”

Aemond’s eyes were detached, but she heard the slight concern and contemplation in his voice. “Were you in pain? In the days after?”

She hesitated for a moment, surprised by his sudden show of concern. “Yes,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “I was. I still am.”

His questions were gentle, as if he truly cared, as if he genuinely wanted to understand what she had gone through. This unexpected tenderness from him was jarring, and it took all her strength not to withdraw. She had longed for this moment for so long, the chance to finally, truly connect with the man she had married.

And now that it was here, it felt as foreign to her as the other continents of the realm.

“I should have been there,” he said, his voice laced with regret. He didn’t look at her, head turned away as he spoke. “I should have been by you-”

She’d heard the rumors that her good mother worked hard to ensure she’d never hear. While she labored and went through all the Seven Hells giving birth to their son, Aemond was at a whorehouse, doing Gods know what.

She shook her head, her eyes filling with unshed tears. “I don’t want to know,” she interrupted, her tone gentle but firm. “I’d rather choose blissful ignorance than a painful truth. Especially when it comes to you.”

Aemond nodded slowly, regality exuding from him even in his slightest movements. “I have failed you,” he confessed, his voice almost a whisper. He did not apologize, and she knew that he never would. This was the most she would get from him, and for now, it had to be enough.

It didn’t mean that it shocked her any less.

Summoning her remaining strength, she stood and moved toward him. She leaned forward, resting her hands on the armrests of his chair, bringing herself closer to him. The curve of her breasts nearly brushed his chin, and she could feel his breath, warm and shallow, on her skin. His goblet of wine lay forgotten on a nearby desk, the contents slowly going tepid.

He looked up at her, surprise and something deeper flickering in his eye. His expression was a mixture of pain and longing, as if he too yearned for what she did. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he moved his hand and covered hers with his. His touch was tentative, as if he feared she might pull away. But she held firm, her fingers entwining with his.

He was warm to the touch. She remembered that much from the first days of their marriage, but it felt better to be reminded of it this way. Almost as though he was tender towards her, like they never spent any time being purposefully apart from each other.

She felt like they were getting somewhere, a tentative bridge forming between their fractured hearts. Carried away by the newfound closeness, she hesitated only for a moment before reaching out, her hand trembling as it neared his face. Her fingers were delicate, soft against the rough texture of his skin as she traced the scar that marred his otherwise perfect visage.

Aemond’s breath hitched, his entire body tensing at the intimate touch. She moved slowly, her fingers gliding over the jagged lines. Her touch was feather-light, almost reverent, as if she could heal his old wounds with her tenderness.

Her eyes locked onto his, searching for any sign of discomfort or rejection. Instead, she saw vulnerability, a crack in his formidable armor that allowed her a glimpse of the man beneath the warrior’s facade. His eye, the one not covered by the patch, was wide and filled with an emotion she couldn't quite name - something between longing and fear.

With a gentle caress, her finger traced the path of the scar down to his cheekbone, lingering there for a moment before moving toward the eyepatch. She felt his breath warm against her hand, the rise and fall of his chest quickening as her fingers danced over the leather. The eyepatch was cool and rough under her touch, a stark contrast to the smoothness of his skin.

She paused, her heart pounding in her chest as she felt the tension coiling in him. Would he push her away? Would he retreat back into the cold distance that had defined their relationship for so long? But he remained still, his gaze fixed on hers, a silent permission in his eyes.

Encouraged by his silence, she allowed her fingers to explore the edges of the eyepatch, feeling the worn leather against her skin. Her thumb brushed over the strap that held it in place, her touch gentle and soothing. He shivered, a barely perceptible tremor that ran through him, and she felt a surge of something warm and hopeful rise within her.

His reaction was slow, almost imperceptible. He closed his eye briefly, as if savoring the sensation, then opened it to meet her gaze again. She could see the conflict within him, the struggle between the desire to protect himself and the yearning for this rare moment of intimacy.

She moved closer, her body almost pressing against his as she continued her exploration. The curve of her breasts brushed against his chin, and she felt the heat radiating from him, the tension in his muscles. Her fingers lingered on the eyepatch, tracing the lines where it met his skin, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat beneath her touch. His hand reached up, covering hers. For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them, suspended in a fragile, tender silence.

“Will you let me see?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

His hesitance and silence said more than his words ever could.

The moment stretched, taut and fragile, until it seemed to snap under the weight of unspoken fears. She saw the flicker of rejection in his eye, a retreat behind the barriers he had so carefully constructed. Her face fell, the light of hope dimming as she realized she had pushed too far. But she understood; perhaps he needed more time. Withdrawing her hand, she felt the ghost of his touch linger on her skin, a burning reminder of the closeness they had almost shared.

He grasped her wrist gently, as if he wanted to ask her to stay, but the words remained unspoken. She did not want to stay unless he wholeheartedly asked her to. His grip was firm, yet she felt the reluctance in it, the silent struggle to decide whether to hold on and let go.

“I should go,” she said softly, gathering her skirts. “Your mother and sister await me at luncheon, and it would be unseemly to be late.”

He watched her walk away, her steps slow and measured, each one pulling her further from the fragile connection they had started to form. Left alone with his son, Aemond felt the weight of his failure press down on him, a cold, heavy burden that settled in his chest.

Aerys slept in the cot nearby, his tiny body trembling with each breath as if the sickness that plagued him might take him at any moment. Aemond moved his chair closer to the cot, peering down at the infant with a mixture of fear and determination. The soft tufts of silver hair marked him as undoubtedly his, a tiny mirror of his own lineage.

How many nights had she spent alone, watching over him like this? Scared that if she stepped away, Aerys may be gone?

In a quiet tone that would otherwise go unheard, he whispered to his son, his voice thick with emotion. “Ao kostagon’t tepagon bē va īlva, riñnykeā.” [You can’t give up on us, child.] After a moment of composure, he continued. “Ziry braved vīlībāzma naejot tepagon ao naejot issa. Gaomagon daor henujagon zȳhon.” [She braved battle to give you to me. Do not leave her.]

Aemond's voice trembled, the words almost breaking under the weight of his desperation. He held his son closer, cradling the tiny, fragile body against his chest. He thought of his wife's strength, the pain she had endured, and winced at the realization of how badly he had treated her. His neglect, his coldness - they had all but shattered her.

He had done enough to her. The last thing he wanted was to see her lose Aerys too.

The dim light of the chamber cast soft shadows on Aemond's face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the furrowed brow etched deep with worry. His eye, normally a piercing blue, now seemed almost muted, dulled by the depth of his concern. He reached out, placing a gentle hand on his son’s chest, feeling the weak but steady rise and fall of his breaths. Aerys stirred slightly, his tiny fingers curling around a strand of Aemond’s hair. The grip was weak, but determined.

“You are the blood of the dragon,” he continued, his voice a fierce whisper. “You will grow strong.”

The Dragonpit was packed, the air heavy with the murmurs of the gathered smallfolk and the flickering light of countless torches. She stood beside Aemond, her posture as straight and regal as she could manage, her heart pounding in her chest. The spectacle of Aegon's coronation was unfolding before her eyes, a momentous event that would shape the future of the Targaryen family.

Hers.

The ceremony began with the Grand Maester stepping forward, the crown of Aegon the Conqueror held reverently in his hands. The weight of history seemed to press down on the room, making every breath feel heavy, every movement deliberate. Aegon - looking more like a squabbling, crying child than a King - ascended the steps to the dais, his face a mask of acceptance.

And when her husband nodded to his new King, she bowed deep.

She watched as Aegon’s expression shifted from indifference to a flicker of recognition of the power now bestowed upon him. The crowd erupted in cheers, their loyalty and fervor palpable, yet she felt a pang of unease amidst the celebration.

Beside her, Aemond stood tall and vigilant, his eye never leaving the proceedings. She glanced at him, seeking comfort in his composed demeanor, his presence a steady anchor in the sea of chaos. The noise of the crowd swelled, and she could feel the anticipation hanging thick in the air, a tangible force that seemed to wrap around them all.

Aegon, now crowned, raised Blackfyre high above his head, the ancient sword gleaming in the firelight. The sight was awe-inspiring, a symbol of power and legitimacy. Yet, beneath the grandeur, she sensed the underlying tensions and overheard the words that Helaena kept mumbling.

There is a beast beneath the boards.

Her feet shifted, and she heard the hollow sound that the ground made when her shoe met the surface. A hollow sound that comes when feet meets -

The boards.

Suddenly, the ground beneath them trembled, a low rumble that grew into a deafening roar. Gasps of shock and fear rippled through the crowd, and she instinctively reached for Aemond’s hand. Before she could react further, the floor of the Dragonpit exploded upward, sending debris and chaos flying in all directions.

Rhaenys, astride her dragon Meleys, emerged from the smoke and dust, her presence formidable and terrifying. The dragon’s scales shimmered with an otherworldly glow, its eyes blazing with fury. The people scattered, screams of panic filling the air as the beast roared, the sound reverberating through the hall and shaking her to her core.

Her heart raced, terror gripping her as she stared at the massive dragon, its wings spreading wide, casting a shadow over the entire chamber. Aemond’s hand tightened around hers, pulling her behind him protectively. She could feel his body tense, ready to shield her from any danger. Despite the fear that threatened to overwhelm her, a faint surge of gratitude washed through.

You never had to ask.

Meleys roared again, the sound like thunder, and the heat of its breath washed over them. She could see the flames flickering in the dragon's throat, the promise of destruction just a heartbeat away. Rhaenys, regal and unyielding, locked eyes with Alicent, a silent challenge passing between them.

Aemond stepped forward, his presence a wall of defiance and strength. “Get behind me,” he commanded, his voice steady despite the chaos. She obeyed without hesitation, her body pressed close to his, drawing comfort from his unwavering resolve.

The dragon’s eyes fixed on them, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. She could hear her own heartbeat, a frantic drumbeat in her ears, and the cold sweat on her palms. Every muscle in her body was taut with fear, and she kept her eyes firmly set to the ground.

This is how I die. Do you call it a dragonrider’s death when you don’t ride a dragon?

My son. AerysAerysAerys-

Aemond.

Rhaenys stared at them all, the weight of her decision hanging in the air. Meleys shifted, the ground trembling beneath its weight, and for a moment, it seemed as though the dragon would unleash its fury. But then, as if making a choice that defied all expectations, Rhaenys turned Meleys away, the dragon's wings beating powerfully as they ascended through the shattered roof of the Dragonpit.

The relief was overwhelming, a rush of emotions that left her weak at the knees. She clung to Aemond, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps as she tried to process what had just happened. The hall was filled with the sounds of weeping and the murmurs of disbelief, the aftermath of the encounter leaving everyone shaken.

Aemond’s arm wrapped around her, pulling her close, his breath warm against her ear. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice low and filled with concern. She nodded, still trembling, her heart beginning to slow as the adrenaline ebbed away.

She did not notice how closely he held her when it came down to it - for the very first time.

Aemond's fingers dug into Sylvi's hips as he thrust into her from behind, each movement fierce and relentless. Her back arched under the pressure of his hand, pushing her down onto the bed. The room was filled with the raw sounds of their coupling, echoing off the walls.

His breath came in ragged gasps, mingling with her moans. His grip tightened, nails biting into her flesh as he drove into her harder, seeking release in the violent act. The scent of sweat and sex hung heavy in the air, an intoxicating mix that fueled his aggression. "Gods,” He growled, his voice a low, primal rumble. He watched as her body responded to each thrust, the way her muscles tensed and relaxed, the sheen of sweat on her skin glistening in the candlelight. She was a willing vessel for his frustrations, and he took her with a ferocity that bordered on madness.

Her moans turned into cries of pleasure, her fingers clutching the sheets beneath her as she braced herself against his onslaught. He felt a dark satisfaction at the way he could bend her to his will, the power he wielded in these moments of raw, unbridled lust.

The climax came in a wave of intense pleasure, his body shuddering as he spilled into her. He collapsed over her, panting, his chest pressed against her back as he tried to catch his breath. The aftermath was a stark contrast to the ferocity of their coupling – a quiet, intimate moment where their bodies remained entwined, slick with sweat and the remnants of their shared passion.

Her arms wrapped around Aemond's naked body, her touch tender and soothing after their rough encounter. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of candlelight casting shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, mingling with the faint aroma of lavender from the sheets.

Aemond's breathing gradually slowed, his chest rising and falling against hers as he allowed himself to relax in her embrace. His mind, however, was anything but at ease. He thought back to the scene that had haunted him since he left his chambers earlier: his wife, cradling their son, her eyes red from crying, her body and mind still fragile from the ordeal of facing a dragon at Aegon’s coronation.

"She was crying before I left to come here," he began, his voice a low murmur against her neck. "Holding our son, so shocked by near-death.. It didn’t seem as terrifying to me, but... she was so scared. She's worried, you know. About the impending war."

The Madame’s fingers traced gentle circles on his back, encouraging him to continue. "She doesn't have dragonrider's blood," he went on, almost to himself. "I didn’t know how to comfort her. I want to help, but I don’t know how."

Her hands moved up to his shoulders, her touch grounding him. Her presence was a stark contrast to the chaos in his mind. He lowered his head to her chest, his lips finding her breast. He suckled softly, kneading the soft flesh, seeking solace in the familiar act.

Holding their son brought comfort to his wife, and for him, coming here to the Madame, was his escape. The warmth and intimacy they shared, however fleeting, was his way of coping with the weight of his responsibilities and the emotional distance between him and his wife. As he continued to be held, he couldn’t help but wonder if he and his wife would ever find this kind of comfort in each other; if he’d ever find the courage or the trust to truly tell her what he needs without worrying about losing her respect.

If he'd walked in and held her while she cried instead of leaving her to it and coming here, could he have made her feel safer?

Too many questions, not enough courage for answers. Too much pride and so little sense between them both.

Aemond's heart pounded in his chest as Vhagar soared through the stormy skies back to King's Landing. The cold wind bit at his face, but it was nothing compared to the icy dread gripping his heart.

He had killed Luke. His nephew, his blood.

The act had been unintended, a consequence of their reckless chase, but it was done. There would be no undoing it. If there hadn't been a war before, there certainly was now. The weight of his actions settled heavily upon him, more suffocating than the fiercest storm. As the familiar silhouette of the Red Keep came into view, a storm of emotions churned within him. Guilt, fear, and a desperate need for comfort twisted together, making his insides writhe.

He dismounted Vhagar with a heavy heart, his drenched form slipping through the darkened halls of the castle like a shadow. His mind raced, an entire host of thoughts battering against the walls of his consciousness. He needed solace, a place to hide from the storm he had created. The whorehouse crossed his mind briefly, a familiar escape, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough this time. He needed... he needed...

Before he knew it, his feet had taken him to her apartments.

Her. His wife.

He stood before the door, hesitating for a moment before pushing it open. His wife was readying for bed, her state of undress evident. She wore a robe over her shift, her hair loose around her shoulders. The soft light from the hearth bathed her in a gentle glow, as he took her in. She turned to him in shock, her eyes widening at the sight of him. It was clear how rare this occurrence was, how unexpected his presence was in her chambers. But she was quick to pull him in, taking in his drenched form with a worried expression.

"Husband, what has happened?" she asked, her voice filled with concern.

He did not answer, his eyes trained on her as she moved. Her exposed skin drew his attention, and he found himself wondering.

Was she softer? Kinder? Would she hold him in her soft arms if he so wished? Did he deserve it from her? Would she shame him?

She kept asking, but he remained silent, his mind too chaotic to form coherent words. She moved to find him something to dry off with, but he reached out, his hand wrapping around her wrist in a death grip.

"Don't go," he whispered, his voice raw and choked, barely more than a breath.

She looked up at him, her confusion gradually giving way to a quiet curiosity. He gently guided her arms around his cold and damp waist, his touch unexpectedly tender. This was not a whore; this was his wife. She deserved to be treated differently.

At first, she froze, her body tense and uncertain, but slowly, she let herself relax – at least as much as she could manage with a husband who had sought her out for the first time in a year.

He felt her hesitation and understood the significance of her yielding. The weight of his guilt pressed harder against his heart, but he clung to this moment of closeness, desperate for the comfort he so craved.

"What has happened, husband? Why are you here?" she asked softly, parts of her words muffled into his chest.

He remained silent, waiting to see what she would do. Her repeated questions slowly stopped, a resigned understanding settling in her gaze. In the silence, he became acutely aware of her form – soft, untouched by anyone but him, made for him. The thin layers of her robe and shift did little to keep his hands from exploring her.

His fingers trembled as they traced the curve of her spine, brushing against the delicate fabric of her robe. Every slight movement, every breath, every shiver she made became magnified in his mind. Her body responded to his touch with a delicate gasp, and he felt a surge of something he couldn't quite name – a need, a longing, a desperate desire for solace in her embrace.

He watched the rise and fall of her chest, every intake of breath, every flinch and gasp. He noticed a stray hair that had fallen across her face, the way the delicate hairs on her skin raised at his touch, the way her eyes widened and then softened. Each detail etched itself into his mind, a stark contrast to the murder that had driven him here.

She tightened her arms around him, her touch gentle yet firm. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent – lilacs and something uniquely her that anchored him to this moment, to her. It was a comfort stronger than any he had ever received, yet calm and grounding at the same time.

His hands roamed her back, feeling the delicate curve of her waist, the slight tremor in her muscles as she responded to his touch. He pressed his lips to her neck, feeling the pulse of her heartbeat, steady and reassuring. Her breath hitched, and he felt the vibration of her voice as she whispered his name, a question and a plea all at once.

"Aemond," she murmured, her voice breaking the silence. His body reacts in shivers and heat at the sound of his name upon her lips. "Please, tell me what's wrong."

Had she ever said his name out loud before? He did not know. But he wanted to hear it again and again until the world as he knew it ended. Perhaps it was the guilt - over Luke, or over his neglect of his wife - he did not know. But it was all bubbling at the surface now, and he was much more open and vulnerable than he’d ever been.

He bent his head down, his eye locking onto hers. The intensity of his gaze seemed to drown out the room, focusing solely on her. He could see the concern, the worry etched in her features, and it tore at him. He couldn't tell her, not yet. Not about the blood on his hands, the life he had taken, not why he was here and what he’d wanted.

But he could let her consume him, to forget. He could lose himself in her.

He felt the warmth of her skin, the softness of her curves against him, and for a moment, he allowed himself to forget the horrors of the night. He traced the line of her jaw with his fingers, memorizing every curve, every angle. Her skin was smooth and warm, a stark contrast to the cold, damp leathers clinging to him.

He pressed his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling in the scant space between them. Her eyes searched his, looking for answers he couldn't give. Despite her confusion, the turmoil in his mind quieted, replaced by the steady, reassuring rhythm of her heartbeat. She was his anchor, his solace, and he clung to her like a lifeline in the storm.

Wordlessly, he moved back enough to get a good look at her, his eyes tracing her form with a reverence that made her pulse quicken. He then slowly untied the front of her robe, the silk falling away with a whisper. His hands fell to her shoulders, pausing there for a moment as he sighed. As he pushed the sleeves down, his hands traced the newly revealed skin - his fingers glided from her collarbone to her shoulders, down her arms, and finally to her fingers, which he intertwined with his own. The robe slipped to the floor, leaving her in a thin shift that clung to her curves, leaving little to the imagination.

His eyes remained locked on hers, the intensity of his gaze a silent plea for forgiveness, a desperate need to be anchored by her presence. He took her trembling hands and placed them on his damp leathers, his touch firm but gentle, giving her silent permission—no, a quiet command—to undress him. His breath hitched slightly as he waited for her to take the lead.

She moved slowly, her fingers deftly working the buckles and straps, peeling away the layers of his clothing until he stood before her in only his trousers. Her hands hover over his chest, her touch hesitant, almost afraid, as if she's not sure she's allowed to touch him. His skin was warm under her fingertips, his heart pounding just beneath the surface.

His hands covered hers, guiding them lower, to the waistband of his trousers. His touch was both a plea and a command, silently asking, demanding, begging her to take this final barrier away. She did, her movements slow and deliberate, until he stood bare before her, exposed in every sense of the word.

She did not dare try to take off his eyepatch, not this time.

He watched her intently, noting every flinch, every gasp, every shiver that runs through her. His fingers traced delicate patterns on her skin, exploring every inch with a tenderness that speaks of his desperation for her. He needed this moment, her touch, to forget what he'd done to Luke, to drown the guilt that threatened to consume him. Every breath he took was a reminder of his failures, every brush of her skin against his a lifeline that pulled him back from the proverbial edge.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder - not her lips, he had not kissed her on the lips since their wedding ceremony. His hands roamed her body, mapped out the places that made her gasp, the spots that made her arch into him. He was attuned to her every reaction, his focus entirely on her.

All he asked for in return - with no words - is that she make him feel safe for this one night.

With his body bare and hers still clad in her shift, he silently gestured to her bed with a tilt of his head. She moved toward it, her movements graceful yet hesitant, and then crawled to the back, letting her spine rest against the headboard. He stood there for a moment, watching her, his breath uneven and his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

He did not miss the way she looked at him. Desire flickered in her eyes, growing with each second her gaze roved over his body. Her eyes widened when they settled on his manhood, and he could see the anticipation building within her. She expected him to take her tonight, he knew. He hadn't given any indication otherwise in the last few moments, and she had no clue what he actually wanted; or why.

Would she welcome him to her bed if she knew he was a kinslayer?

The thought gnawed at him, but he chose not to tell her. She might not offer her true acceptance, but he would take her false comfort tonight – even if she thought it true.

He moved to the side of the bed with all his characteristic grace. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a mix of confusion and longing. When he lifted his knee to place it on the plush mattress, she shifted to make space for him. He laid down beside her, his movements deliberate and slow, as if fearing she might vanish if he was too hasty. She mirrored his actions, and soon they were facing each other, their warm breaths mingling in the stillness of the room.

Their eyes locked, and he saw her questioning gaze. Her next words, soft and tentative, knocked the breath out of his lungs.

"Are you alright?"

For a moment, he couldn't answer, the weight of the day's events pressing down on him. He looked at her, truly looked at her, and saw the worry etched in the lines of her face, the softness of her eyes, the way her lips parted slightly as she waited for his response.

"I will be," he finally said, his voice rough with emotion.

Tentatively, he placed his hand on her thigh, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her shift. He slid the material up, his fingers tracing the smooth expanse of her leg.

"Gevie.” [Beautiful.]

His fingers continued their journey, moving to her inner thigh. Her legs shivered at his touch, and he smirked for a moment before he withdrew his hand and moved closer. Their bodies were now a hairsbreadth apart, the heat between them palpable.

His hands moved to her breasts, feeling their fullness beneath her shift. He was acutely aware of every breath she took, every flinch and gasp that escaped her lips. Each reaction to his touch drew him further into the present moment, away from the dark thoughts that threatened to consume him. Her body was a haven, a sanctuary where he could lose himself, if only for a while.

Encouraged by her soft gasps, he continued to knead the mounds of flesh and pinch her pert nipples, his touch gentle yet insistent through the shift. Lowering his head, he nestled himself at her bosom, inhaling deeply. The scent of lilacs and milk overtook him, and he let out a contented sigh.

"You are a mother... the mother of my heir," he murmured into her chest, his voice a mix of reverence and disbelief.

She said nothing, but when her initial shock faded, she began to comb her fingers through his soft hair, humming the same song she sang to their son to sleep. The melody was soothing, a balm to his frayed nerves. He didn't know if her singing was to calm him or herself, but he found solace in the gentle rise and fall of her breasts with each breath she took.

He took in the way her body trembled slightly beneath him, the softness of her skin, the rhythmic beating of her heart against his cheek. This was not the harsh, immediate and uncertain release he sought at the whorehouse.

This was more, more, more.

Sleep came to him easily in her arms, draped in her comfort; devoid of any nightmares, dreams, or heavy thoughts.

If she wondered why he'd simply laid with her rather than fuck her, she did not ask.

Would she welcome him again when she finds out what he did?

The council branded him a kinslayer when he told them what he'd done. He embraced it, staring into their eyes, defiant and unyielding. He told them he did it on purpose, each word a dagger thrown with precision. Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer-

Aegon patted his back, a twisted smile playing on his lips. "A job well done, drawing first blood in the King's name," he said, his voice a blend of admiration and malice. His grandfather's face remained a mask, revealing nothing. Criston was disappointed, his disapproval a heavy weight in the room. And his mother...

His mother was disgusted, her eyes filled with a sorrow he had never seen before. When he stepped out and walked through the corridors, the word had spread like wildfire.

Kinslayer.

The whispers followed him like a relentless shadow. Servants and maids stepped out of his way, their gazes avoiding his. The tension was palpable, a living thing that tightened the air around him. He wanted to escape them all, to flee to the skies where their judgment could not reach him. But before then, he wanted to see them.

He stood near the doorway as she had a few days prior, watching her rock their fitful, sick son to sleep. Her movements were gentle, contrasting all the shock, anger and brashness he’d seen since he stepped out of her room before she awoke. He wanted her to look at him, to see beyond the blood and the sin. He was asking too much of her, he knew that. They were strangers bound by duty, their recent shared moments brief and fraught with his own selfish needs for comfort.

His heart pounded as she finally met his gaze. He was not prepared for the slight fear in her eyes. It cut through him deeper than any sword ever could. She looked at him as if he were a creature she could not recognize.

Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer-

The word echoed in his mind, a relentless chant that drowned out everything else. He took a step forward, his hands trembling. "I—" he began, but the words died in his throat. What could he say? How could he explain the unexplainable, justify the unforgivable? She held their son closer, her grip tightening protectively. The room was thick with unspoken words, with the weight of what he had done and what it meant for them. His mind raced, filled with a cacophony of anger, regret, and despair.

The need to escape surged within him again. He wanted to flee to the skies, to find solace in the cold, indifferent clouds. But he couldn't move, couldn't tear his gaze away from the image of her fear-stricken eyes.

Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer-

With a heavy heart and a mind in turmoil, he turned and walked back into the shadowed corridors, each step echoing the relentless chant of his new title.

Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer-

The word echoed through the empty halls, a reminder of the path he had chosen and the price he would pay.

If he’d told her last night as he laid in her arms, would she have understood?

He’d never know.

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diecastor · 2 years

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#Hot Chamber Die Casting.#Cold Chamber Die Casting.#Injected Metal Assembly.#Multi-side Die Casting.#die casting #die casting company

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novaursa · 19 days

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Hour of the Wolf

- Summary: Cregan keeps his promise to you, and delivers Northern justice to the South.

- Paring: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: These events happen right after The Wolf's Flame. To read all parts of this story, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. This is the last part (conclusion) for this series.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 5 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

The cold wind that blows down from the North seems to follow him even here, into the heart of the South, where the air is usually filled with the warmth of the sun. Yet today, the skies over King’s Landing are heavy with a gray pallor, as if the gods themselves know that justice is at hand. You are not here to witness this, but you are the reason for it. Every step Cregan Stark takes is one of duty, but also of love—love for you, his Y/N, his beloved wife, and the mother of his children.

The streets of King’s Landing tremble under the march of Northern boots, the sight of direwolf banners casting long shadows against the red stone walls. Cregan’s expression is as hard and unyielding as the land he comes from, his gray eyes focused on the path ahead. He is the Lord of Winterfell, the Wolf in the South, and today, the Hour of the Wolf has come.

Outside the Red Keep, the air is tense, the men around him anxious. They know what he is capable of; they know the purpose behind his presence. Justice. It is the promise he made to you, and the promise he will fulfill. Waiting at the gates, he finds two figures—one is the boy king, Aegon, the youngest of your mother’s children, and the other is Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, your grandfather.

Aegon stands tall, but there is a shadow in his violet eyes, a weight that he has carried since he took his place as the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Corlys, too, has the look of a man who has seen too much, but still, there is a fire in him, one that refuses to die despite the years of war and loss.

As Cregan approaches, it is Aegon who speaks first, his voice steady despite the turmoil that surrounds him. “Lord Stark, we have been expecting you.”

Cregan nods, his gaze unwavering. “And I have come as promised. The South will know the meaning of Northern justice.”

Corlys steps forward, his eyes sharp as they search Cregan’s face. “The traitor Aegon II is dead, found poisoned in his chambers,” he announces, his tone devoid of satisfaction, yet also lacking in sorrow. “The throne is now secure, but the realm is not yet at peace.”

For a moment, the air is still, as if even the city itself is holding its breath. Cregan’s expression does not change, but there is a flicker in his eyes—a glimmer of something darker. “The death of Aegon II was too swift,” he says, his voice low and filled with the cold of the North. “He deserved more for what he did to your family, for what he did to my wife.”

Aegon shifts uncomfortably, but Corlys holds Cregan’s gaze, understanding the weight behind those words. “Justice has been served, in one way or another,” the Sea Snake says, his voice carrying the wisdom of his years. “But what of your children, my grandchildren? How are they?”

The question brings a softness to Cregan’s hard exterior, a flicker of warmth that only thoughts of you and your children can invoke. “They are well,” he answers, a hint of pride in his tone. “Safe in their mother’s embrace, in the heart of Winterfell. And Killian, our eldest, has had a dragon hatch from Thraxata’s clutch. A fine beast, worthy of a Stark and a Velaryon.”

Corlys’s eyes widen at the news, and even Aegon’s lips twitch in something that almost resembles a smile. The thought of a new dragon, born of your bonded dragon, Thraxata, the Midnight Fury, a creature of polished obsidian and violet fire, is enough to stir the blood of even the most hardened man. It is a symbol of your strength, your legacy, and the legacy of the children you have borne with Cregan.

The Sea Snake nods, his gaze distant as he considers the future. “A new dragon, a new beginning,” he murmurs. “Perhaps there is hope yet for this broken realm.”

Cregan does not reply immediately. Instead, he turns his gaze toward the towering walls of the Red Keep, a place that has seen too much bloodshed, too many betrayals. He thinks of you, of the letters you exchanged before he rode South, the promises made between you. He is here to fulfill those promises, to ensure that your family, your children, will inherit a world where they can grow without the shadow of war looming over them.

Finally, he speaks, his voice as unyielding as the North. “Hope is something that must be earned,” he says. “And I will see to it that this realm is worthy of the children it will one day belong to.”

With that, Cregan Stark, the Wolf in the South, turns his back on the Red Keep, his mind already turning to the tasks ahead. There is still much to be done, and he will not rest until justice, true justice, has been delivered. For you, Y/N, for your children, and for the memory of your family.

As he walks away, the wind picks up, carrying with it the chill of the North—a reminder that Winterfell, and all that it holds dear, is never far from his thoughts.

The throne room of the Red Keep is a place of power, but also of shadows—of secrets whispered in the dark and blood spilled on the cold stone floor. Today, however, it is a place of judgment. Cregan Stark, the Wolf of the North, stands before the Iron Throne, his presence imposing, his expression as cold as the winter winds that sweep across his homeland. The crown has been secured, the usurper dead by poison, but the realm still bleeds, and it falls to him to stitch its wounds.

He takes his position as Hand of the King with a heavy heart, but with unshakable resolve. Justice must be done, and he is here to see it through, not for his own glory, but for you, his beloved Y/N, and for the future you share. He remembers the words he once whispered to you in the quiet of your chambers, promises made in the stillness of Winterfell: to protect, to avenge, to make the world safer for your children. Today, he begins to fulfill those promises.

Before him stand nineteen men, the accused, each bearing the weight of their sins. Traitors, conspirators, men who played their parts in the bloodshed that tore the realm apart. They are the remnants of a conflict that has claimed too many lives, the final vestiges of a regime that crumbled beneath the weight of its own ambition.

Cregan’s voice rings out in the hall, deep and unwavering, as he addresses them. “You stand accused of treason, of betrayal to the crown, and of crimes that have brought the realm to the brink of ruin. Justice is what I seek, and justice is what you will receive.”

The room is silent, the tension thick as his words hang in the air. There is no mercy in his tone, no room for doubt or leniency. The eyes of those before him are filled with a mixture of fear and resignation. They know what is coming, and they know there is no escape.

Cregan’s gaze moves across them, his expression unreadable as he delivers the sentence. “Those of you who have been found guilty, you will take the black. You will live out the remainder of your days on the Wall, defending the realm you have betrayed. Your lives are forfeit, but the Watch will have your service.”

There is a murmur among the accused, some relief, some despair. The Wall is a harsh fate, but it is life, of a sort. But not all will receive such a sentence, and they know it.

Cregan turns his gaze to the two men who stand apart from the others, Lord Larys Strong and Ser Gyles. They do not flinch under his scrutiny, though they know what fate awaits them. They are men who have accepted their end, men who understand that the blood they have spilled cannot be washed away by mere words.

“For you,” Cregan continues, his voice colder now, “there will be no such mercy. Lord Larys Strong, Ser Gyles Belgrave, you have been judged, and your sentence is death.”

The room is silent again, the weight of his words settling over all who are present. Cregan steps forward, the greatsword Ice in his hand, the Valyrian steel gleaming in the dim light of the throne room. It is a blade that has seen many executions, a blade that carries the history of House Stark in every inch of its steel.

Without hesitation, Cregan raises Ice, his muscles rippling beneath his furs as he prepares to deliver the final justice. The men before him kneel, heads bowed, accepting their fate. It is a grim task, but one that must be done. For you, for your children, for the future of the realm.

The blade comes down, swift and sure, and in a single stroke, both men fall. Their heads roll across the cold stone floor, the blood pooling at Cregan’s feet. The sound echoes in the chamber, a final, resounding note of justice delivered.

Cregan stands over the fallen men, Ice still in his hand, his breath steady. He feels the weight of his duty, the coldness of the act, but also the warmth of satisfaction. It is done. The traitors have paid for their crimes, and the realm can begin to heal.

As he steps back, wiping the blood from Ice with a cloth handed to him by one of his bannermen, a raven arrives. The black bird flutters through the open windows of the throne room, a small scroll tied to its leg, the wax seal of Winterfell visible even from a distance.

Cregan’s heart skips a beat as he takes the scroll, recognizing the seal immediately. It is from Maester Kennet, and he knows what news it carries. He breaks the seal with a steady hand, though inside, his emotions swirl. The paper crinkles as he unrolls it, and he reads the words written in the familiar script.

"Lord Cregan,

It is with great joy that I inform you that Lady Y/N has given birth to a healthy son. Both mother and child are well. The boy has been named Rickon, after your noble father. Winterfell rejoices at the birth of its heir, and we await your return.

Maester Kennet"

Cregan’s heart swells with a warmth that almost overcomes him. Rickon. Another son, another piece of the future you will build together. He closes his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to picture you in the great hall of Winterfell, holding your newborn son in your arms, surrounded by Killian and Alysane. He can see their smiles, hear the laughter that will fill the halls once more.

He tucks the letter away, the coldness of the throne room fading as he turns to leave. His duty here is nearly done, and soon, he will return to you, to your children, to Winterfell. He will hold his son, he will see your face, and he will feel the warmth of home once more.

But for now, he is still the Wolf in the South, the Hand of the King, and there are still tasks that must be completed before he can return to you. He steels himself, knowing that with every step he takes, he is one step closer to home, one step closer to you and the life you have built together.

The fire crackles softly in the hearth, its warmth chasing away the chill of the Northern winds that rattle the ancient stones of Winterfell. The room is quiet, filled with a peaceful stillness that you savor, holding your newborn son close to your chest. Little Rickon, barely a few days old, sleeps soundly in your arms, his tiny breaths warm against your skin. His dark lashes rest against his pale cheeks, so much like his father’s, and you can already see the strength in his small features, a promise of the man he will one day become.

You sit in a chair by the fire, wrapped in furs that keep you warm and comfortable. The weight of your son is a soothing comfort, grounding you in this moment, despite the swirling thoughts that sometimes pull your mind southward, toward King’s Landing, where your husband, Cregan, now walks paths that you wished you could have shared with him.

It was a hard decision, staying behind. You wanted to be there at Cregan’s side, to see justice served for what was done to your family. But the weight of your pregnancy had kept you here, in the North, far from the seat of power and the vengeance that now unfolds. You had argued, begged even, but Cregan, in his stern but loving way, had insisted. His duty was there, and yours, he said with a gentle hand on your belly, was here, with the child you were carrying and the children who needed their mother.

You sigh softly, glancing across the room where your other children play. Killian, your eldest, is sprawled on the floor, his dark hair a wild tangle as he wrestles with a small dragon, a hatchling from Thraxata’s clutch. Vexion, as Killian named him, is a striking creature, barely larger than a hunting hound, with scales of deep midnight blue that shimmer like sapphires in the firelight. His wings, though small, are strong and powerful, the membranes tinted in the same shades of violet as Thraxata’s, and his eyes, bright and alert, match the deep purple of her own.

Killian laughs as Vexion snaps playfully at his fingers, his little teeth harmless for now, though you know that one day, they will grow sharp enough to rend flesh and bone. But for now, the dragon is just a playful companion, a symbol of your legacy and the bond your family shares with these magnificent beasts.

Alysane, your daughter, sits beside her brother, her pale hair cascading over her shoulders as she carefully arranges a set of wooden figures. She’s creating a scene, you realize, a miniature version of Winterfell with figures of wolves and dragons placed carefully around the perimeter. Her little brow is furrowed in concentration, but she smiles when she hears Killian’s laughter, her violet eyes sparkling with the same mischievous light that often shines in Cregan’s when he is teasing you.

Watching them, your heart swells with love and pride. These are your children, your future. They are the reason you stayed behind, the reason you now feel a deep sense of contentment despite the ache of being apart from your husband. Here, in this room, surrounded by the warmth of the fire and the presence of your children, you find peace.

Rickon stirs in your arms, making a soft, contented noise, and you gently rock him, brushing a kiss against his tiny forehead. “Hush now, little one,” you murmur softly, your voice filled with a tenderness that surprises even you. “Your father will be home soon, and then we’ll all be together again.”

The thought of Cregan’s return brings a soft smile to your lips. You imagine him walking through the doors of the great hall, his face breaking into a rare, warm smile as he sees you and the children waiting for him. You imagine the feel of his arms around you, the strength and warmth that have always been your greatest comfort. You imagine introducing him to Rickon, watching as he takes his newborn son in his arms for the first time, the pride and love shining in his gray eyes.

But for now, you are content. Content to be here, with your children, safe in the heart of Winterfell. You have known loss, grief, and the cold touch of betrayal, but you have also known love, fierce and unyielding, and that love has given you these three beautiful children, each one a piece of your heart walking around outside your body.

“Look, Mother!” Killian’s excited voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you look up to see him holding Vexion aloft, the little dragon’s wings flapping furiously as he tries to stay airborne. “Vexion’s learning to fly!”

You laugh softly, a sound full of warmth and joy. “He’s doing wonderfully, my love. Just like you.”

Killian beams at your praise, setting Vexion down gently on the floor. The dragon immediately scampers over to Alysane’s miniature Winterfell, sniffing curiously at the wooden figures. Alysane giggles, gently guiding him away from her carefully arranged scene.

You watch them with a full heart, feeling the warmth of the fire, the weight of your newborn son, and the love that fills this room. Yes, you wish you could be with Cregan, standing beside him as he delivers justice, but you also know that this—being here, with your children, holding Rickon close—is where you are meant to be.

You lean back in your chair, closing your eyes for just a moment, allowing the peacefulness of the moment to wash over you. Soon, Cregan will return, and your family will be whole again. Until then, you have this—this quiet, this warmth, this love. And that is more than enough.

The air in Winterfell is crisp with the first touch of spring as you stand at the gates, your heart pounding with anticipation. The sun is low in the sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard where you wait with your children. The news of Cregan’s return reached you only this morning, and ever since, you’ve been unable to keep the smile from your face. You’ve missed him with a deep, aching intensity, and the thought of having him home again fills you with a joy that’s almost overwhelming.

Killian and Alysane stand beside you, both of them practically bouncing with excitement. Killian’s hand is clutching Vexion’s leash, the little dragon sitting obediently at his feet, though his violet eyes are alert, as if he too can sense the importance of this moment. Alysane’s hand is in yours, her small fingers squeezing tightly as she peers down the road, searching for the first sign of her father.

The minutes feel like hours, but then, finally, you see them: the first of the riders cresting the hill, the Stark banners flapping in the wind, and your heart skips a beat. Cregan is home.

As the riders draw closer, you spot him at the front of the group, his dark hair falling loose around his shoulders, his broad frame unmistakable even from a distance. The sight of him stirs something deep inside you, a rush of warmth and love that makes your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“Father!” Killian’s voice breaks through your reverie, and before you can stop him, he’s running across the courtyard, Vexion darting after him with a playful roar. Alysane releases your hand and follows suit, her laughter ringing out as she races to meet her father.

Cregan dismounts with ease, dropping to one knee just in time to catch Killian in his arms. Alysane is close behind, and he sweeps her up as well, holding both of them tightly against his chest. His deep laugh rumbles through the air, the sound of it filling your heart with a warmth that melts away the last remnants of the cold that had settled there in his absence.

You watch them, your vision blurring slightly with tears. This is what you’ve been waiting for, what you’ve dreamed of during the long nights alone—this moment, when your family is together again.

Finally, Cregan looks up, his gray eyes meeting yours across the distance. For a moment, the world seems to stop, and it’s just the two of you, connected by the unspoken love that has always been the foundation of your bond. He rises to his feet, one arm still wrapped around each of your children, and as he walks toward you, you feel your breath catch in your throat.

When he’s close enough, you close the distance between you, your hands reaching up to cup his face. His skin is cool from the journey, but beneath it, you can feel the warmth that has always drawn you to him, the steady, reassuring presence that you’ve missed so much.

“Cregan,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion.

He smiles, that rare, genuine smile that’s reserved only for you and your children. “Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice deep and rough with emotion. “I’ve missed you.”

And then his lips are on yours, gentle at first, but quickly deepening as the months of longing and separation melt away. His kiss is everything you’ve needed, everything you’ve craved—warmth, love, passion, and the undeniable connection that has always bound you together. You lose yourself in him, in the taste of him, the feel of him, the way his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer as if he can’t bear to let you go.

For a moment, the world fades away, and it’s just the two of you, lost in each other. You can feel the beat of his heart against your chest, strong and steady, a reminder that he’s here, he’s home, and you’re safe in his arms.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, and you take a moment to just breathe him in, to savor the feel of him against you. “I’m so glad you’re home,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

Cregan’s hand comes up to brush a strand of silver hair away from your face, his touch tender and filled with love. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he replies, his eyes soft as they gaze into yours.

Killian and Alysane, sensing that they’re witnessing something special, are unusually quiet as they cling to their father’s legs. But you can see the joy in their eyes, the way they look up at him with adoration and love.

Cregan glances down at them, and then back at you, his smile widening as he takes in the sight of his family. “I’ve missed so much,” he says, his voice tinged with regret.

You shake your head, squeezing his hand. “You did what you had to do. And now, you’re home. That’s all that matters.”

He nods, his eyes shining with the same love and pride that you feel swelling in your chest. “I’m home,” he repeats, as if savoring the words. Then, he looks at you, his expression turning more serious. “How is Rickon?”

Your heart swells at the mention of your youngest, and you can’t help but smile. “He’s perfect, Cregan. Just like his father.”

Cregan’s smile softens, and there’s a tenderness in his eyes that makes your heart flutter. “I can’t wait to meet him,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.

You nod, taking his hand and leading him toward the keep. “He’s waiting for you,” you say softly. “We all were.”

The walk to the great hall is short, but it feels like a journey, each step bringing you closer to the home you’ve longed for, the completeness you’ve missed. When you enter the hall, the warmth of the fire greets you, along with the familiar scents of Winterfell. But it’s the sight of the small cradle by the hearth that draws your eyes.

Cregan steps forward, his movements careful and reverent as he approaches the cradle. Rickon is awake, his tiny fists waving in the air, and when Cregan leans down to look at him, you see the wonder and awe in his eyes.

“He’s beautiful,” Cregan whispers, reaching out to gently touch his son’s cheek. Rickon’s eyes, a soft gray like his father’s, blink up at him, and a small, contented smile spreads across his tiny face.

“He looks just like you,” you say softly, stepping beside Cregan and slipping your hand into his.

Cregan shakes his head, his eyes never leaving Rickon’s. “No,” he says quietly, “he looks like us.”

The words bring a lump to your throat, and you lean into Cregan’s side, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. This is your family—whole, safe, and together.

You stay like that for a long moment, just watching Cregan with Rickon, feeling the love and contentment that fills the room. Then, slowly, Cregan straightens, his eyes still filled with that soft, tender light as he looks at you.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice full of meaning.

You smile up at him, your heart full to bursting. “For what?”

“For giving me this,” he replies, his hand gently squeezing yours. “For our children, our home… for everything.”

You reach up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing against the rough stubble that you’ve missed so much. “We built this together,” you say softly. “And now, we’ll enjoy it together.”

Cregan’s eyes darken with emotion, and he leans down to capture your lips in another kiss, this one slow and full of promise. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel his breath mingling with yours.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispers, the words a vow, a promise, and a declaration all at once.

“I love you too, Cregan,” you reply, your voice filled with all the love and devotion you feel for him.

The world outside may be cold and harsh, but here, in this moment, in this place, you are warm, safe, and complete. Cregan is home, your children are safe, and your family is whole. And that is all you need.

Excerpt from Fire and Blood by Archmaester Glyndwyr, Chapter: "The Hour of the Wolf and the Dawn of the Dragon"

The Dragon That Followed the Wolf

In the aftermath of the Dance of the Dragons, the realm lay in ruin, its people exhausted from years of bloodshed and treachery. The Iron Throne, once a symbol of absolute power, had become a seat of sorrow and conflict. Aegon III, the Dragonbane, who had ascended to the throne at a young age after the fall of his mother, Rhaenyra, found himself ill-suited to the demands of kingship. His reign, though marked by attempts at restoration, was overshadowed by the lingering shadow of the civil war and his own deep-seated melancholy.

It was in this time of uncertainty and discontent that voices began to rise among the lords of Westeros, calling for a new ruler—one who could unite the fractured realm and bring about a new era of prosperity. These voices soon coalesced around a single name: Killian Stark, son of Cregan Stark and Y/N Velaryon, a boy of strong bloodlines and even stronger will, who had already shown promise as a dragonrider, bonded to Vexion, a dragon of Thraxata’s clutch.

Killian's lineage was beyond question. As the great-grandson of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon, his claim combined the noble blood of House Targaryen and House Velaryon with the unyielding strength of House Stark. With his mother Y/N, the only daughter of Rhaenyra, and his father, Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, Killian embodied the unity of the North and the Targaryen bloodline.

It was Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, who first championed Killian’s cause. The aged and wise Lord of the Tides, having outlived nearly all of his contemporaries, saw in his great-grandson the potential to restore what had been lost. The Sea Snake's influence and respect among the lords of Westeros were unmatched, and his advocacy for Killian as the rightful heir to the throne was taken with the utmost seriousness.

Corlys's argument was simple yet compelling: the realm needed a king who was not only of noble blood but also one who could command the loyalty of the dragonlords and the great houses alike. Killian, with his Stark resolve and Targaryen fire, was that king. He was a boy with the blood of the dragon in his veins, and unlike his predecessors, he had a dragon at his side—a symbol of the power that once ruled the skies of Westeros. Vexion, though young, was already growing into a fearsome beast, his deep midnight blue scales and violet eyes a reminder of the might of House Targaryen.

The Great Council of 138 AC was convened at Harrenhal, a place chosen for its neutrality, to decide the fate of the realm. The lords of Westeros, weary of war and eager for stability, gathered to debate the future. Among those who spoke for Killian was not only Corlys Velaryon but also his father, Cregan Stark, who had already proven his dedication to justice during the Hour of the Wolf when he served as Hand of the King and dispensed justice to those who had betrayed the realm.

Cregan Stark was a man of honor and few words, but his presence at the council carried weight. It was said that when Cregan rose to speak, the hall fell silent, and every lord in attendance felt the weight of his words. He did not advocate for his son out of ambition but out of duty—to his family, to the realm, and to the memory of those who had suffered and died during the Dance of the Dragons. He spoke of the need for a ruler who could command both respect and fear, a king who could rebuild what had been broken, and a dragonlord who could ensure that the skies of Westeros would never again be darkened by treachery and betrayal.

The lords of Westeros, many of whom had fought in the Dance or had seen their lands ravaged by it, were moved by the arguments presented. They saw in Killian Stark the hope of a new beginning, a ruler who could bridge the divides that had torn the realm apart. The fact that he was a dragonrider only strengthened his claim, for the memory of dragonfire was still fresh in the minds of many, and the power of the dragon was seen as essential to maintaining order in a realm as vast and diverse as the Seven Kingdoms.

Thus, it was decided by the Great Council that Aegon III, whose reign had been marred by personal tragedy and political strife, would abdicate the throne in favor of Killian Stark. Aegon, who had always been more comfortable away from the throne than upon it, accepted the decision with grace, retiring to Dragonstone, where he would live out the remainder of his days in relative peace.

On the first day of the new year, in 139 AC, Killian Stark was crowned as King Killian I of House Stark and Targaryen, the Dragon-Wolf, first of his name. His coronation was a grand affair, attended by lords and ladies from across the realm, each of whom pledged their loyalty to the new king. As the crown of Aegon the Conqueror was placed upon his brow, Vexion let out a mighty roar, his wings unfurling as he took to the skies above the Red Keep, a symbol of the new age that had dawned in Westeros.

The reign of King Killian I was marked by a period of reconstruction and renewal. With his parents by his side—Cregan Stark as his most trusted advisor, and Y/N Velaryon as the queen mother—he worked to restore the realm to its former glory. The North and South were united as never before, and under his rule, the great houses of Westeros found a new sense of purpose and loyalty to the crown.

During their marriage, Cregan and Y/N had more children, each of whom played a role in the continued stability of the realm. Their eldest daughter, Alysane Stark, was married to the heir of the Vale, further strengthening the bonds between the North and the South. Their younger sons, Rickon and Jory, were given lordships and served as key figures in the court, ensuring that the realm remained united and strong.

King Killian I’s reign saw the rebuilding of many of the great castles and cities that had been destroyed during the Dance. The Targaryen bloodline was secured through alliances with the other dragonlord houses, and the power of the Iron Throne was restored. The scars of the past were not forgotten, but they were healed, and the realm once again prospered under the rule of a strong, just, and wise king.

In the end, the Dragon-Wolf proved to be the ruler that Westeros needed—a king who could command both the loyalty of his subjects and the respect of his enemies. His reign ushered in a new era of peace and prosperity, and his legacy would be remembered for generations to come as the king who brought the broken realm back to life.

Thus ends the account of King Killian I, the Dragon-Wolf, and the legacy of House Stark and Targaryen.

#house of the dragon #hotd x female reader #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd x you #cregan x y/n #hotd cregan #cregan x you #cregan x reader #cregan stark

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andreawritesit · 3 months

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can i request cregan and targ reader where he gets her a wolf and its all sweet and stuff ❤️

Fandom: House of the Dragon

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Targaryen Reader

Synopsis: You had been living in the North for quite a while now but nothing felt quite as welcoming as receiving a warm bundle of joy as a present.

It was not morning yet. Or perhaps it was. Wrapped in the dark grey clouds, the sun often played hide and seek in the Northern skies. It was difficult to tell what time of the day it was. You got out of bed and immediately, the sudden chill enveloped your entire body, down to your bones. Quickly grabbing the fur blanket from the bed, you wrapped it tightly around yourself. The cold was your worst enemy, your soul was forged out of fire after all. Even after an entire month, you still couldn't understand why your mother would betroth you to a Northern lord. You were the same girl on the side of whose bed she had spent countless nights awake. As soon as the weather became colder, you'd catch a fever. Throughout your childhood and even now, in your adolescent years, Rhaenyra has been on her toes constantly because of how the cold affected you. And yet she had sent you to marry Lord Cregan Stark. Why? That's not to say that your betrothed wasn't the most respectable man you had ever met. Cregan was cold and stoic as Northerners tend to be, but he was also honorable and extremely kind to you. As soon as you had arrived at Winterfell on dragonback, he had done all he could to make sure you were comfortable. He made sure you got plenty of warm clothes and furs and despite being the lord of Winterfell, he came to your chambers every day to see if you needed anything.

You had both decided that you would marry only after the war was over. He didn't want to tie you to himself knowing very well that he could die in the war and leave you by yourself. And you didn't want to marry him so soon either because you still wanted to partake in your mother's efforts to get her throne back from the usurpers.

You walked to the window and looked outside. Everything was covered in pristine white snow. It was so different from Dragonstone and Kings Landing. Instead of the hustle and bustle of the South, there was a calming silence in the North. Soon enough, the sun's rays began to pierce through the dense clouds, casting a golden hue over the snow-covered landscape. You couldn't help but smile at the view outside. The tranquility was suddenly broken by a soft knock at the door.

"Come in", you called, walking away from the window.

The door slowly creaked open, revealing the Lord of Winterfell. His tall and imposing figure was contrasted by a warm smile on his face, a sight you had come to cherish over the past month.

"Good morning Princess. I hope I didn't disturb your rest."

You shook your head, "Not at all, my Lord. I was already up." Your eyes went to a bundle of blankets in his arms. "What brings you here so early?"

Cregan's smile widened as he walked to where you were standing. "I come bearing a gift for you, my Princess." He stepped closer, revealing a small, furry creature nestled in the crook of his arm. "I hope this will make your stay here easier. He's a wonderful companion." He removed the top blanket a little and a small head peeked out.

Your eyes widened in surprise. "A dire wolf pup?" you breathed out as you reached to gently stroke his fur. "He's so precious and small."

"One of the she-wolves gave birth to many pups this morning. When I saw this one, I knew I had to give him to you." The dire wolf pup, with its striking blue eyes and white fur, nuzzled into your touch, eliciting a soft laugh out of you. "Here, hold him", Cregan whispered as he softly passed the pup into your arms. You cradled him close and looked up at Cregan, your heart swelling with affection.

"Thank you. He's perfect."

"Much like you", he said while stroking the pup's head gently.

"Is that why you brought him to me? Because he's perfect like me? Or was there any other reason?"

Cregan let out a small chuckle at your words. "It's one of many reasons I decided to gift this one to you. You see, just minutes after being born, he was already jumping around and causing mayhem in the yard. Reminded me of you and your dragon quite a lot."

You punched his arm lightly and a laugh left your lips. The pup nuzzled your neck and you couldn't help but giggle. Cregan's gaze softened as he watched you bond with the dire wolf. "He's strong and brave, much like you," he said, his voice filled with admiration. "I thought he could be a symbol of the North's acceptance of you."

You felt a rush of gratitude and warmth, not just from the direwolf but from Cregan's thoughtful gesture. He had once again won you over, something that had happened quite a few times already.

"I know it's not easy for you to settle down here in the North. But I'm grateful that you're trying and I promise you, I will take care of you. I will make sure you won't have to miss the warmth of your home. Winterfell will be your abode one day and I hope I will become your family, someone you'll be able to trust and perhaps even love one day."

You shifted the pup into your right arm and held Cregan's hand with your left hand. "You have no idea how much you have already done for me. When I first came here, I was a scared little girl who was being separated from her family but now I feel like I was always meant to be here, with you. I can assure you that I will also do everything I can to be there for you. I am ready, to accept Winterfell as my home and you as my husband."

Cregan's expression softened, and he squeezed your hand lightly. "I'm glad to hear that," he said sincerely. "I'm glad you came here."

"Me too."

Suddenly, the pup stirred, letting out a small, contented yawn. You and Cregan both laughed softly. The moment was broken but no less sweet. "I suppose he's tired", Cregan whispered as he covered the pup with a small blanket.

"Have you named him yet, my Lord?"

He shook his head, "No. He's your companion. You should name him."

You took a long look at the white fluffy ball of fur in your arms. "I'll name him Winter," you decided, looking up at Cregan with a smile. "To remind me of the kindness and strength of the North."

"Winter it is, then," he said. "May he bring you joy and protect you always."

Your heart swelled with emotion as you held Winter close. "He already has," you replied, your gaze locked with Cregan's. "Thank you, Cregan."

In that moment, the chill of the North transformed into the warmth of new companionship and a realization that perhaps your feelings for the Northern Lord had evolved into something deeper.

#hotd x reader #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x targaryen reader #cregan stark #cregan stark x you #cregan stark x y/n #cregan stark fanfic #hotd fanfic #andreawritesit

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aemondsquill · 1 year

Text

Forgive Me, My Lady, For I Have Sinned

Aemond Targaryen × Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Aemond is mean to his wife. Groveling ensues.

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, terrible smut, oral (f receiving), Aemond is a rascal, slight mean!aemond, unedited we die like men A/N: heyyyy pookies thank you for being so patient! This is mostly just me practicing how to write smut since im not super familiar with it so just lmk what yall think

It was rare for Aemond to be absent from your shared chambers. Ever since your betrothal, the two of you would sneak through the winding halls of the Red Keep in search of each other’s warmth. It was scandalous, of course, but the Prince simply could not quell his growing passion for you, his lovely little woman. At first, he dreaded the thought of marriage—seeing how his mother was often discarded in favor of a dead woman by his ever-decaying father. It wasn’t until his lone violet eye landed upon your sweet face at the feast celebrating the announcement of your impending nuptials did Aemond feel a surge of protectiveness over you. He couldn’t help the flush of shyness that reddened his cheeks when you shared a sweet smile with him.

The several moons into your marriage had been utterly blissful. Aemond was attentive, often finding himself bending to your every command. In private, he was affectionate; always finding some way to hold or touch your warm skin or sharing tender kisses that left you both breathless and yearning for more. He often threatened lords who would boldly stare at your figure from afar, but he shielded his cruelty from you, not wanting to frighten his little wife. Nearly every night Aemond found himself nestled between your supple thighs, showing you just how much he worshipped you—licking and nuzzling your clit with his aquiline nose, hardened from the sweet moans and whimpers that fell from your lips. The thought of you being only his to please and breed made him feel nearly rabid from arousal—like a dragon with the scent of blood.

Married life seemed to agree with Aemond.

With war looming on the horizon, Aemond felt the increasing pressure beginning to chip away at his sanity. Long, torturous hours were spent locked away in the Small Council chambers and away from your cunt. This particular evening, Aemond was battling a searing ache behind his scarred socket, allowing him to only hear bits and pieces of various war tactics they could deploy against the Blacks. If he had to hear Tyland Lannister bitch about the dwindling funds that come with the cost of war he was going to smash his head in until his pretty golden locks are stained red.

With delicate fingers, Aemond applies pressure to his brow, desperate for any amount of relief.

His savior came in the unlikely form of his brother, the rightful King Aegon II.

“This meeting is adjourned, for fuck’s sake my cups have run dry and I’m in need of a whore.” Aemond rolled his eye at his brother’s vulgarity, but was thankful none-the-less. The only thing he wanted was to crawl into his feather bed and feel his little wife’s warmth, but alas, only he could be so unlucky. The ending of this meeting only means that he has to return to his study and attend to more sensitive matters of the Crown, but he was one step closer to being with his wife.

The fire flickering in the hearth cast long shadows in his study, where he sat behind a large desk made of darkened wood. Countless letters adorned with ornate wax seals littered and ink stained his pale fingers as he continued a correspondence with whatever small house that needed placating, the throbbing in his temples only increasing tenfold.

Sleep seemed to evade you with the absence of your husband, the empty bed next to you growing cold from his desertion. The chill from the flagstones caused you to jolt as you stood up from your bed. You plucked your dark blue silken robe from the plush settee and pulled it onto your frame, tying it at the waist. Determined to catch at least a glimpse of your husband, you opened the heavy oaken door of your chamber and began your search.

The Small Council chamber and library were both empty. Your heart sank a little in disappointment when the thought of giving up crossed your mind.

That was until you spied a glowing light coming from beneath the door to his study. Giddiness tickled the inside of your chest as you entered through the portal and found your dearest Aemond seated behind his unkempt desk.

His eyepatch lay discarded amongst the piles of parchments and his long, elegant hair tussled from his growing frustration, yet he remained just as beautiful as ever. The site nearly steals the breath from your chest.

He did not look up, seemingly deep in thought.

“Husband? Are you nearly finished? I haven’t seen you since we broke our fast and I miss you dearly.” He looked up at the sound of his little wife and sighed heavily before shaking his head tiredly. “Perhaps you would benefit from a bit of rest?”

The inquiry was innocent enough, but Aemond could no longer bite his tongue as the last bit of his withering patience was fractured. He stood suddenly, looking down at you grasped your jaw in a firm grip, not enough to hurt, but enough to startle you.

“Listen to me, Y/N,” he sneered, “unlike you, I have more responsibilities than just being a broodmare, so I would greatly appreciate it if you refrained from parading yourself around like a common whore and return to my chambers.”

The cruelty he tried so hard to protect you from spilled from his lips so easily. Your eyes watered as you gasped at his words.

“You do not mean that, my love” you whimpered, tears cascading down your cheeks. You gently wrapped your fingers around his wrist, urging him to release you.

He only pulled you closer so he could growl into your ear, “do you wish to tempt the entirety of the Keep, hm? Should I allow every knight to have their turn with you? Would that sate your desires, wife?” His words dripped with a venom he had never used with you before.

You felt your heart crack painfully as you looked up at him with wide doe-like eyes that shined with unshed tears.

The sight of your anguish seemed to pull him out of the rage that had blinded him so and he released you suddenly. Guilt swarmed his veins and he felt sick that he had been the cause of your pain.

You scrambled away from him, holding a hand over your lips to stifle your cries.

Aemond wished for Vhagar to devour him where he stood. Tears of frustration burned his eye.

You stumbled through the halls, blindly searching for your chambers.

Once in the safety of your room, you collapsed on the settee, sobs wracking your body.

Your chambers were cold and lonely when you were finally lulled into a dreamless sleep.

You sent your handmaids away after they dressed you in a scarlet gown the next morning. You didn’t have to stomach to break your fast as the words from last night seared themselves into your memory. The ache that bloomed behind your breast had yet to subside. Your eyes were red and tender to the touch.

The words from your favorite tome seemed to melt together and you sighed before placing it at your side, content with just watching the flames dance against the stone hearth.

The heavy door to your chamber creaked open. Annoyance ebbed inside you.

“I already told you I do not wish to break my fast,” turning around you were met Aemond looming in the doorway. His eye was wide and shimmered with emotion.

No words were said as he approached cautiously, as if afraid of your wrath.

You only looked down at your hands, which were nervously twisting in your lap.

The proud Dragon Prince of the Seven Kingdoms fell to his knees, resting his head against your thighs. You couldn’t help but tremble in his presence, whether from fear that he would lash out again or from the desire you still had for him.

His warm hands enveloped yours as he pressed delicate kisses to your fingers, the tenderness causing your chest throb in sadness.

After a moment, he lifted his head and met your watery gaze with his own. Slowly, his fingers slipped around your ankle before gently wandering up your calf, lifting the ornate hem of your dress in the process.

Your breath caught in your throat as he reached your knee. You placed your hand on his suddenly, intending to stop him from advancing, but you helplessly felt yourself guide him closer to where you needed him.

Once your thighs were adequately exposed, he pressed spongy kisses to the soft flesh. You could feel the heat of arousal weigh heavily in your lower belly, your breathing coming out as soft pants.

Aemond intently watched your face contort in need as his kisses and suckling traveled towards your slickened cunt.

His leather-clad arms circled around your hips and pulled you closer towards to edge.

He licked a fat stripe against your dripping cunt and you gasped, fingers weaving through his silver locks.

Aemond moaned at your sweet taste, the vibration nearly overwhelming your little pearl. His tongue was soft against you, almost gentle as he continued to devour you.

Your arousal leaked onto the cushions below you as your mouth fell open, his lips circled tightly over your pearl, suckling gently.

Two slender fingers prodded against your drenched hole before fulling sliding in. The feeling of being stuffed with Aemond’s fingers nearly sent you over the edge. His fingers stroked your walls in search of the rough patch that made you see stars.

You moaned and clenched around him as he massaged the spot in a come hither movement. You couldn’t help but grind your hips, hurdling towards your peak at an unrelenting pace. Sweat beaded at your hairline and your eyes nearly rolled back into your head at the intense pleasure only Aemond could give you.

His eye was still trained on you in awe, as if you were a goddess and he a devout follower. In a sense it was true. He would worship the ground you walked on had you commanded him to.

“Cum against my lips, little wife, let me taste you.” His voice was husky with lust and you whined as he sped up the thrusting of his fingers. Aemond’s chin shined from your arousal.

The sight of him desperately lapping against your cunt sent you over the edge, waves of pleasure rolling through you as you screamed his name.

Your vision returned as your peak began to subside, your panting slowing down. You sagged against the cushions, feeling boneless.

“Give me one more, my love,” Aemond pleaded before prodding at your pearly with the tip of his tongue.

You writhed against him, completely overstimulated.

“I-I can’t…” you whined, “ ‘s too much.”

His violet eye darkened, your pleas only spurring him on as dove back in to devour your cunt. Your moans only grew louder as you tried to push his head away, the overwhelming sensation bringing tears to your eyes.

For a moment he allowed to you catch your breath as he spoke.

“I’m going to lick your cunt until you forget the insults I cast against you in my anger. I need you to see how I wish to worship you”, he pressed a kiss against your fluttering cunt, causing you to jolt.

“My sweet wife, you did not deserve my wrath.”

He planted another kiss against your pearl.

“I kneel before you and beg your forgiveness.”

A harsh suck caused you to yelp.

His words touched you. Your gentle, sweet Aemond had returned.

He kitten-licked your pearl unit you felt the familiar coil tighten in your belly, your second peak rapidly approaching. You moaned and wept at the sensations of his lips against you, lust clouding your thoughts.

Your second peak nearly fractured your mind as white-hot bliss buzzed through your entire being, the only thing tethering you to reality was your grip on Aemond’s hair.

Aemond watched his beautiful little wife in fascination as your peak subsided.

Silence enveloped the room once more as you attempted to recover from your husband’s groveling.

Finally, clarity reached you and you were able to consider his words. While you were deep in thought, Aemond smoothed down your dress, but remained kneeling in front of you.

“I cannot find it within myself to forget the vile words you said to me. You hurt me greatly.”

Aemond’s eye widened, but he understood.

“I just need time. I love you deeply and I appreciate your apologies thus far,” you couldn’t help but smirk at your last words. Amusement sparkled in Aemond’s eye.

“Allow me to apologize once more, little wife,” his words were coated in lust. He stood and took your hand gently, before leading you to your shared bed.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen imagine #hotd fanfic #aemond x fem!reader #hotd imagine #hotd #smut

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beautifulplaceofyouth · 5 months

Text

JJK FF/ROYAL GUARD

CHAPTER TEN | SERIES

Ch. 1

Ch. 2

Ch. 3

Ch. 4

Ch. 5

Ch. 6

Ch. 7

Ch. 8

Ch. 9

Ch. 10

When you keep bumping into your personal royal guard by accident not knowing he is your guardian angel

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook!fallen angel!royal guard! × fem!reader!virgin!princess

Word count: 2.1k

Rating: 15+

Genre + warnings: Fluff, paranormal romance, historical fanfiction, Kook being cold and mysterious, being his sexy self. Caring and possessive!jk! Really horny towards his princess, being a big seductive tease. Dead bodies - corpses and much blood. JK kills everyone who dares to hurt his princess. MAKES PROMISES TO BE SAFE. The story isn’t real, just my imagination running wild so just enjoy reading!

a/n: Finally a small update, guys! I will stop making excuses and will hope you will not kill me for vanishing like every time I promise coming back sooner but still...yeah. I hope you forgive me.

You were standing by the large window.

The castle’s walls seemed to surround you.

The windows let out on a long stretch of fields leading to the border of the woods.

Since your fallen angel left, it has been three hours since Jungkook disappeared. Three more hours without food; three hours without hearing news or seeing anyone besides the servants running around like little heads in a tornado.

It made you restless.

Your legs started moving before your mind did. The white dress was fluttering behind you while you walked through the corridor.

It’s been three hours.

Three more hours and no updates. Your thoughts were racing and your stomach was growling. But there was nothing you could do, nothing you can say, until Jungkook returns.

As you turned the corner into the hall where the servants and guards resided, you stopped suddenly. Something was wrong.

You frowned.

As you neared the palace exit, a witch-maid stopped you before you can leave further.

“I’m sorry, my queen but the king didn’t allowed you to leave the castle for safety reasons. We still are under attack,” the female servant said apologetically. “Please return to your chambers.”

She tried to take your hands, which you quickly pushed away.

What were they thinking?

That Jungkook would come back in less than ten minutes?

No. Jungkook wouldn’t. Not now.

He is probably dead. Killed by vampires, maybe. Maybe captured in battle and taken prisoner. What if he got hurt?

No. He’d never let a vampire touch him unless…unless…

You ran outside and searched in every part of the grounds. No sign of him anywhere.

Then why the hell haven’t you heard anything yet?!

‘I’m not letting any vampire near my guard,’ you thought fiercely. ‘And if they do get near my angel, I swear to God...’

Looking up, the sun is barely visible. A thin veil of clouds covering half the sky, dark grey.

There was no sign of any vampire in sight.

Where the heck is everyone if there is attack?!

Tears welled in your eyes as you sat down on the ground and leaned your back against the stone wall of the castle’s exterior. There was a small pond a few meters to your side, a beautiful blue lake reflecting the sky above it. The moon was hidden behind the clouds, casting an eery orange light over everything in the vicinity.

Your heart was beating fast, threatening to burst through your ribcage. Tears stinging your eyelids, you felt your cheeks getting wet.

You wiped your tears off angrily. You are being foolish.

Jungkook wouldn't be dead. He can fight for himself but he knows how much you love him and if something happened to him…

Oh god, please don't let something happen to him. He’s strong but he's too young to die. Please God, let him be okay. Let him survive.

Jungkook’s POV

The sun was setting when Jungkook flew over the woods of his territory with his sword in hand, prepared to defend his home.

As he descended closer, he noticed many vampires fighting against the guards on the other end of the forest clearing.

With the sharp edge of his sword ready to strike, he landed heavily between several vampires, sending them flying to different parts of the field.

His presence was enough to scare most of them away, leaving two vampires with their backs turned towards him who weren’t afraid of him whatsoever.

Without hesitation Jungkook lunged forward with his sword and stabbed one of the vampires in the back with all his force.

His opponent fell, unconscious and bleeding, but still alive.

Jungkook ignored him as he jumped to the other vampire, slashing his blade across his throat before landing behind the first one again to stab him in the back.

Two vampires had surrounded Jungkook.

One with blonde hair, the other with red. They charged at him simultaneously.

Jungkook dodged each of them with ease.

Suddenly, the blood lust filled air vanished.

A cold, piercing sound echoed through the forest.

In a matter of seconds, the second vampire was dead. His eyes staring wide open as if asking for help and pain. The red head also fell lifelessly onto the ground.

Blood flowing from his neck, he didn’t have a chance to scream.

Slicing remaining vampires in half, the blood was the only thing left on him when he finally finished. Seeing his guards dead, he could only watch them fall and the bodies turn pale and gray, their skin wrinkling and turning into dust.

The other vampires that were still around looked at him with horror and shock.

They wanted to run. They wanted to kill him.

But they couldn’t move, not a single muscle in their bodies dared to move; not even their hearts.

“You’ve been warned,” he snarled,” Attack what’s mine again, you will be taken as my trophies for all eternity."

The vampires began fleeing after that, screaming in fear and terror.

Jungkook took out the swords he used in the fight, sheathing them neatly once again, before turning to look around.

Death’s scent was everywhere. Blood was smeared everywhere, along with some pieces of flesh scattered throughout the area.

The bodies of his guards lay sprawled all over the ground. Their faces twisted and bloody, covered in dirt.

Jungkook closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath.

Now since the danger was gone, the only thought on his mind was you.

When he opened his eyes, he could already see you.

You were walking out of the forest, your face pale and frightened.

He didn’t need to look at you to know that the blood from these deaths must have affected you greatly. As if sensing him, your eyes met his, a look of complete devastation and sorrow filling their depths.

“Jungkook,” you whispered in fear, looking around the field as though searching for enemy still lurking by but there was no one left alive except for the king himself.

His jaw clenched when he spotted you, knowing you have disobeyed his order for you to stay at the castle. His guards haven’t stopped you from leaving and now you’re here, in the middle of the battlefield which is no place for someone like you.

Looking like an angel in a white dress, Jungkook looked ready to kill again when you slowly approached him.

The wind was playing with his raven hair, dancing through his bangs and causing small droplets of sweat to roll down his body.

He looked like a predator waiting for its prey to come close and bite it.

Your gaze flickered between the corpses laid on the ground, their eyes frozen in fear and pain.

Y/n POV

Seeing your angel in the middle of that made you realize how strong he really is.

The blood was on his armor and even his face scarf. His eyes were the only thing holding you steady as you dared to walk forward.

His chest was rising up and down.

“What are you doing here, princess?” he asked harshly, making your body shiver.

You looked down at the ground, ashamed of yourself.

Why were you so careless? You shouldn’t be here! It’s dangerous. Too dangerous to be out here alone!

How long have you been standing here? Did you hear the screams of vampires earlier? Did you hear them running away?

Did you hear them dying? Did you understand what was happening?

Your hands trembled as you looked at the bodies laying on the floor; lifeless.

“Answer me.”

He didn’t wait for a response, he grabbed your chin roughly, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“Princess. Why are you here? Answer me.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your heart thumping painfully inside your chest.

After a moment, you answered in a weak voice, “I just wanted to go for a little walk. I lost track of time and ended up here.”

His grip on your chin tightened and his lips curved in anger.

“You’re such a liar, love.”

Before you know, he kneels in front of you. Putting his sword on the ground, he takes your hands in his.

“You shouldn’t be here. What you did was dangerous. How can I protect you when you don’t listen to me? You would have been captured on the way here, possibly killed by those bloodsucking monsters!”

“I’m sorry Jungkook. But I just wanted to make sure no one hurt you. I know you can defend yourself just fine but…”

“It doesn’t stop you from worrying. And I appreciate it very much, but you don’t have to do this. I am stronger than these creatures.”

“But you don’t always have to be. You’ll get attacked by them sooner or later, you know. You won't be able to take them down with a sword on your own. Sooner or later, they'll find you.”

“No they won’t. This forest is protected by powerful magic. My kingdom is safe as long I’m here.” He explained, trying to reassure you.

“But not enough to attack this place?” You inquired quietly.

“Someone tipped me off. That’s why they got inside. No one without my magic permission can go through the barrier of this land. Its separates the human world.”

“So they can still be out there and continue to attack,” you said bitterly.

“That’s why I must kill them all.” Jungkook declared, determination in his voice.

Tears welled up in your eyes, threatening to escape and fall down your cheeks at any moment.

You quickly wiped away any evidence of your weakness before looking into his eyes with a determined look of your own.

Before you can chicken out, you step closer to him when he is back to standing position. His eyes darken when he notices the movement, his nostrils flaring when your scent washes over with the death smell all over the field.

It was like a flower has bloomed in the middle of the grave, filling his whole being with the sweet fragrance of your happiness and life.

You stood on your tiptoes while he stood on his, looking at him intently in the eyes.

His gaze never wavers. Neither does yours.

Neither of you breaks eye contact until finally you pull him towards you, hooking one finger underneath his mask, playing with the seam of the fabric slowly.

“What are you doing, darling?” His voice is husky, full of desire for you even it was wrong in that moment.

How can you touch him like this after he has slaughtered every vampire? He had blood on his hands and corpses still laid all around you so how come you’re not afraid to touch him?

“Making sure you’re not hurt,” you whisper, lifting his mask to reveal a strong jawline who can cut steel and lips that look tempting yet deadly.

He stares back at you, the intensity in his eyes making you want to drown in his eyes forever. He grabs your waist, pulling you against him tightly, his hand caressing your lower back, the heat of his palm seeping through the thin cloth of your dress.

“You’re making this harder for me, princess. You can’t stay here longer. It’s dangerous,” he says softly, leaning closer to you, his hot breath fanning your cold skin as he whispers.

"I don’t care.” You say, closing the gap between your lips and pressing them softly onto his.

At first, he tried to push you away.

But the minute you parted your lips to deepen the kiss, he gave up.

As your tongue ran along his bottom lip, tasting each other, you wrapped your arms around his neck while he gripped both sides of your waist.

He lifted you easily in his arm and you placed your legs around his hips, holding on tightly when you felt yourself getting dizzy and lightheaded.

Lifting up into the sky, you almost scream when you realize that he has intended to fly you back to the castle. His wings even through the mist shine with the specks of light that peeked from the clouds.

Not daring to look down because of your fear of heights, some minutes later you brace yourself for landing when he flaps his wings to stop his speed abruptly, causing you to cling onto him like a koala.

When he puts you down gently on your feet, you let out a soft sigh of relief.

Jungkook pulled you in his arms, cradling you close and soothing you as best he could.

“I’m sorry, baby. Didn’t want to startle you like that. I just can’t imagine you walking through that mess. It must have been terrifying.” He whispered tenderly, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

You leaned into his touch, melting at the sound of his deep, rumbling voice calling you baby in that loving way of his, feeling warmth blossom inside your chest.

Feeling safe. Protected.

“You need to stay indoors while I go back to finish the job. Someone still can be lurking in the shadows and watching us so we have to take precautions,” he says sternly, grabbing the hilt of his sword and taking a few steps backward as he looked behind him.

“Come back to me safe, please.” You pleaded.

He sighed as he turned around, walking towards you again.

He reached out to caress your cheek once more before giving you a soft smile.

“I promise you.”

You nodded as he took off with a flap of his wings. The air surrounding him seemed to shimmer with an ethereal glow, the wind caressing his skin like a lover as his figure disappears among the thick mist in the distance.

p.s. All images and gifs are not mine, some of the edits are mine edited but not every picture. All the credit goes to their rightful owners

DO NOT REPOST THIS WORK AS YOUR OWN BECAUSE THIS IS THE ORIGINAL OWNER’S STORY

If you like, please reblog or like the post so I can post the next chapters :)

#bts #jungkook #jeon jungkook #royal guard #virgin princess #Princess Royal #fallen angel #paranormal romance #bangtan boys #jungkook fanfic #bts fanfction #historical romantic fiction #bts fluff

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bits-and-babs · 1 year

Text

✰ 𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐙𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐒 - 𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐍 ‘𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓’ 𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐘

↳ summary: prompt: “This is just a hookup." "I know." — Fed up of your antics, Simon gives you a time and place.

↳ pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x f!Reader (Delta)

↳ [1k] content: 18+ MDNI. reference to interrogation/violence/torture, sensory deprivation (pitch black), power imbalance, references to masturbation and voyeurism, finger sucking, gagging, against a wall, p in v sex, unprotecte- i know, I’ve got issues.

ghost masterlist I| main masterlist |I join taglist

Skittering chills crawl up your vertebrae as you wait impatiently. The shipping container previously used as an interrogation chamber didn’t make for the cosiest spot, but Ghost hadn’t left much room for argument when he’d informed you of the rendezvous point.

“Container 12, 11 pm.”

He’d delivered it with authority, that barking order that rang out over the coms when bullets whizzed by your ears. Who were you to deny Lieutenant Simon Riley? Refusal equated to insubordination— you couldn’t have him thinking you’re undisciplined.

Casting your eyes over the inside of the container, you grind your teeth together. Dried, rusty-coloured flakes of blood peel from the metal ridges of the walls, and a chair lies discarded on its side in the corner. Standing here alone is unnerving, though you’d never admit it. Perhaps that’s what Simon had in mind- a test of endurance. He was late for the meeting by around five minutes; surely there was no other explanation?

It’s only as you begin to settle into reluctant resignation that the creaking door of the container screeches, pushed forward. You’re, admittedly, relieved to see him. Golden flood-lamp light spills across the floor, haloing Simon’s hulking frame before he shoves the door closed again.

“Lieutenant,” you address him by rank, squinting in the darkness but keeping your voice as steady as you can muster. It’s pitch black, but you’re almost convinced you can see his ghoulish mask sneering at you in the darkness. “You’re late-“

“You’re early,” his gruff voice cuts through the blackness. It sounds odd, the bluntness of the Mancunian accent bouncing off your eardrums. He also appears closer than you realised, his voice abnormally loud for the distance you assumed lay between you.

They were right; he really did move like a spectre.

“You needed me, Sir?” You query, but the words seem to shrivel and die in your throat when a gloved palm settles across your chin, tilting your head up.

“Don’t think so,” he answers, his warm breath fanning over your face. There’s amusement flirting with his tone— only slight, but with your senses on overdrive, it rings in your ears like he’s set off a gun beside your temple. “Think you need me.”

Heat burns beneath your skin, but you grit your teeth and steel yourself against the shock of Simon fucking Riley making such an astute observation.

“Sir?”

“Don’t play coy,” his tone is flat, words slightly muffled as though he had something in his mouth, “Think I don’t hear you? Always moanin’ my name when I’m on watch.”

He’s walking you backwards, stopping his advancement only when your back hits the cold metal of the wall.

You don’t have a chance to dispute his damning point, his naked fingers pushing past the plush of your lips and pressing against your tongue. It’s as though your body falls in line immediately, following his silent orders like a good little soldier. You trace his fingertips with the tip of your tongue, sucking on the length of them as he hums.

“Always raisin’ your voice, hopin’ I’ll hear you. You want me to join you? That it?” He asks, his monotonous accent pooling deep in your abdomen as he continues to call you out for your reckless behaviour. Any of 141 could have overheard.

You open your mouth to speak around his digits, but Simon preempts your pathetic attempt to make an excuse. He pushes his fingers in until his knuckles brush your lips, halfway down your throat. You gag around the intrusion, hand grasping at the bulletproof vest Ghost still wore after returning from his latest mission.

“Fuckin’ dirty girl,” he groans over the filthy sound of your chokes. You can hear the clinking metal of a belt in the darkness, the rustle of khaki fabric and the rip of a zipper. “If I give you what you want, are you gonna stop those pathetic little whines?”

God, it’s ridiculous. You practically trip over yourself to nod the affirmative to his question. Muffled swears rumble in Simon’s chest, intelligible despite the close proximity. You’re already scrambling to pull down your cargos; embarrassment soothed only by the blackness that swallows and shrouds you both.

Ghost grunts softly, pulling his saliva-soaked digits from your mouth. The disappointment of feeling empty doesn’t last very long, his drenched fingers brushing over your pussy lips and plunging deep inside you without warning.

“Fuck,” he practically spits at the squelching sound of your cunt swallowing his fingers. You gasp loudly as he curls them back, brushing against your walls and coaxing a sensitive spot that ripples bliss through your core. “This— This is just a hookup.”

You nod over and over, probably looking like those stupid Churchill-Dog bobbleheads he’d see in taxis at home, babbling the same words over and over as he teases that mind-melting spot inside you that has your thighs trembling; “I know, I know, IknowIknowIkno-“

You feel it before you hear it, the huff of breath before the rumbling growl of dying resolve. A large, bruising hand grabs your thigh and hoists it over Ghosts’ hip. The position settles for only a moment, your tight, orgasm-teased muscles just creaking at the sudden change before Simon’s cock sinks into your dripping core.

The wail of bliss ricochets off the metal walls of the cargo container. Ghost is quick to press his naked palm to your mouth, suppressing your pathetic little mewls as he inches inside of you. You can hear his haggard breaths, can feel the ebb and flow of his exhales as he presses his masked forehead against your own.

“Hoh- Fuck-“ Simon groans out, only slightly rocking into you once he settles balls deep. It’s barely there, but the gentle thrusts have you clawing at his sleeves. Your eyes roll back, his pubic bone grinding just right against your needy clit.

“This is just a hookup-“ Simon insists through gritted teeth, but as a shaky moan falls from his mouth when he begins to thrust into your tight, wet heat forcefully, you start to wonder if he’s attempting to convince you of himself.

You realise he’s losing that battle when he spills inside you with a gasp of your name, quickly followed by an almost desperate ‘just one more-‘

join the taglist here:

@mortallyuniquepeach @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @crybaby-blue-blog1 @heart-atttack @pansa-1-san @maviee @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @gummyfang @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction

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will80sbyers · 5 months

Note

Do you still have the list of movies that inspired ST4? I had a picture of it but I lost it and I haven't been able to find it since. Please and thank you in advance.

Yep!

Long post warning lol

300

2001: A Space Odyssey

47 Meters Down: Uncaged

12 Monkeys

28 Days Later

13th Warrior

Ace Ventura: Pet Detective

Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls

Altered States

Amelie

American Sniper

Analyze This

Annihilation

Aristocats

Armageddon

Assassins Creed

Avengers: Age of Ultron

Arrival

Almost Famous

Batman Begins

Batman V. Superman

Basket Case

Battle at Big Rock

Beauty and the Beast

Beetlejuice

Behind Enemy Lines

Beverly Hills Cop

Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey

Billy Madison

Black Cauldron

Black Swan

Boondock Saints

Borat

Bram Stoker’s Dracula

Burn After Reading

Broken Arrow

Blade Runner

C.H.U.D

Con Air

Cast Away

Congo

Constantine

Children of Men

Cabin in the Woods

Crank

Casablanca

Carrie

Crimson Tide

Clueless

Dukes of Hazzard

Don’t Breathe

Death to Smoochy

Doom

Dark Knight

Dogma

Deep Blue Sea

Dreamcatcher

Drop Dead Fred

Die Hard

Die Hard 2

Die Hard 3

Don’s Plum

Dances with Wolves

Dumb and Dumber

Edward Scissorhands

Enter the Void

Ex Machina

Event Horizon

Emma (2020)

Forrest Gump

Fargo

Fisher King

Full Metal Jacket

Ferris Bueller

Fallen

Fugitive

Ghost

Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Ghostbusters

Good Fellas

Girl Interrupted

Godzilla: King of the Monsters

Get Out

Good Will Hunting

Hackers

High Fidelity

Hellraiser 1

Hellraiser 2

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

Hidden

High School Musical

Hurt Locker

Heat

Hunger Games

Highlander

Hell or High Water

Home Alone

I am Legend

It’s a Wonderful Life

In Cold Blood

Inception

I am a Fugitive from Chain Gang

Inside Out

Island of Doctor Moreau

It Follows

Interview with a Vampire

Inner Space

Into the Spiderverse

Independence Day

Jupiter Ascending

John Carter of Mars

Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom

James Bond (All Movies)

Julie

Karate Kid

Knives Out

Kingsmen

Little Miss Sunshine

Labyrinth

Long Kiss Goodnight

Lost Boys

Leon: The Professional

Let the Right One In

Little Women (1994)

Mad Max: Fury Road

Magnolia

Men in Black

Mimic

Matrix

Misery

My Cousin Vinny

Mystic River

Minority Report

Mr. and Mrs. Smith

Neverending Story

Never Been Kissed

No Country for Old Men

Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors

North by Northwest

Open Water

Orange County

Oceans 8

Oceans 11

Oceans 12

One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest

Ordinary People

Paddington 2

Platoon

Pulp Fiction

Papillon

Pan’s Labyrinth

Pineapple Express

Peter Pan

Princess Bride

Paradise Lost

Primal Fear

Prisoners

Peter Jackson’s King Kong

Reservoir Dogs

Ravenous

Rushmore

Road Warrior

Rogue One

Reality Bites

Raider of the Lost Ark

Red Dragon

Robocop

Shooter

Sky High

Swingers

Sword in the Stone

Step Up 2

Spy Kids

Saving Private Ryan

Shape of Water

Swept Away

Star Wars: Return of the Jedi

Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back

Superbad

Society

Swordfish

Stoker

Splice

Silence of the Lambs

Source Code

Sicario

Se7en

Starship Troopers

Scrooged

Splash

Silver Bullet

Speed

The Visit

The Italian Job

The Mask of Zorro

True Lies

The Blair Witch Project

The Lord of the Rings Trilogy

Tangled

The Craft

The Guest

The Devil’s Advocate

The Graduate

The Prestige

The Rock

Titanic

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

The Fly

Tombstone

The Mummy

The Guardian

The Goofy Movie

The Peanut Butter Solution

Toy Story 4

The Ring

The Crazies

The Mist

The Revenant

The Perfect Storm

The Shining

Terminator 2

The Truman Show

Temple of Doom

The Cell

To Kill a Mockingbird

Timeline

The Good Son

The Orphan

The Birdcage

The Green Mile

The Raid

The Cider House Rules

The Lighthouse

The Book of Henry

The A-Team

The Crow

The Terminal

Thor Ragnarok

Twister

The Descent

The Birds

Total Recall

The Natural

The Fifth Element

True Romance

Terminator: Dark Fate

The Hobbit Trilogy

Unforgiven

Unbreakable

Unleashed

Very Bad Things

Wayne’s World

What Women Want

War Dogs

Wedding Crashers

What’s Eating Gilbert Grape

Welcome to the Dollhouse

Welcome to Marwen

Wet Hot American Summer

What Lies Beneath

What Dreams May Come

War Games

Who Framed Roger Rabbit

Weird Science

Willow

Wizard of Oz

Wanted

Young Sherlock Holmes

You’ve Got Mail

Zodiac

Zoolander

#stranger things #ask #st4 #st4 movies

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elysiaheaven · 22 hours

Text

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂-𝟮𝟯-(The Fox's Wedding)

For this grudge of mine is stronger than anyone else's

You defilled me so my hatred shall last for eternity

That doll that dolli refuse to grant forgiveness

All i feel is endless hatredAll I feel is endless hatred

Every time I see your face, I can't help but break into a grin

Hurry up and die already hurry up and die

Hoolay

There's a new character that I created myself he is known as Hoolay's brother for the sake of the story

Words:2167

Mentions of gorey description.., Mental breakdown.

Hoolay's massive form loomed over you as you lay curled up on the floor. The flickering light from the lanterns cast eerie shadows on his twisted face, amplifying his malevolent grin. His voice, cold and mocking, cut through the chaos around you.

"Look at you," Hoolay sneered, his gaze full of contempt. "How pathetic you've become. With all the hate you've amassed, it seems people actually believed the storyline I crafted for you. Their goddess, they called you. But tell me, how did that story end? What did the goddess actually do?"

His words were like daggers, and your heart pounded with fear and anguish. You tried to shrink away, but Hoolay's imposing presence was inescapable. "Get away from me!" you screamed, your voice hoarse with terror.

Ignoring your plea, Hoolay's hand closed around a small, tattered doll that resembled you. His eyes glinted with cruel amusement as he began to crush it with force. The doll's fabric ripped and tore, each sound of its destruction magnifying your despair.

"No! Stop it!" you cried out, your voice breaking as you reached out, trying to protect the doll.

Hoolay's gaze remained locked on you, unyielding. "I'll kill you the same way you killed my brother," he said with cold finality. "To protect those people in the village. That's what you did, isn't it? You took away everything that was dear to me. And now, it's your turn to suffer."

Jiaoqiu's voice cut through the din of chaos, his tone heavy with confusion and concern. "What is he talking about? What's this about killing his brother?"

Hoolay's laughter echoed through the prison, a sound brimming with both derision and malice. "You still don't get it, do you? This pathetic piece of humanity," he gestured toward you with a sneer, "killed my brother to save the village. The story you've been fed is a lie."

Jiaoqiu's eyes narrowed, his mind racing to piece together the disconcerting revelations. "And what about the god Eiji? The one said to have protected the village?"

Hoolay's cruel laughter intensified as he turned his gaze towards Jiaoqiu. "Ah, Eiji. How amusing. In the tale I crafted, the roles were reversed. Eiji was never the protector. No, he was the true betrayer. It was this human," he pointed at you with a mocking smile, "who saved the village."

Jiaoqiu's face shifted from confusion to a grim realization. His eyes darted between you and Hoolay, struggling to comprehend the twisted truth unveiled before him. The implications of Hoolay's words were staggering, and the revelation hit hard—everything they had believed, everything they had been told, was a distorted fabrication.

Hoolay's voice thundered through the chamber, filled with menacing authority. "Move! Walk toward me, or I'll kill both of you right here and now!"

Jiaoqiu's eyes flickered with a mix of anger and concern as he assessed the dire situation. He saw you trembling, caught in the throes of fear and despair. Your shaking form and pained expression struck him deeply, and he knew he had to act swiftly.

With a decisive step, Jiaoqiu approached you, his face set in a determined, yet gentle expression. He reached out and placed his hands on your waist, pulling you closer to him. His grip was firm but reassuring, a silent promise of protection amidst the chaos.

"Hold on," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm here."

Gently, he guided you to lay your head on his shoulder. You complied, closing your eyes and allowing the comfort of his presence to wash over you.

The Shackling Prison had become a chaotic battleground, the clash of steel and cries of pain echoing through the grim halls. The prison guards fought valiantly but fell one by one, unable to withstand the onslaught.

Hoolay's voice roared with dark exhilaration, reverberating through the prison. "A-Rraaa... This brings back such familiar memories! Memories of chasing, gnawing, and tearing... They're back, they're back! They've all come back!"

Mok Tok, ever the schemer, addressed Hoolay with a tone of barely concealed eagerness. "My Lord, we're just one step away from freedom. Once we pass through the gate, no one will be able to stop us."

Hoolay's gaze shifted to you and Jiaoqiu, his cruel grin widening. "So, this hostage is useless now? Kill him, Mok Tok."

Jiaoqiu's eyes burned with determination, despite the overwhelming dread. *He's getting away... Do something, Jiaoqiu... It's just like the old days, you useless loser... Just do something...*

Mok Tok considered the offer, his voice laced with opportunism. "Perhaps this Yaoqing messenger can strike a deal in exchange for his life. He can use his status to help us escape from the Xianzhou. What do you think, Mr. Jiaoqiu?"

Hoolay laughed, the sound echoing with disdain. "Just look at you! Fallen so low during my absence! You're even negotiating with livestock? As far as I recall, no one from the Yaoqing would ever consider a deal with Duran's offspring."

Jiaoqiu, caught between hope and desperation, sought a way to stall Hoolay. *I've got to... make this beast stay here... whether it's for the sake of Feixiao or the Yaoqing...*

"Deal," Jiaoqiu said, forcing himself to sound confident. "I certainly have more value alive... My identity, my knowledge of the Xianzhou, and my understanding of many things that your minions have no knowledge of... They'll all be valuable."

Hoolay's eyes narrowed as he regarded Jiaoqiu. "Lowly beast, muster up that pitiful tongue of yours and plead for what remains of your life. Speak up."

Jiaoqiu took a deep breath, the weight of the situation heavy on his shoulders. "I'm afraid you're unaware, the woman who defeated you, Jingliu... She has recently returned to the Luofu."

Hoolay paused, the name striking a chord. "..."

Mok Tok, eager to move forward, protested. "My Lord! This slave is talking nonsense. I've never heard anything about this! May I just kill him now?"

Hoolay's gaze shifted back to Mok Tok, his tone icy. "Silence, Mok Tok! And you, slave... From now on, you'll stay by my side. You'll only speak and move when I allow you to. Otherwise, I'll dismember you, from head to tail, inch by inch. Got it?"

Mok Tok hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "But my Lord..."

"We must stay here for some time, Mok Tok. Fear not, because once I step out of the prison, it's the people of the Xianzhou who should tremble in fear. I'll show them what true calamity means." Hoolay's voice was a dark promise.

With a fierce command, Hoolay turned to his followers. "Now, Duran's whelps! Follow me!"

As the Borisin Wolftroopers rallied to Hoolay's side, their howls filled the air. "Prison guards, stop them! For our great lord Hoolay!"

You, shaken and struggling to regain composure, watched as Hoolay approached. His gaze was predatory, eyes gleaming with cruel delight. He leaned in close, his voice a low, mocking whisper. "Ah, look at you, trembling like a cornered animal. So pathetic... The goddess they believed in... what a joke. Tell me, how was the story I wrote for you?"

The haunting words cut through you, sending shivers down your spine. "Get away!" you screamed, desperation bleeding through your voice.

Hoolay's laughter was a sinister echo as he pulled out the doll that resembled you, crushing it with a brutal grip. "You see this? This is what you've become—a broken thing. Just like this doll. And soon, you'll know the same fate I plan for you. I'll kill you the same way you killed my brother to protect those people in the village."

Hoolay's cruel laughter echoed through the chamber as he drew closer to you, the doll in his hand now a symbol of his contempt. His gaze fixed on Jiaoqiu, a smirk twisting his lips. "So, tell me, who is this man to you?" he taunted.

Your heart raced, the weight of Hoolay's gaze unbearable. You looked at Jiaoqiu, the façade of indifference cracking under the pressure. "No one," you said, your voice trembling. You forced a twisted laugh, trying to mask your fear. "He's no one to me."

Hoolay's eyes narrowed with satisfaction. "Mok Tok, end this farce. Kill him."

Mok Tok, caught between duty and hesitation, looked at you with a grim expression. As he raised his weapon, you dropped the pretense. Your voice broke into a desperate cry. "He's my husband! Please, stop! Don't hurt him!"

Tears streamed down your face as you fought against the overwhelming terror. "Stop! Stop!" you screamed, your voice raw with fear and desperation. You reached out toward Jiaoqiu, your heart breaking at the thought of him being harmed.

Jiaoqiu, his face a mask of anguish, tried to hold you close, offering comfort despite the chaos. But you pushed him away, your eyes filled with terror. "Go away! You'll die if you stay with me! I can't let you die because of me!"

You turned your pleading eyes back to Hoolay, desperation flooding your voice. "Kill me! But leave Jiaoqiu alone!"

Hoolay's grin widened, savoring your torment. "Come closer. I want you to see how your demise unfolds in front of him. I'll kill you just as you killed my brother—right in front of your precious husband."

The horror of the situation overwhelmed you as Hoolay's words cut deeper than any weapon. You clung to Jiaoqiu's memory of comfort, the fear of losing him unbearable. Your pleas became increasingly frantic, the fight for survival fading into a desperate hope that Hoolay might show mercy.

Jiaoqiu, trying to maintain his composure, gripped you tightly. "I won't leave you. Not now. We'll find a way out of this."

But your cries and Hoolay's chilling laughter filled the air, the reality of the situation sinking in. The chamber was a whirlwind of chaos and despair, the future uncertain as the clash of wills continued.

The cold, iron bars slammed shut, trapping you and Jiaoqiu in the dark, suffocating cell. The sound of the lock clicking into place sent a wave of dread crashing over you, and you screamed at Hoolay, your voice hoarse with desperation. "Leave him alone! Hoolay, leave Jiaoqiu alone, please!" You gripped the bars, your knuckles white, your body shaking uncontrollably as you watched the monster smirk, feeding off your terror.

Hoolay chuckled darkly, his eyes gleaming with malice as he held the cursed doll in his hand. "Whenever it walks... it will feel the shards of a thousand mirrors," he whispered to the doll. His words dripped with venom as his gaze shifted to you, his voice echoing in your mind. "That's you."

Suddenly, an unbearable pain shot through your feet as if you were stepping on shards of broken glass. You let out a blood-curdling scream and collapsed to the ground, clutching your feet. Every time you tried to stand, the sharp, searing sensation returned, as if the shards were embedded deep in your skin, cutting with every movement.

"Stop it! Stop it!" you cried, tears streaming down your face. You felt helpless, the agony overwhelming you. Jiaoqiu knelt beside you, his face filled with panic and sorrow. "I'm here, Y/N. Let me help you," he begged, trying to pull you into his arms.

But you screamed again, pushing him away, terrified that Hoolay would target him next. "No! Get away from me!" you wailed, your voice breaking. "If you come close, he'll kill you! Please, Jiaoqiu, just... stay away!"

Your hands shook as you pounded at the ground, the pain from the imagined glass unbearable. You sobbed, feeling as if your mind was unraveling, the darkness creeping further in with each passing moment. "You have to act like you hate me, Jiaoqiu," you whispered through choked sobs, your breath ragged. "Pretend... hate me... he won't hurt you if he thinks you hate me."

Jiaoqiu's face crumpled with anguish. He couldn't do it. He couldn't say those words, couldn't bear the thought of pretending to despise the one person he was desperate to protect. "I can't, Y/N," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I can't hate you. I won't lie like that. Please, stop this!"

You screamed in frustration, the pain, the fear, the guilt—everything crashing down on you at once. You began beating yourself, your fists slamming into your chest, your legs, anything to try and drown out the emotional torment with physical pain. "Stop! Stop it!" you cried, the sound of your own voice becoming unbearable.

Jiaoqiu grabbed your wrists, trying to stop you from hurting yourself further. "Y/N, please, don't do this! It's not your fault!" His voice cracked with desperation as he pulled you close despite your protests. You struggled against him, screaming, but he refused to let go, his grip strong but gentle.

"I won't let him win," he whispered fiercely. "I don't care what he does to me. I'm not leaving you."

#honkai star rail #hsr fanfic #honkai star rail fanfic #hsr jiaoqiu #jiaoqiu x reader #jiaoqiu hsr #jiaoqiu

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luxlightly · 9 months

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I Said To You in Your Blood, "Live!" - a Gabv1el fic (AO3 link in the reblogs)

“And when I passed by you and saw you wallowing in your blood, I said to you in your blood, ‘Live!’ I said to you in your blood, ‘Live!’" - Ezekiel 16:6

Gabriel dragged himself forward, slumped against a wall of Hell, wings drooped and dragging on the floor behind him.

Of course he'd returned. Where else could he have gone?

Where else do angels go when they fall? To die?

And he was dying. It was a strange and impossible seeming notion. Something he would have laughed at the very idea of just a few days ago. How could you kill the Hand of God? Ridiculous.

As ridiculous as that Hand being bested by a mere machine, built by mortal hands for profane purposes.

Crude, merciless…

Beautiful.

He'd grown so used to the beauty of Heaven. Clean, pristine, and perfect. A cold, calculated beauty of carved marble, precise and willful. Flawless and impersonal as the Father himself.

How could a machine, dripping with blood and gore, built of an unholy mix of flesh and steel, with frantic, desperate movements and torn, jagged edges have, at first meeting, been anything but hideous to him? Repulsive in all ways?

And so how could their fight, and his defeat, have felt anything other than violating? Something that stained him, made him imperfect and unworthy of the Light that was stripped from him?

And so it had. So he had been at war with himself. Had felt corrupted, defiled. Impure. So he had begun their second fight with hate and desperation to cleanse himself of the stain of their first.

Then something changed.

Imprecise movements no longer felt imperfect. They became natural.

Organic.

Alive.

Life is frantic. Is desperate and uncalculated. Is imperfect and unpredictable.

His fights for Heaven were about death. About punishment. One sided executions and exterminations.

Fighting with the machine was about life. The fight itself had felt alive.

And Gabriel…Gabriel had felt Alive.

More than he'd ever remembered feeling. He'd felt the movement of combat like music, like the pounding of drums and the thrum of blood in veins. Excited and full of life. And so did fighting become like dancing, unable to be lost, only lead.

He'd laughed.

It had felt so incredible. To fight the way living things do. As animals clawing to survive. To want to bite and scratch and claw and cling to life for every second he could. To be desperate in his desire. He'd understood so clearly, in those moments, how creatures of flesh and blood were in the image of God. How could such fighting, to cling to that living flesh, be anything but the most reverent form of worship?

And so how could one’s partner in such a dance, be anything but the purest and most true kind of beauty? Blinding and breathtaking?

Then, all too soon, it was over.

Cast down again, for the second time in his existence, Gabriel tasted defeat and, for the first, he tasted blood.

And it tasted divine.

It filled the cold void left behind where the Father's Light had been torn away from him and it tasted so much the same, yet somehow purer. The Light he'd been granted, the metered grace he was allotted by the Council so long as he served their will seemed, by comparison, like a shadow or reflection. The lingering warmth after a farewell compared to the fiery heat of sudden embrace.

How could it be warmer than God’s Light? If the fire of God was so much warmer in the blood of Hell, then what burned in the Council chambers of Heaven?

How could he, cast from grace and laid low before the machine, feel closer to the Divine than he'd felt while basked in His Light?

There could be only one answer: because the Light that the Council had to offer him was not Divine. Maybe it never had been. After all, if God was really dead, how could the Council have His Light to give, anyway?

And if it hadn't been His Light, His Will, then what had Gabriel been sustained on? Only the Council’s approval.

He forsook it. Better to die, consumed by the flames of Hell than live sustained by the cold indifference of Heaven.

At least consumption is akin to embrace, in the way that hunger is akin to desire.

His legs losing their strength at last, Gabriel finally slumped to his knees, breathing ragged and vision blurry.

The way he'd cut down the Council, had bathed the chambers of Heaven with their blood, had seemed to rejuvenate him, at least temporarily, at least long enough to finish the grim task. But now, his connection to the Light of the Father severed for good and the last remnants of its warmth drained from him, he felt his end very much at hand.

Ridiculous as it would have seemed, mere days ago, to contemplate his own death, it would have been even more so to contemplate his own life.

His existence was a constant. It had no true beginning or end. It could not be covetted or cherished because it could not be quantified. It simply was. He could not want to live any more than the sky could want to hold its place above the Earth. Than the wind could desire to blow or the celestial bodies desire to continue their journey through the endless void of space.

A force of nature could not want. Could not hope. Could not hunger, not for food, nor life, nor love.

But Gabriel did. For the first time, he faced his future with something other than cold, perfect acceptance. In its place was a hot, bitter disappointment and a gnawing, desperate hunger.

He wanted to live. Damn him, he did not want to die. He wanted to see the Machine again, as he had promised he would. He wanted to fight for the sake of fighting. He wanted to live and to feel alive.

He wanted to drag the eyes of the God that had abandoned him back to that chaotic dance and dare Him to find it beautiful. He wanted the eyes of God to weep for the beauty they'd turned away from. To mourn every second they'd spent not beholding it. The way he mourned it, now.

Perhaps it was that desire, more so than anything, that brought him back to the depths of Hell. A vain hope to fulfill his promise and to feel the embrace of life one more time before dying, however briefly.

He did not rouse when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He had no strength to fight. If one of the denizens of Hell wanted to end him now, it would only be speeding up the inevitable.

With his faith so shattered, Gabriel was not sure if he believed there was any force that could intervene in the affairs of Earth, Heaven, and Hell in the way he'd once called “miracles”, nor did he have any name to give thanks to for such an act, but the gratitude he felt when the owner of the footsteps appeared before him could not have been greater if he had known it to be an act of God Himself.

“Machine…” he breathed. “We meet again…as I said we would. Sadly…I do not think we shall face each other in righteous combat a third time. Still, I am…glad to see you. One last time…”

V1 dripped with fresh blood. It must have freshly killed. Its wings raised, encircling it like a golden halo in Gabriel’s blurred vision. Blue, gold, and red swam before his failing eyes, shimmering and ethereal.

“Divine…” he whispered.

V1’s inner mechanisms whirred and it tilted its head, inquisitively. It seemed to inspect him, clicking and humming. Its hands grasped and released its weapons, seeming unable to fully process or deal with an encounter that was not immediately violent.

It knelt before him, looking him over for some cause for his current state.

Gabriel laughed, weakly, strangely endeared by the robot’s apparent concern. Strange, for a being that had only known him as a threat.

How to explain the Light of the Father to a machine? How could it possibly understand what it meant for him to be cut off from it, or why he had been?

“I am…hungry,” Gabriel said. “Empty…dying.”

The Machine stood again, looming over him. Gabriel wondered if it would leave, assured that he was no threat. After all, what use did it have, with its limited time, to stand around and watch him die?

Instead, as it had nearly every moment he knew it, it surprised him.

With a screech of metal against metal, the Machine dug a clawed hand into its own chest, peeling back a small patch of the metal plating to reveal the pulsing mass of flesh and mechanics that comprised its innards.

Hot blood poured from the self inflicted wound and onto Gabriel's helmet, flowing down and dripping into the holes above his mouth.

Gabriel was stunned for a moment, then almost laughed.

Of course. Its whole idea of life revolved around blood. Life, health, food; blood was synonymous with all of them. What other thought could it have had to help him, than to try to feed him the way it fed?

A misguided effort, of course, but nonetheless meaningful. It had to fight for every second of life that blood afforded it, and it likely knew the supply was dwindling, yet it would harm itself and willingly part with its most precious life force, in the hopes it would help him.

Gabriel opened his mouth beneath his helmet and let the blood trickle onto his tongue. Misguided or not, he recognized a sacrament when he saw one, and he would not dream to waste it.

Again the taste of divinity alit on his tongue and he shuddered. The hunger is his gut that had first been sparked the moment he'd been struck down the first time by the Machine and that had been kindled by the taste of his own blood, then fanned to flame by the slaughter of the council roared up in him as an inferno.

He tilted his head back and shifted himself to kneel before the Machine allowing blood to pour more directly onto his supplicated form.

Like liquid fire, it bathed his skin and coated his throat, lighting him up from the inside the way the cold reflection of Heaven had never dreamed to compare to.

“Machine!” he choked, a desperate plea he hadn't meant to utter for a desire he didn't understand being dragged from somewhere deep inside him that knew what it was to struggle to survive, even if he didn't.

Luckily, the Machine understood what he could not.

It guided him to his knees, pressed close to it for support, and guided his hands with its own to the wound on its chest, held his hand in its while an instinct Gabriel never knew he could have harbored dug their clasped fingers into the metal and stripped back the plating even further.

Life blood bathed him and Gabriel cried out with a mix of relief and need. His arms encircled the Machine, clinging to it like a lifeline as he pressed his face to the now gaping wound, feeling its pulsing, churning, whirring insides against his armor and skin, which both seemed to drink up the blood as eagerly as his mouth.

He wanted to pray, but couldn't. For there was no prayer he had known to fit such a sacrament, nor any that he could conceive of that could be more reverent than the worship he was already partaking in.

He wanted to reach in with his hands and pull out its innards while it did the same to him. He wanted to tear it open with his teeth and taste where the metal and flesh met.

He wanted to understand how animals could eat their prey alive.

He wanted to know that only his blood filled it, fed it, while only its fed him, like a heart passing blood between its chambers, like the two raw wounds that they were, pressed together so close they shared a heartbeat.

He wanted them to hunger for every drop of each other and never be satisfied.

He wanted. He hungered. He lived!

And yet, a gentle push was all that was needed to unclasp his hands and send him toppling back against the wall behind him, gasping for breath.

Blood continued to sink into his armor and skin and for a moment Gabriel felt the urge to peel off his helmet and lick the fading drops up before they disappeared, but he suddenly realized he could not fully recall what lay beneath that shell of white and gold.

V1 clutched at its chest as its body began the work of repairing the damage, sealing up the opening and fusing the metal back together.

Gabriel felt his own body similarly set to work on repairing itself. Energy seemed to return to his limbs and he felt that he once again had the strength to stand.

“Let Us make man in Our image. In Our likeness…” Gabriel quoted, in a daze.

V1 tilted its head at him again.

“For the life of every creature is its blood: its blood is its life.”

Gabriel shook his head and laughed.

“We're so much more alike than I'd even thought possible, Machine. The Father's Light has always fed both of us, hasn't it?” he said. “If God is dead, then what in his abandoned Heaven could be left of his Light that is not lesser than that in the lifeblood of those He made in His image?”

He looked to V1.

“You…saved me. I owe you a debt of gratitude. But… I don't understand.”

He shook his head.

“Blood is finite. It's running out. Why share any with me? Why cut down the little time you have left to save someone who only ever tried to kill you?”

The Machine turned away, as though lost in thought.

Gabriel wondered if it even really understood, itself.

At last, it turned to him and, in a garbled, robotic tone that seemed to take great effort for it to produce, it said:

”I A M H U N G R Y”

Somehow it seemed to look past him. This creature of war who never knew a life beyond bloodshed. Whose purpose died before it came to be. Whose life, since its inception, had been a clawing, desperate, and ultimately doomed fight for just a little more time. A little more life Even in hell, even if it's only ever filled with pain and death.

“I think I understand you, Machine,” Gabriel said. “I used to think your being here was pointless. A remnant of a dead war that could only know hunger. Could only bring destruction. But this is what you feel, isn't it?”

He put a hand to his chest.

“I want to live, Machine. I want to fight for every bloodsoaked second I can squeeze from this existence, no matter how brief. I'll fight until I'm torn to pieces for one more moment. If it means I get to keep feeling what it is to be alive.”

He looked up at V1.

“And I want you to be alive. I want to fight you again. I want you to never let me forget this feeling. You…make me know what it is…to want something.”

V1 blinked its optic, slowly, as if in agreement.

Gabriel staggered to his feet and pulled Justice from its sheath. He pointed it at V1 before laying the blade flat across his palms and bending one knee, holding the sword up to V1.

“If the Divine can still live on, even in the blood of His dead and damned creations, then maybe this fight is not one doomed to end once you reach the bottom of Hell,” he said. “Take my sword. And my vow that if I cannot find a way to replenish the energy of the Divine, then I will meet you at the center of Hell and Splendor and Justice will cross one last time as we duel for the last drops of blood in creation.”

V1 took the sword from Gabriel’s hands and brandished it, feeling the perfect balance of the expertly crafted blade.

“We will meet again, Machine. Until then, may your woes be many. And your days few.”

---

Me, pointing at a big blackboard with insane scrawlings covering it: "Here's how gabriel can still live"

I've never played ultrakill but I am not immune to the eroticism of the machine. Written all at once at 3am waiting for my pain medication mo kick in. bone app the teeth

#ultrakill #ultrakill spoilers #gabriel ultrakill #gabv1el #fellas is it gay to fight the homies like animals #blood tw #gore tw #it's ultrakill #v1 ultrakill

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eleanorblythe · 10 months

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Raphael (BG3) X Original Female Character/Tav/Reader - One Shot

This man has taken over my soul (bad pun intended). I wanted to write smut - and I’m sure I still will, but I need foreplay (I’m a whore, but I like to tease)

This is insanely OOC I’m sure for our favourite devil - but sue me I wanted soft/romantic/not-at-all-lovesick Raphael.

Also I’m not entirely up on D&D lore it is just to serve the story so apologies for any inaccuracies!

“You can’t die! Get up, damn you!” Astarion yelled over the sounds of fighting all around them. She plummeted to the ground gasping and clutching at her side. A demon had managed to get it’s claw hooked into her waist, piercing through her armour and was currently draining away what little life there was left in her. She tried to remove it in vain and felt the edges of her vision blurring and darkening.

The rest of the companions were more determined than ever to kill the last of the demons to reach their de facto leader. The final demon went down with a horrid screech and the gang rushed over to her crumpled body. Astarion lifted her to rest against his front.

“Come on now, darling, open your eyes,” Astarion murmured trying not to let the waver show in his voice. He cradled her head carefully and lightly shook her. Her eyes fluttered open, but her expression was distant, glassy, she briefly met his eye and tried to gasp out his name.

“Hold on, please, hold on!” Shadowheart begged as she desperately started casting healing spells. Nothing was working.

Gale quickly starting going through his scrolls, trying to find something - anything - that would work. Three scrolls and many spells later and it was still the same. Even revivify could do nothing to bring her back.

They watched as her eyes became cloudy, losing the glittering life in them and her grip on Astarion’s hand went limp. For a moment everyone was completely silent. The party could do nothing more than gape at each other.

Out of the corner of their eyes they saw and felt a flash of light and heat of flame.

A devil had arrived.

Raphael took a moment to take in his surroundings before settling his gaze on his little mouse, bloodied and bruised in the lap of the vampire.

“What are you doing here, devil?” Astarion spat.

“I’m here because I need to protect my assets,”

“Bit late on that front,” Gale murmured bitterly.

“Indeed.” He regarded her lifeless corpse. He would not show panic. He would not allow a single crack to break through his haughty, cool visage.

He bent down and delicately took her broken body into his arms.

“Fear not, mortals. I’ll take it from here.”

“Where are you taking her?” Shadowheart demanded.

“Somewhere, where she might yet live,” and with a snap of his fingers he had disappeared into a cloud of smoke and sulphur.

The companions, lost without their leader, could do nothing more, except head back to camp to inform the others and hope - pray - that the devil would make good on his word.

No one had the heart to say they didn’t see it as likely.

—————————

Raphael appeared in his House of Hope, he glanced down and saw her pale eyes staring unfocused past his shoulder. He hurriedly carried her through to his boudoir, away from the prying eyes of the debtors prowling and snivelling in the corridors.

A Cambion carrying a mortal, in a bridal carry, through his bed chambers was not a sight Haarlep expected to see, he sat up from his best ‘come hither’ position on the bed and slinked over to Raphael who had knelt just before his rejuvenation pool.

“What’s your favourite misadventurer doing in your arms, Raphael? I didn’t think she was that desperate,” he teased.

Haarlep had expected admonishment, punishment, a sharp lashing from his master’s tongue. He instead looked down and saw his master…distraught? No that was too strong a word. But he saw the unmistakable glint of fear in Raphael’s eyes.

Raphael lay her down on the cold marble floor, making sure to cushion her head with his hand as he did so. He had to close her eyes. Those doe eyes seemed to stare into his soul. If he had one, he thought bitterly. He scanned over her armour and saw the gash, on her side. He tried to remove the claw, but it kept catching on her mithral underlayer.

Modesty be damned.

He snapped his fingers and she was left in her underwear. He splayed a hand over the soft skin of her abdomen to give him purchase as he started to pull the demon’s claw out of her body. Despite the fact she was technically dead and therefore unresponsive, Raphael made sure to take care when removing the blight from her body.

It took a considerable amount of effort but with a final grunt Raphael held a bloodied, slightly iridescent shard. He examined it and soon discovered why her companions efforts to heal and save her from death had been in vain. These particular fiends carried something akin to an anti-magic venom in their claws. Raphael clicked his fingers again and produced a healing potion, lifting her up to rest against his shoulders and bringing the sustenance to her cold, dry lips.

“Drink up, little mouse,” he murmured, almost to himself and watched the red liquid disappear down her throat. He waited.

And waited.

It wasn’t working.

Was she too far gone?

He saw only one other option. He glanced up at the rejuvenation pool and quickly gathered her in his arms as he hasted to get to the water.

“But master…your clothes!” Haarlep was scandalised, but Raphael paid him no mind. He all but stumbled into the water and dunked her underneath, holding her there for a few moments before bringing her back to the surface. The murky tint of blood flowing out of her and dancing in the water like ribbons spreading out before them. He held her face, with his free hand that wasn’t keeping her close to him, tenderly, oh so tenderly.

And still nothing.

No quiet thrum of life rumbling beneath her skin.

Just emptiness.

Loss.

That, he could not abide.

He told himself it was all in service of the crown. He needed her to get it. A scheme, centuries in the making, and he had left his fate, his future, his right in the hands of a mortal girl.

He told himself that it didn’t affect him when he saw how her gaze lingered on him while he would grandstand to her and her companions. He told himself that he didn’t notice and delight in how her breath would catch, when he would step close to her.

He told himself, that she was merely his favourite customer. Despite the fact she had remained steadfast in refusing each of his offers. Clever girl.

He told himself he wasn’t falling for this mortal.

This infuriating mortal.

This precious mortal.

This dead mortal.

He stroked his thumb across her cheek. He was split down the middle. A part of him wanted to corrupt and use the last remnants of her soul to turn her into a lesser devil, why let such a useful resource go to waste? But another part, his wretched human part, wanted to mourn, he didn’t want to see someone relatively pure and with an unpolluted soul twisted and made into something wicked. Something awful.

Something like him.

He whispered her name into her skin and kissed a pulse point on her neck. Feather light. Barely there. As if he was waiting for her to turn to ash in his arms.

He suddenly felt her chest heave and a strangled and desperate gasp escaped her. She thrashed and fell under the water. Raphael’s grip tightened and pulled her back to the surface. It wouldn’t do for her to come back from death only to drown immediately after.

She was frenzied and pushed against whatever was keeping her trapped. She spun around and felt a warm hand smooth her hair away from her eyes.

“R-Raphael?!”

“Hello, little mouse, although, right now, perhaps more ‘drowned rat’?”

She breathed a confused laugh. Then fainted.

“The mortal reaction, I suppose,” Raphael said softly. He scooped her up again and walked out of the rejuvenation pool.

Haarlep watched his sodden master carry the dripping mortal…to his bed?!

“I suppose I’m to kip at the foot of the bed?” Haarlep purred.

“You will do no such thing. You will leave these rooms, while she remains here.”

“But who will warm your bed at night, your little mouse?” Haarlep was incensed and a little taken aback. Not once had he ever been banished from Raphael’s bed chambers.

“Get. Out.” Raphael laid her down on top of the covers and went to retrieve a towel. His attention was entirely focused on this…thing and her needs. Haarlep knew Raphael had taken - let’s say - a special interest in the adventurer and her little gang of misfits, but watching Raphael use a soft towel to carefully dry her face and arms, holding her reverently as he worked, like she was fine china - Haarlep was speechless. He stomped off without another word, lingering just long enough in the doorway to see Raphael take a strand of her hair and tuck it behind her ear, like how a father would act, tucking a sweet angel into bed.

Haarlep knew - even if his almighty master didn’t.

She would be the ruin of the entirety of the House of Hope.

#bg3 #bg3 tav #bg3 spoilers #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #baldur's gate oc #baldurs gate astarion #baldurs gate fanfiction #raphael #raphael bg3 #bg3 raphael #fanfiction

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diecastor · 2 years

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#Sand casting #die casting #high pressure die casting #cold chamber die casting #hot chamber die casting #multi-slide die casting #conventional die casting

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novaursa · 2 months

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Part 13

- Title: zōbrie ānogar

- Rating: Explicit (18+)

- Romance: (Aegon II/OFC)

- Warning: All flags are up for this work. Aegon is also a warning on his own.

- Summary: It was written by Archmaester Gyldayn that on the day Princess Vaella Targaryen was born she was supposed to die. Until she fed upon her twin, Baelon. And when she turned one and five, she sought her end in the lair of Cannibal, in Dragonmont. But instead of feasting upon her, the dragon wept with her. And Archmaester had written a lengthy thesis on how wild dragon recognized a kindred soul in the Princess, as they both dined on their kin.

- Word count: 9 000+

- Parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 14, 15, 16, Final

The morning sun filtered through the heavy curtains of the nursery, casting a gentle glow over the room. Baelor Targaryen, lay in his bed, the remnants of sleep still clinging to him. He blinked against the light, rubbing his eyes with small fists as he slowly woke up.

Baelor's thoughts were a mix of excitement and worry. He had overheard whispers among the servants about the recent events—the battles, the injuries, and his father's condition. Though he was young, he understood enough to know that things were not as they should be.

His sister, Daena, lay in the bed beside him, still fast asleep. Baelor carefully climbed out of bed, trying not to wake her. He padded across the room, his small feet making barely a sound on the cold stone floor. He reached the window and peeked out, the view of King's Landing sprawling before him.

Baelor's heart ached with a longing to see his father. He missed the days when Aegon would lift him onto his shoulders and tell him stories of dragons and battles. He missed the comforting presence of his mother, Vaella, who had been often away for what felt like an eternity.

Determined, Baelor made his way to the door, cracking it open just enough to peer into the corridor. Two Kingsguard stood watch, their expressions stern but not unkind. Baelor took a deep breath and stepped out.

"Prince Baelor," one of the guards greeted him, bowing slightly. "What brings you out of bed so early?"

"I want to see my father," Baelor said, his voice steady despite his young age.

The guards exchanged a glance, their expressions softening. "Your father is resting, young prince. He needs to regain his strength."

Baelor frowned, his determination unwavering. "But I need to see him. Please."

The guards hesitated, then one of them nodded. "Very well, but you must be quiet. Your father needs peace."

Baelor nodded eagerly and followed the guard down the winding corridors of the Red Keep. His small hand clutched the guard's larger one, the stone walls towering around him. They stopped outside his parents' chambers, and the guard gently knocked before pushing the door open.

Inside, Baelor saw his father lying in bed, looking pale and fragile. His mother sat beside him, holding his hand. Baelor's heart swelled with a mixture of joy and sadness. He took a tentative step forward.

"Baelor," Vaella said softly, her eyes lighting up at the sight of her son. "Come here, my brave boy."

Baelor ran to his mother's side, his small arms wrapping around her waist. He looked up at Aegon, his eyes wide with concern. "Father, are you alright?"

Aegon managed a weak smile, his eyes filled with love. "I'm better now that you're here, Baelor."

Baelor climbed onto the bed, careful not to jostle his father. He reached out and took Aegon's hand, his tiny fingers curling around his father's larger ones. "I missed you, Father."

Aegon squeezed his son's hand gently. "I missed you too, my boy. You've been brave, haven't you?"

Baelor nodded, his eyes shining with determination. "Yes, Father. I've been taking care of Daena, just like you asked."

Vaella smiled, her heart swelling with pride. "You've been a wonderful big brother, Baelor. Your father and I are very proud of you."

Baelor's chest puffed up with pride at his mother's words. He looked back at his father, his voice filled with hope. "When will you get better, Father? When can we play again?"

Aegon's smile wavered slightly, the pain evident in his eyes. "I will get better, Baelor. It will just take some time. But I promise, once I'm well, we'll play and tell stories just like we used to."

Baelor nodded, his faith in his father's promise unwavering. He nestled closer to Aegon, his small body a source of warmth and comfort. "I love you, Father."

Aegon closed his eyes, his voice a soft whisper. "I love you too, Baelor. More than you'll ever know."

Vaella watched the exchange, her heart aching with both love and sorrow. She reached out and stroked Baelor's hair, her touch gentle. "Come, Baelor. Let's let your father rest."

Baelor looked up, reluctant to leave but understanding the need. "Alright, Mother." He leaned over and kissed Aegon's cheek. "Get well soon, Father."

Aegon nodded, his eyes filled with tears. "I will, Baelor. I will."

Vaella led Baelor out of the room, her hand resting on his shoulder. As they walked back to the nursery, Baelor's mind was filled with thoughts of his father. He wanted to be strong, to be brave, just like Aegon.

"Mother," Baelor said softly as they reached the nursery door. "Will Father really get better?"

Vaella knelt down, looking into her son's earnest eyes. "Yes, Baelor. He will. It will take time, but with love and care, he will get better."

Baelor nodded, his heart filled with determination. "Then I'll help too. I'll be strong for him."

Vaella hugged her son tightly, her voice filled with emotion. "You already are, my brave boy. You already are."

As Baelor climbed back into bed, he felt a renewed sense of purpose. He would be strong for his father, for his family.

As he drifted back to sleep, Baelor's dreams were filled with images of his father, strong and healthy once more. He dreamed of flying dragons and epic battles, of a future where they were all together and happy. And in his heart, he knew that with love and determination, they would make that future a reality.

…

The next day dawned clear and bright, the stormy weather having given way to a calm, sunny morning. The Red Keep was abuzz with activity as servants went about their duties and guards patrolled the halls. Daena Targaryen, sat on the floor of the nursery, playing with her dolls. Her brother, Baelor, was still asleep, his steady breathing a comforting background to her play.

Daena’s curly pale blonde hair, so similar to her mother’s, framed her delicate face. Her indigo eyes sparkled with the innocent curiosity of a child. She arranged her dolls in a circle, pretending they were having a grand feast. As she moved them about, her mind wandered to thoughts of her father and mother. She missed the times when her father would lift her high into the air and her mother would sing lullabies to her.

As she played, she heard footsteps and muffled voices approaching the nursery door. Her small hands stilled, and she looked up, her curiosity piqued. The voices became clearer, and she recognized the soft, familiar tones of her mother, Vaella, and another voice she couldn’t quite place.

The door was slightly ajar, and Daena, with the innate stealth of a child, crept towards it. She peered through the crack and saw her mother standing in the hallway, talking to a tall man with a stern expression—her great-grandsire, Otto Hightower.

“Vaella, you must consider the political ramifications,” Otto was saying, his voice low but insistent.

Vaella sighed, her face showing signs of fatigue. “I understand, Lord Otto. But my priority is Aegon’s recovery. The political matters can wait.”

Otto shook his head. “Every day we delay weakens our position. The Riverlands are partly secured for now, but we must act swiftly to maintain our advantage. The Blacks are not going to sit idly by.”

Vaella’s expression hardened. “I am aware of the stakes, Otto. But Aegon’s health is paramount. Without him, our position is even more precarious.”

Daena’s brow furrowed as she listened, the words swirling in her mind. Political ramifications, Riverlands, the Blacks—none of it made sense to her. She understood only that her mother was worried and that her great-grandsire was urging her to do something important.

Otto’s voice softened slightly. “I was wrong about you, Vaella. You’ve proven yourself more than capable. But now, more than ever, we need to present a united front. Aegon needs to know we are all working towards the same goal.”

Vaella nodded, though her eyes remained weary. “I appreciate your acknowledgment, Otto. I will do what needs to be done. But I will not sacrifice my family for politics.”

Otto sighed, his expression one of reluctant agreement. “Very well. But remember, time is not on our side. We must be vigilant.”

Daena watched as her mother placed a hand on Otto’s arm, a gesture of both reassurance and resolve. “I will handle it, Otto. Trust me.”

With that, Otto nodded and turned to leave, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. Vaella stood there for a moment, lost in thought, before turning back towards the nursery.

Daena quickly scampered back to her dolls, her mind racing with the bits of conversation she had overheard. As her mother entered the room, Daena looked up, her innocent eyes filled with questions she didn’t know how to ask.

“Good morning, my sweet girl,” Vaella said, her voice gentle as she knelt beside Daena and smoothed her hair. “What are you playing today?”

Daena held up one of her dolls, her brow still furrowed. “Mama, what does...what does poli-tickle mean?”

Vaella blinked in surprise, then smiled, a mix of amusement and tenderness in her eyes. “Political, Daena. It means things that grown-ups have to think about to make sure everyone is safe and happy.”

Daena nodded slowly, still processing the new word. “And the Riverlands? And the Blacks?”

Vaella’s smile faltered for a brief moment, but she recovered quickly. “The Riverlands are a place, my love, where some of our friends live. And the Blacks are...they’re just people who don’t agree with us. But you don’t need to worry about any of that.”

Daena’s little face scrunched up in concentration. “Okay, Mama. But you’re worried. I can tell.”

Vaella’s heart ached with the wisdom in her daughter’s eyes. She pulled Daena into a hug, holding her close. “Sometimes, Mama has to think about things that are hard. But you and your brother and father are what’s most important to me. Always.”

Daena hugged her mother tightly, comforted by the familiar warmth and love. “I love you, Mama.”

Vaella kissed the top of her daughter’s head, her voice soft and filled with emotion. “I love you too, Daena. More than anything.”

As they sat together on the floor, surrounded by dolls and toys, Vaella’s mind was filled with the complexities of the conversation she had with Otto. But in this moment, holding her daughter, she found a small measure of peace.

The day continued, and Daena returned to her play, her innocent curiosity satisfied for now. But the memory of the overheard conversation lingered in her young mind, a seed of understanding that would grow as she did. For now, she was content to be a child, loved and protected by her family, unaware of the full weight of the world around her.

Vaella watched her daughter with a mix of pride and sorrow, knowing that one day Daena would understand the full scope of the challenges they faced. But for today, she could let her be a child, innocent and free. And that, at least, was a small victory in a world filled with uncertainty.

…

The afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the Red Keep as Baelor and Daena played in the gardens under the watchful eyes of their nursemaids. The sounds of the city beyond the castle walls were a distant hum, creating a serene bubble for the children to enjoy their day.

Baelor was energetic, running around and pretending to be a dragon knight, while Daena followed more cautiously, her eyes bright with curiosity. The gardens were a labyrinth of hedges, flowers, and fountains, providing the perfect playground for the royal siblings.

As the children played, their grandmother, Alicent, approached, her expression softening at the sight of her grandchildren. "Baelor, Daena," she called, her voice warm and affectionate.

"Grandmother!" Baelor shouted, running to her with open arms.

Daena followed, a shy smile on her face. "Hello, Grandmother."

Alicent knelt to their level, embracing them both. "How are my favorite little dragons today?"

"We're good!" Baelor said excitedly. "We were just talking about our dragons. I can't wait until I can ride mine!"

Alicent smiled, her eyes twinkling. "I’m sure that day will come sooner than you think, Baelor."

Daena nodded eagerly. "I want to ride mine too, Grandmother. They’re so beautiful."

Alicent's heart warmed at their excitement. "And they will be even more beautiful when you’re both flying together."

As they continued to talk about their dragons, the children’s nursemaids hovered nearby, ready to intervene if needed. But Alicent enjoyed this rare moment of peace and happiness with her grandchildren.

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of hushed voices nearby. Baelor, always curious, turned towards the sound. "Grandmother, who’s talking over there?"

Alicent followed his gaze and saw Lord Larys Strong and Grand Maester Orwyle engaged in a quiet conversation. She frowned slightly, her protective instincts flaring. "Stay here, children."

She stood, but before she could intervene, Baelor and Daena edged closer to the voices, their curiosity getting the better of them.

"...it's remarkable he's still alive," Larys was saying, his tone grim. "The King’s condition is precarious at best."

Grand Maester Orwyle nodded, his face lined with concern. "His bond with his dragon is strong, which is likely what’s keeping him alive. But even if he survives, he may never fully recover. And neither will his dragon."

Baelor's eyes widened as he processed the words, a mix of fear and confusion flooding his mind. Daena, sensing her brother's distress, took his hand, her own face reflecting his emotions.

Alicent, realizing the children had overheard, quickly moved to usher them away. "Come along, children. Let's not bother the grown-ups."

But before she could, another figure appeared—her brother, Gwayne Hightower. He smiled awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable. "Alicent, I didn’t expect to see you here."

Alicent forced a smile, trying to maintain composure. "Gwayne, it's good to see you. I’m spending some time with my grandchildren."

Gwayne looked at the children, his expression softening despite his awkwardness. "Hello, Baelor, Daena. How are you today?"

Baelor, still processing what he had overheard, managed a small smile. "We’re okay, Uncle Gwayne."

Daena nodded, her grip on Baelor's hand tightening. "We’re just talking about our dragons."

Gwayne's smile was strained as he looked at Daena, the child of the woman he had once coveted. "Dragons, huh? That sounds exciting."

Alicent noticed the tension and quickly moved to defuse it. "Why don't we all go inside and have some tea? I'm sure the children could use a rest."

Baelor and Daena nodded, their curiosity about the conversation with Lord Larys and Grand Maester Orwyle momentarily set aside. As they walked back inside, Alicent held their hands, her thoughts racing.

Once inside, they settled in a comfortable sitting room. Baelor and Daena sat close to Alicent, their eyes wide with the events of the day. Gwayne, still awkward, tried to make small talk. "So, Baelor, what’s your dragon’s name?"

Baelor perked up a little, happy to talk about something familiar. "His name is Auroxas. He’s really strong and brave."

Gwayne nodded, trying to appear genuinely interested. "And Daena, what about your dragon?"

Daena smiled shyly. "Her name is Glazhael. She’s beautiful and smart."

Alicent watched the interaction, relieved that the children seemed distracted from their earlier eavesdropping. But she couldn’t shake the worry that lingered in her heart. The news about Aegon’s condition weighed heavily on her mind.

After tea, Alicent escorted the children back to the nursery, her protective instincts on high alert. She knelt down to their level once more, her eyes filled with love and concern. "Baelor, Daena, I want you to promise me something."

They looked at her, their innocent faces attentive. "What is it, Grandmother?" Baelor asked.

"Promise me that you won’t worry about what you overheard today. Your father is strong, and he has many people who love him and are taking care of him."

Daena nodded solemnly. "We promise, Grandmother."

Baelor hesitated, then nodded too. "We promise."

Alicent hugged them tightly, her heart aching with the desire to shield them from the harsh realities of their world. "Good. Now, go play and be happy. Your mother and father need your smiles more than anything."

As the children returned to their play, Alicent watched them, her thoughts heavy with the burden of the news she had to bear.

The day continued, filled with the innocent laughter of children and the quiet determination of those who loved them. In the midst of uncertainty, there was still hope, and Alicent clung to that hope with all her heart. For Aegon, for Vaella, and for the future of their family.

…

The small council chamber was filled with the scent of burning candles and the muted hum of conversations. The table was covered with maps, markers, and documents detailing their military positions and strategies. The members of the council were seated, their expressions reflecting the gravity of the situation.

Ser Criston Cole stood at the head of the table, his demeanor confident and resolute. "I've stationed men near Sunfyre at Rook's Rest to guard him. Initially, the dragon fed on the burned carcasses of the slain soldiers, but they are gone now. My men will continue to secure him with calves and sheep to eat. He seems to be recovering, but it's a slow process."

Lord Tayland Lannister, his brow furrowed with concern, spoke next. "Despite our monopoly on the Riverlands, there are still unrests. Some minor lords continue to advocate for Rhaenyra, even with Lord Tully admitting his defeat. The loyalty of these minor lords remains a significant issue."

Larys Strong nodded in agreement, his voice measured. "I've heard that Walys Mooton, Lord of Maidenpool, is accumulating forces to take back Rook's Rest in the future. His ambitions could become a significant threat if not addressed."

Lord Jasper Wylde added his own thoughts, his tone urgent. "We should focus our forces on retaking Harrenhal. Its strategic position is crucial, and allowing Daemon to hold it weakens our overall position."

Aemond, seated beside Criston, leaned forward, his gaze intense. "Criston and I will lead the armies ourselves. Harrenhal must be taken, and we need to show our enemies that we are not to be trifled with."

Tayland Lannister nodded, though his expression remained serious. "My brother Jason will be ready to clash with the remaining defiant Riverlords at the Red Fork. Our forces are prepared, but we must coordinate our efforts to ensure success."

Aemond glanced around the table, his gaze settling on Otto Hightower, who had recently been reinstated as the Hand of the King and now served Aemond. "Has Vaella agreed to our plan?"

Otto, his demeanor calm and composed, responded, "I have spoken to her, but she remains firm that her presence is more needed here. She is concerned for Aegon and the stability of King's Landing. However, I hope she will see the wisdom of joining our campaign in time."

Aemond's eyes narrowed slightly, his frustration evident. "We need her strength and leadership. Vaella with her dragon’s presence on the battlefield would bolster our forces and send a strong message to our enemies."

Otto inclined his head, acknowledging Aemond's point. "I understand, Prince Aemond. I will continue to speak with her and try to persuade her of the necessity of her involvement. For now, we must proceed with our plans and ensure that our strategies are sound."

Criston placed his hand on the map, pointing to key locations. "We will begin our preparations immediately. Our forces will be divided strategically, with contingents ready to support each other as needed. Sunfyre's recovery is crucial, but we cannot wait for him to be fully healed before we act."

The council members nodded in agreement, their expressions resolute. The plan was set, and each member understood their role in the coming battles. The stakes were high, and the future of the realm depended on their success.

As the meeting concluded, Aemond stood, his gaze sweeping over the council members. "We must remain vigilant and united. Our enemies are formidable, but with our combined strength and resolve, we will prevail. Harrenhal will be ours, and the Riverlands will know the might of the crown."

The council members rose, their determination palpable. The road ahead was fraught with challenges, but they were ready to face them head-on. The fate of the realm hung in the balance, and they would stop at nothing to secure their victory.

As they exited the chamber, Otto lingered behind, his thoughts heavy with the weight of his responsibilities. He knew that convincing Vaella to join the campaign would be difficult, but he also understood the necessity of her involvement. With a final glance at the maps and plans spread across the table, he resolved to speak with her again in the future, hoping to find a way to bridge the gap between duty and family.

The sun set over the Red Keep, casting long shadows over the city below. The preparations for the coming battles were already underway, and the air was thick with anticipation. The council members, united in their purpose, would face the challenges ahead with courage and determination. The realm's future depended on their actions, and they were ready to meet the challenge.

…

The cool evening breeze swept through the halls of the Red Keep as Aemond Targaryen made his way to Vaella's chambers. His thoughts were heavy with the burden of leadership and the pressing need to bolster their forces on the battlefield. He knew that Vaella's presence, along with her dragon Cannibal, could be the key to their success.

He found Vaella in her private sitting room, the flickering candlelight casting a warm glow on her pale features. She looked up as he entered, her expression a mix of weariness and resolve.

"Aemond," she greeted, her voice soft but steady. "What brings you here?"

Aemond took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. "Vaella, we need you on the battlefield. Your presence, and that of Cannibal, would be a powerful force against our enemies."

Vaella sighed, leaning back in her chair. "I understand the need, Aemond, but what happens if I leave and King's Landing is left exposed? If Rhaenyra finds an opening, she could take the city."

Aemond moved closer, his gaze intense. "We have strong defenses in place, Vaella. The presence of the Kingsguard and our loyal soldiers will protect the city. Your strength is needed to turn the tide in our favor. Your presence alone would bolster the morale of our troops."

Vaella's eyes searched his, the weight of her decision evident in her expression. "Larys informed me that Rhaenyra is trying to find new riders for the unclaimed dragons on Dragonstone and Dragonmont. She calls them Dragonseeds, descendants of an archaic tradition King Jaehaerys forbade. What if Rhaenyra decides to send them to King's Landing?"

Aemond's jaw tightened at the mention of the Dragonseeds. "If she sends them, we will be ready. We have faced dragons before, and we will face them again. Your presence on the battlefield will force her hand, make her desperate, and we can use that to our advantage."

Vaella shook her head slightly, her worry evident. "And if she sends them here while I'm away? Aegon is still recovering, and the city cannot withstand an assault without its strongest dragon."

Aemond placed a hand on her shoulder, his grip firm but reassuring. "I understand your concerns, Vaella. But we cannot allow fear to paralyze us. You are one of our greatest strengths. With Cannibal, you can turn the tide in our favor. We need you, the realm needs you."

Vaella looked away, her thoughts a storm of conflicting emotions. She wanted to protect her family, to ensure the safety of Aegon and their children. But she also knew the importance of their cause, the need to secure their future.

"Aemond," she said quietly, "I want to do what's right for the realm, but I can't ignore the risks. If Rhaenyra attacks while I'm gone..."

Aemond's voice softened, his eyes earnest. "We will take precautions, strengthen our defenses further. I will ensure that the city is protected. But we need your strength on the battlefield. With you and Cannibal, we can deliver a decisive blow to our enemies."

Vaella met his gaze, the weight of her decision pressing down on her. She took a deep breath, her resolve hardening. "I understand the need, Aemond, but my place is here, with my family. I cannot leave Aegon and our children unprotected."

Aemond's eyes narrowed slightly, his frustration evident. "We need every advantage we can get, Vaella. Your presence on the battlefield could turn the tide in our favor."

Vaella shook her head firmly. "I cannot risk leaving King's Landing undefended. My duty is to my family and to the city. If Rhaenyra attacks while I'm gone, everything we've fought for could be lost."

Aemond sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I understand your concerns, Vaella. But we are running out of options. We need your strength."

Vaella placed a hand on his arm, her eyes filled with determination. "I will support you in every way I can from here. I will ensure that the city is fortified and ready for any threat. But I cannot leave my family unprotected. Not now."

Aemond nodded reluctantly, his frustration evident but tempered by understanding. "Very well, Vaella. We will proceed with our plans. But know that we may call upon you if the situation becomes dire."

Vaella nodded, her resolve firm. "I understand, Aemond. And I will be ready if that time comes. But for now, my place is here."

As they exited the chamber, Vaella's mind was already racing with plans and strategies. The decision weighed heavily on her, but she knew it was the right one. The path ahead was fraught with danger, but with her family and her dragon by her side, she would face it head-on.

The preparations began immediately, the Red Keep buzzing with activity. Vaella met with the commanders, outlining the measures needed to fortify the city. Aemond coordinated with the troops, ensuring that their forces were ready for the coming battles.

In the quiet moments, Vaella found herself reflecting on the conversation with Aemond. She knew the risks, but she also knew that their cause was just. With Cannibal, she would be a force to be reckoned with, and together, they would turn the tide of the war.

As the sun set over King's Landing, casting a golden glow over the city, Vaella stood on the balcony of the chambers, looking out over the realm she was determined to protect.

In the distance, the silhouette of Cannibal loomed, a reminder of the strength and power she wielded. With a final, resolute nod, Vaella turned and reentered the chambers, ready to lead her people from within the walls of the Red Keep.

…

Two days after Aemond and Criston led their forces to retake Harrenhal, the atmosphere in the Red Keep remained tense but hopeful. Vaella stood by Aegon's side, watching intently as Grand Maester Orwyle carefully changed the bandages that covered Aegon's burns and broken bones.

The chamber was filled with the scent of medicinal herbs and the soft rustle of Orwyle’s robes as he worked. Aegon lay on the bed, his face a mask of controlled pain. Though the agony had lessened in recent days, it was still a constant presence.

Vaella, her hand gently resting on Aegon's, leaned closer to the Grand Maester. "How long will it take for his bones to heal, Maester Orwyle?" she asked, her voice tinged with concern and exhaustion.

Orwyle looked up, his expression thoughtful. "The bones themselves are healing quite nicely, Your Grace. They should mend fully within a few more weeks. The fractures were severe, but they are setting well. However, it is what comes after that is most difficult."

Vaella's brow furrowed. "What do you mean? Will he not fully recover?"

Orwyle sighed, his eyes filled with a mixture of hope and caution. "The physical healing of bones and flesh is one thing. The burns will leave scars, and his body will take time to regain its strength. But the true challenge lies in the long-term effects. The muscles and tendons have been severely damaged, and there may be lasting pain or limitations in his movement. Some things may never be the same."

Aegon winced as Orwyle applied a fresh layer of salve to his burns. His voice was strained but determined. "I will recover, Vaella. It will just take time."

Vaella squeezed his hand, her eyes filled with unwavering support. "We will get through this, Aegon."

Orwyle nodded, his hands gentle but precise as he finished the bandages. "Your Majesty, your progress has been remarkable. With your resilience and the Queen's care, I have no doubt you will achieve much in your recovery."

Aegon managed a weak smile, the pain lines around his eyes softening slightly. "Thank you, Maester. Your words mean a great deal."

As Orwyle packed away his supplies, Vaella turned to him once more. "Is there anything else we can do to aid his recovery? Any treatments or exercises that could help?"

Orwyle nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed, Your Grace. Gentle exercises and movements will help to maintain flexibility and strength. As his pain lessens, he can begin to move more, but it must be done gradually. Patience is key."

Vaella listened intently, absorbing every detail. "We will do whatever it takes. Just tell us what needs to be done."

Orwyle smiled, a hint of admiration in his eyes. "Your devotion is commendable, Your Grace."

Aegon, his voice still tinged with pain but filled with resolve, looked at Vaella. "I am grateful for you, Vaella. Your strength gives me hope."

Vaella leaned in, kissing his forehead gently. "And your strength inspires me, Aegon. We will face this challenge, as we have faced all others—together."

The Grand Maester had barely left the room when Aegon shifted restlessly in bed, his eyes open and fixed on Vaella. She sat by his side, her presence a comforting anchor in the storm of his pain and uncertainty.

"Vaella," Aegon began, his voice soft but filled with concern. "How are you feeling? You've been under so much pressure, and with the child you're carrying... I'm worried about you."

Vaella looked at him, her eyes filled with love and determination. "I'm managing, Aegon. My primary concern is your recovery and the safety of our family. The pressure is there, but we will get through this together."

Aegon reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he took hers. "I don't want you to bear this burden alone. You're strong, but you don't have to face everything by yourself."

Vaella squeezed his hand gently, her touch conveying a world of comfort. "I know, Aegon. And you don't have to either. We're a team."

Aegon's eyes softened, his love for her evident in his gaze. "I wish I could do more. I feel so helpless lying here, unable to protect you and our children."

Vaella leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead. "You're doing everything you can, Aegon. Your strength and resilience inspire us all. And you're not helpless. Your presence, your leadership, and your love are more powerful than you realize."

Aegon closed his eyes for a moment, drawing strength from her words. When he opened them again, there was a hint of hesitation. "Vaella, there's something I need to tell you. Something I did, to ensure your safety."

Vaella's brows furrowed slightly, sensing his unease. "What is it, Aegon?"

He took a deep breath, his grip on her hand tightening. "I made a deal with Larys Strong. If anything happens, if the worst comes to pass, he has promised to take you and our children to safety."

Vaella's concern deepened, her mind racing with the implications of such a deal. "Larys Strong? Aegon, deals with him are like charming a snake. You can never be sure of his true intentions."

Aegon nodded, his expression troubled. "I know, Vaella. But I had to ensure that you and our children would be protected, no matter what happens. Larys has resources and connections that could be invaluable in a crisis."

Vaella's heart ached with the weight of his worry, but she forced herself to remain calm. "I understand why you did it, Aegon. But we must be cautious. Larys is not someone to be trusted lightly. We need to be prepared for anything."

Aegon looked at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and determination. "I couldn't bear the thought of something happening to you or our children. I needed to know that there was a plan in place."

Vaella leaned in closer, her forehead resting against his. "We'll be careful, Aegon. We'll watch for any signs of betrayal and be ready to act. But right now, we need to focus on your recovery and strengthening our position."

Aegon sighed, his breath warm against her skin. "You're right, Vaella. As always. I trust you more than anyone."

Vaella smiled, her heart swelling with love for him. They lay there, their hands intertwined, drawing strength and comfort from each other. The weight of their responsibilities and the uncertainty of the future pressed heavily on them, but their bond remained unbreakable.

As the night deepened, they talked quietly, sharing their fears and hopes, their love a beacon in the darkness. Aegon held her close, his heart filled with gratitude for her unwavering support.

…

The small council chamber was filled with an air of anticipation and tension as its members gathered around the large, intricately carved table. The news of Harrenhal's fate had reached King's Landing, and all eyes were on Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, as he prepared to deliver the report.

Queen Dowager Alicent sat at the head of the table, her expression composed but alert. Beside her, Grand Maester Orwyle organized his notes, his face a mask of scholarly concentration. Lords Jasper Wylde, Tayland Lannister, and Larys Strong awaited the news with a mixture of impatience and curiosity.

Otto cleared his throat, drawing the council's attention. "I have received word from Prince Regent Aemond and Ser Criston Cole regarding their campaign at Harrenhal."

The room fell silent, the tension palpable. Otto continued, his voice steady. "Harrenhal has been taken without a single drop of blood shed. Prince Daemon and Lord Corlys abandoned the castle and their forces before our arrival, leaving their still-loyal rivermen behind to face Lord Jason's armies."

A collective sigh of relief and murmurs of approval filled the room. Lord Jasper Wylde, his eyes bright with interest, leaned forward. "No bloodshed? That is remarkable news. It seems our strategy has paid off."

Otto nodded, his expression one of cautious optimism. "Indeed. Aemond and Ser Criston were able to secure the castle swiftly and without conflict. The rivermen loyal to Daemon have clashed with Lord Jason's forces, but Harrenhal itself is now under our control."

Lord Tayland Lannister, his brow furrowed, spoke up. "What of Daemon and Corlys? Where have they gone?"

Otto's gaze darkened slightly. "Their exact whereabouts are unknown, but it is clear they intend to regroup and continue their resistance. We must remain vigilant and prepared for their next move."

Larys Strong, ever the strategist, leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled. "Their departure from Harrenhal may indicate a shift in their tactics. We should consider the possibility that they are planning a more concentrated effort elsewhere."

Jasper Wylde glanced around the table before asking, "And where is Queen Vaella during these developments?"

Alicent, who had been listening intently, answered with a calm authority. "Queen Vaella has taken the children to the Dragonpit. She is ensuring their safety and overseeing the care of the dragons."

The mention of the Dragonpit brought a murmur of approval from the council members. Tayland nodded, his expression thoughtful. "It is wise of her to be proactive in securing the children and our dragons."

Otto took a deep breath, his gaze sweeping over the assembled council. "We have achieved a significant victory with the capture of Harrenhal, but we must not become complacent. Our enemies are still out there, and they will not rest."

Grand Maester Orwyle interjected, his tone grave. "We must also consider the implications of Daemon and Corlys's movements. If they are planning a new strategy, we must be prepared to counter it."

Alicent's eyes flickered with determination. "We will remain vigilant. The safety of King's Landing and our family is our top priority."

Larys Strong leaned forward, his voice a low rumble. "We should also keep a close watch on any signs of rebellion within our own ranks. Loyalty can be a fragile thing in times of war."

Otto nodded in agreement. "Indeed. We must ensure that our forces remain united and strong. Any signs of dissent must be addressed swiftly and decisively."

As the council members discussed their strategies and plans, the atmosphere in the room shifted from one of relief to one of determined resolve.

In the quiet moments between the discussions, Alicent's thoughts turned to Vaella and the children at the Dragonpit. She knew Vaella's presence there was a symbol of strength and protection, a reminder that their family was united in purpose and resolve.

The meeting continued, with each member contributing their insights and strategies. They discussed the fortification of Harrenhal, the movements of their enemies, and the necessity of maintaining vigilance within their own ranks.

As the meeting drew to a close, Otto stood, his expression one of solemn determination. "We have achieved a significant victory, but we must continue to push forward. Our enemies are still out there, and they will not hesitate to strike. We must be ready."

The council members nodded in agreement, their resolve strengthened by the news of Harrenhal's capture. They knew the challenges ahead would be great, but with unity and determination, they believed they could overcome them.

…

The Dragonpit loomed large and imposing, its ancient stone walls echoing with the roars of dragons and the footsteps of dragonkeepers. Inside, the air was filled with the scent of fire and the sound of leathery wings rustling. Vaella stood at a distance, her eyes fixed on her children as they engaged with their dragons under the careful guidance of the dragonkeepers.

Baelor, his face a mask of concentration, stood before Auroxas, his dragon. The magnificent creature loomed over him, its scales gleaming in the dim light. Baelor was small compared to the massive dragon, but there was a spark of determination in his eyes that made him seem larger.

A dragonkeeper knelt beside Baelor, his voice calm and instructive. "Remember, young prince, the key to commanding a dragon is confidence and clarity. A dragon responds to strength and surety. Now, let's practice the basic commands again."

Baelor nodded, his small hands clenched into fists as he steeled himself. "Dracarys," he commanded, his voice firm despite his age.

Auroxas's eyes glinted, and with a low rumble, he released a controlled stream of fire onto a designated target. The fire blazed bright, and Baelor's eyes widened with a mix of awe and pride.

"Good," the dragonkeeper said with a nod. "Now, try the command to stop."

Baelor took a deep breath, his voice steady. "Keligon."

Auroxas ceased his fire, his massive head lowering to nuzzle Baelor gently. The dragonkeeper smiled, placing a hand on Baelor's shoulder. "Well done, Prince Baelor. You are learning quickly."

Nearby, Daena was engrossed in her own interaction with her dragon, Glazhael. The dragon was smaller and more lithe than Auroxas, her scales shimmering with a silvery-blue hue on her light green coloring. Daena's face was lit with excitement as she ran her fingers along Glazhael's neck, her voice a soft murmur of affection.

"You're so beautiful, Glazhael," Daena whispered, her eyes shining with adoration.

A dragonkeeper approached, offering guidance. "Princess Daena, would you like to practice some commands with Glazhael as well?"

Daena nodded eagerly, her small hands resting on Glazhael's warm scales. "Yes, please."

The dragonkeeper smiled, showing her the basic commands. "Start with dracarys, like your brother."

Daena took a deep breath, her voice clear and confident. "Dracarys."

Glazhael responded instantly, releasing a small but controlled burst of fire. Daena's laughter filled the Dragonpit, her eyes sparkling with joy.

"Very good, Princess Daena," the dragonkeeper praised. "Now, the command to stop."

"Keligon," Daena commanded, her voice steady.

Glazhael obeyed, her head lowering to nuzzle Daena affectionately. The dragonkeeper smiled, pleased with the progress. "Excellent, Princess. You have a natural bond with Glazhael."

Vaella watched from a distance, her heart swelling with pride and love as she observed her children. They were growing into their roles, their bonds with their dragons strengthening with each passing day. The sight of them filled her with hope for the future, despite the uncertainties that lay ahead.

One of the dragonkeepers approached Vaella, his expression respectful. "Your Grace, your children are showing great promise. Their connection with their dragons is strong."

Vaella nodded, her eyes never leaving Baelor and Daena. "Thank you. They are brave and determined. I have no doubt they will grow into fine dragonriders."

The dragonkeeper smiled, his admiration evident. "Indeed, Your Grace. They are a testament to your strength and guidance."

Vaella's heart warmed at the words. She continued to watch as Baelor and Daena practiced their commands, their confidence growing with each successful attempt. The dragons responded to them with a trust and loyalty that spoke volumes of the bond they shared.

After a while, the dragonkeepers called for a break, and Baelor and Daena ran to their mother, their faces flushed with excitement.

"Mother, did you see?" Baelor exclaimed, his eyes shining. "Auroxas listened to me!"

"And Glazhael too!" Daena added, her smile wide. "She did exactly what I told her."

Vaella knelt down, wrapping her arms around her children in a warm embrace. "I saw, my brave ones. You both did wonderfully. I am so proud of you."

Baelor looked up at her, his expression serious. "Mother, do you think we will be able to help Father and Uncle Aemond with our dragons one day?"

Vaella's heart swelled with pride and love. "Yes, Baelor. One day, you will be a great help to them. But for now, your training is the most important thing. Learn well, grow strong, and when the time comes, you will be ready."

Daena hugged her mother tightly. "We will, Mother. We promise."

Vaella held them close, her heart filled with hope and determination. As they stood together in the Dragonpit, surrounded by the ancient creatures that symbolized their family's strength and legacy, she felt a renewed sense of purpose. The challenges ahead were many, but with the love and courage of her family, she knew they could face anything.

The day continued with more training and laughter, the bond between mother, children, and dragons growing ever stronger. As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the Dragonpit, Vaella felt a deep sense of peace and resolve.

Together, they would face the future, their love and unity a beacon of hope in the darkest of times. And with each passing day, Baelor and Daena grew closer to their destiny, their strength and determination a testament to the power of their family's legacy.

…

The storm clouds gathered ominously over Dragonstone, casting long shadows over the ancient, volcanic fortress. The waves crashed violently against the rocky shores, as if mirroring the turmoil within. Daemon Targaryen, his face set in grim determination, ascended the steps to the great hall where Rhaenyra awaited him.

Rhaenyra stood by the large, arched windows, her gaze fixed on the tumultuous sea. The weight of recent losses and the safety of her children weighed heavily on her mind. The door opened, and Daemon entered, his presence commanding attention.

"Rhaenyra," Daemon greeted, his voice a mix of urgency and resolve.

Rhaenyra turned to face him, her expression weary but determined. "Daemon, what news do you bring?"

Daemon approached her, his eyes flashing with intensity. "We must find a way to draw Vaella and her dragon, Cannibal, out of King's Landing and kill them. If we are to take the capital, she must be eliminated."

Rhaenyra's face paled, a flicker of horror crossing her features. "You speak of killing my sister, Daemon. That is not something I take lightly."

Daemon's jaw tightened, his frustration evident. "Rhaenyra, Vaella is the reason we are losing ground. Her presence and that of her dragon are bolstering Aegon's forces. You refuse to strike more firmly against her, and it is costing us dearly."

Rhaenyra's eyes filled with pain and determination. "She is my sister, Daemon. I cannot simply order her death without a second thought. There must be another way."

Daemon stepped closer, his voice lowering to a fervent whisper. "There is no other way, Rhaenyra. She is a threat that we cannot ignore. You must act decisively if we are to have any hope of winning this war."

Rhaenyra turned away, her gaze returning to the stormy sea. "I will act, Daemon. But first, I must ensure the safety of our children. They must be out of danger and escorted away from here."

Daemon's eyes softened slightly, understanding her concern. "I understand your need to protect our children, but time is not on our side. Every moment we delay gives Vaella and Aegon more time to strengthen their position."

Rhaenyra sighed deeply, the weight of her responsibilities pressing down on her. "I will arrange for the children to be taken to safety. Once they are secure, we will discuss our next move."

Daemon nodded, his expression resolute. "Very well. But know this, Rhaenyra: we cannot afford to hesitate. Vaella's presence in King's Landing is a sword hanging over our heads. We must act swiftly and decisively."

Rhaenyra turned to face him, her eyes blazing with a mix of resolve and sorrow. "I will do what needs to be done, Daemon. But I will not sacrifice my sister lightly. We will find a way to draw her out and deal with her, but it must be done with care."

Daemon's expression softened slightly, his respect for Rhaenyra's strength evident. "I trust your judgment, Rhaenyra. We will find a way."

As they stood together, the storm outside raging, Rhaenyra felt a renewed sense of determination. The path ahead was fraught with danger and difficult choices, but she knew that with Daemon by her side, they would find a way to overcome the obstacles that lay before them.

The great hall fell silent, the weight of their conversation hanging heavily in the air. Rhaenyra turned her gaze to the windows once more, her mind racing with plans and strategies. The safety of her children was paramount, but so was the fate of the realm.

"Daemon," she said quietly, her voice filled with a mix of resolve and sorrow, "make the arrangements for the children. Ensure their safe passage."

Daemon nodded, his eyes filled with determination. "I will see to it personally. Our children will be safe, Rhaenyra."

Rhaenyra's gaze remained fixed on the stormy sea, her thoughts a turbulent mix of love and duty. "Once they are safe, we will act. Vaella's presence in King's Landing cannot be ignored any longer."

Daemon placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "We will find a way, Rhaenyra. Together, we will secure the future of the realm."

As the echoes of Daemon's footsteps faded away, Rhaenyra Targaryen remained standing by the arched windows of Dragonstone's great hall. The storm outside had calmed to a steady drizzle, its soft patter on the glass a haunting melody that mirrored her turbulent thoughts. Alone, Rhaenyra allowed herself to be enveloped by the memories that weighed heavily on her heart.

She closed her eyes and let herself be transported back to a time when she and Vaella were just children. Vaella was only six years old, a small, delicate girl with eyes that seemed to hold the wisdom of ages. Rhaenyra remembered the day vividly, the memory as clear as if it had happened yesterday.

They were in the gardens of the Red Keep, the sun shining brightly and flowers in full bloom. Vaella, her pale blonde hair shining like spun gold, had approached Rhaenyra with a look of intense curiosity and something deeper—something troubling.

"Rhaenyra," Vaella had said, her voice small and hesitant. "Is it true that I took Baelon's soul so I could live?"

Rhaenyra had been taken aback by the question, her heart aching for her little sister. She knelt down to Vaella's level, placing her hands gently on Vaella's shoulders. "Who told you such a thing, Vaella?"

Vaella's eyes had welled with tears, her lower lip trembling. "Some of the maids. They said that when Mother was dying, the Maester took Baelon out first, and he died so I could live. They said that I took his soul."

Rhaenyra's heart had broken at the sight of her sister's distress. She pulled Vaella into a tight embrace, holding her close. "Listen to me, Vaella. That is not true. You did not take Baelon's soul. What happened was not your fault. You were both brought into this world under difficult circumstances, and it was fate that decided who would live."

Vaella had sniffled, her small hands clutching at Rhaenyra's dress. "But why did he have to die? Why did I live instead?"

Rhaenyra had stroked Vaella's hair, trying to find the right words. "Sometimes, fate makes decisions that we can't understand. Baelon was meant to be the heir, but the gods had other plans. You are here for a reason, Vaella. You have a purpose."

As Rhaenyra stood alone in the great hall of Dragonstone, the memory of that conversation weighed heavily on her. She had always tried to protect Vaella, to reassure her that her life had meaning. But now, as she reflected on the twists of fate, she couldn't help but feel a pang of resentment and fear.

Baelon had been the boy who should have been the heir, the one who was meant to carry on their father's legacy. But fate had deemed it otherwise. Vaella had survived, and in doing so, had formed a bond with their half-brother Aegon, a bond that had ultimately led to her becoming Queen, standing before the realm in a position that Rhaenyra believed was her birthright.

Rhaenyra's thoughts spiraled as she considered the uncanny parallels. Fate had intervened once, taking Baelon and leaving Vaella. And now, once again, fate had placed Vaella in a position of power, denying Rhaenyra what she had always believed was hers by right of birth.

She could not shake the feeling that there was more at play than mere coincidence. The gods, or perhaps some greater force, seemed to have a plan that she could not see. Vaella's survival and rise to power were threads woven into the tapestry of their family's history, threads that seemed to intersect and diverge in ways that defied understanding.

Rhaenyra's heart ached with a mixture of love, jealousy, and fear. She loved her sister, but she also resented the way fate had favored Vaella. And she feared what this meant for her own destiny. Was she fighting a losing battle against forces beyond her control? Was her struggle to claim the throne destined to be thwarted by the very fabric of fate?

As she stood there, lost in her thoughts, a tear slipped down her cheek. The burden of her responsibilities, the weight of her decisions, and the uncertainty of her future pressed heavily upon her. She knew she had to act, to protect her children and secure her position, but the thought of striking against Vaella filled her with dread.

"Rhaenyra," came a soft voice from behind her.

She turned to see one of her trusted advisors, a look of concern on his face. "Are you alright, my queen?"

Rhaenyra wiped the tear from her cheek, steeling herself. "Yes, I'm fine. I was just... reflecting on the past."

The advisor nodded, understanding. "The past can be a heavy burden, but we must look to the future. Your children need you, and the realm needs your strength."

Rhaenyra took a deep breath, nodding. "You're right. We must focus on what lies ahead."

As she gathered her resolve, she knew that the path before her was fraught with difficult choices. The memories of the past would always be with her, but she had to forge ahead, guided by her love for her family and her determination to secure their future.

The storm outside had calmed, but the storm within Rhaenyra's heart raged on. She would find a way to navigate the treacherous waters of fate, to protect those she loved, and to claim her birthright. The journey would be perilous, but she was ready to face whatever came her way.

…

The dawn broke over Rook's Rest with a foreboding stillness, the sky painted in shades of gray and muted gold. The castle stood imposing against the horizon, its high walls and sturdy gates a symbol of resistance. Inside the castle, Aegon II's forces prepared for the day, unaware of the storm that was about to descend upon them.

Lord Walys Mooton of Maidenpool, a seasoned warrior known for his bravery and strategic mind, had rallied his men for an audacious attack. Determined to reclaim Rook's Rest from the grip of Aegon's forces, he had devised a bold plan to strike at the heart of their strength—Sunfyre, the formidable dragon of Aegon II.

Walys gathered his bravest men in the early morning light, their faces set with determination and resolve. "Today, we take back what is ours," he declared, his voice carrying the weight of his conviction. "Sunfyre is their greatest weapon, but he is also their greatest weakness. If we slay the dragon, we cripple their forces and reclaim our honor."

The men nodded, their eyes glinting with steely determination. They knew the risks, but they also knew the stakes. Armed with spears, crossbows, and swords, they followed Walys as he led them through the forest, their footsteps muffled by the damp earth.

As they approached Rook's Rest, the air grew tense with anticipation. The sight of Sunfyre, gleaming with golden scales, brought a collective intake of breath from the attackers. The dragon lay in a clearing, his massive form coiled in rest but alert, his eyes flickering with the light of the rising sun.

Walys raised his hand, signaling his men to spread out and surround the dragon. "Remember, aim for the eyes and the throat," he instructed, his voice low but firm. "We strike hard and fast."

The first volley of arrows was loosed, whistling through the air towards Sunfyre. The dragon's eyes snapped open, and with a roar that shook the ground, he unfurled his massive wings. Despite the awkward angle of his healed wing, he moved with a deadly grace.

Sunfyre's tail lashed out, knocking several attackers off their feet. Flames erupted from his maw, engulfing those too slow to retreat. The air filled with the acrid smell of burning flesh and the screams of the dying.

Walys, undeterred, charged forward with his men. "Press the attack!" he shouted, his voice rising above the chaos. He aimed his spear at Sunfyre's throat, but the dragon anticipated the strike. With a swift motion, Sunfyre's tail swung around, striking Walys and sending him crashing to the ground.

The battle raged on, fierce and bloody. Sunfyre's rage was unrelenting, his flames cutting swathes through the ranks of the attackers. Despite their bravery, Walys's men were no match for the dragon's fury. Threescore fell to his tail and flames, their bodies littering the ground.

Walys, struggling to his feet, faced Sunfyre with grim determination. "For Maidenpool!" he cried, launching one final, desperate attack. But Sunfyre's jaws closed around him, ending his life in a burst of fire and blood.

The remaining attackers, seeing their leader fall, began to retreat. Sunfyre, his rage unabated, pursued them with terrifying speed, his flames scorching the earth in his wake. The survivors fled into the forest, their courage broken by the dragon's might.

Within the walls of Rook's Rest, the defenders watched the battle with a mixture of awe and horror. Sunfyre's victory was absolute, but it came at a cost. The dragon, though victorious, bore the scars of his previous battles, his movements hindered by his injured wing.

As the sun set, casting long shadows over the battlefield, Sunfyre took to the sky. Despite the awkward angle of his wing, he managed to lift off, disappearing into the twilight. His departure left the defenders and attackers alike in stunned silence, the aftermath of the battle a stark reminder of the power and fury of dragons.

In the days that followed, rumors spread of Sunfyre's disappearance. Some said he had flown to a distant mountain to heal, while others whispered that he had gone waiting for the call of his rider. Despite the uncertainty, one thing was clear—Sunfyre had recovered enough to fly once again, and his presence loomed large over the land.

The men of Maidenpool mourned their fallen lord, but their resolve remained unbroken. The loss of Walys Mooton was a heavy blow, but they vowed to continue the fight, their spirits fueled by a desire for revenge and a determination to reclaim their homeland.

In the quiet aftermath, as the sun set over the blood-soaked ground, the defenders of Rook's Rest took stock of their losses and prepared for what lay ahead. The battle had been won, but the war was far from over. The shadow of Sunfyre lingered, a constant reminder of the power that could tip the scales of fate.

As night fell, the fires of the battlefield burned low, casting flickering shadows over the fallen. The men of Maidenpool, their ranks thinned but their spirits unyielding, retreated to regroup and plan their next move. The defenders of Rook's Rest, weary but resolute, fortified their positions, knowing that the fight was far from over.

The siege of Rook's Rest had ended in blood and fire, but the echoes of the battle would resonate for weeks to come. Sunfyre's departure left a void that was both a relief and a foreboding, a reminder that the power of dragons could not be easily tamed or defeated.In the silence of the night, the wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the promise of more battles to come. The fate of Rook's Rest, and indeed the realm, hung in the balance, swayed by the unpredictable and deadly force of dragonfire.

#game of thrones #romance #dragons #house of the dragon #viserys targaryen #daemon targaryen #alicent hightower #otto hightower #aemond targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #aegon x oc #aegon ii targaryen

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