#daemon type: feline

[shiro-daemon]

ART FIGHT ATTACK #1 - creaturecorner

His colors burned eyes of my friends who watched my stream and I loved every second of it >:)

[starrydaemon]

Straight up have no clue what my analytic form is now lol

[eraenaa]

Silent Passions

Aemond Targaryen x Tyrell Reader Tag List

Synopsis: You and Aemond had been promised to one another before you were even born. And when the time came for you to meet, all were curious to see what was to come when soon to be spouses only shared one thing in common: your want of silence. 

Warnings: Unwanted sexual advances from Daemon Targaryen, ¿Softer Aemond?, Jealousy, Mature, 18+, P in V Sex, Not Proof Read

Word Count: 8,678 (bear with me pls)

A/N: Based on a request where they wanted "Aemond x Tyrell Reader (which has the personality of Francesca Bridgerton), and when they are about to get married, Daemon tries to seduce her, making Aemond distrust her."

A flower promised to a dragon. Long before you were born, you, a daughter of House Tyrell, had been the intended to be wed to the second son of the King, Prince Aemond Targaryen. Your mother was one of the scarce friends the Queen had made in the court after her estrangement with Princess Rhaenyra. You were born in the walls of the keep, the queen in attendance of your birth, smiling widely as the nurse announced that you were a girl— she was the first person to hold you after your mother and the wet nurse who handed you to her. “Oh, such a beauty she is…” The Queen cooed as she held you in her arms. Your mother smiled through her tiredness at how quickly the queen had taken to you. 

“She would make the most wonderful princess,” The queen sighed and returned you to your mother, turning her head towards the door where your promised groom already stood. Prince Aemond waddled to his mother. The boy was only two years old but was already meeting his intended. The queen took her son into her arms, lifting him up to see his future bride, who whined in her mother’s arms. Aemond furrowed his brows, stuck out his tongue, and made a noise of disapproval when he saw the pink-faced babe. “That’s not quite nice… show respect for your future wife,” The queen smiled and brushed the silvery locks of her son. 

That was the first and last time you and the prince met. Your mother and father returned to Highgarden as their stay in court was cut short with your father needing to return to his seat. For the first six and ten years of your life, you were promised to a man you have never met. Bearing the plight of women before you, promised to a man, not because of your will or your love for him but merely for status and to appease those who stood on high stature. You were defenseless as they paved your life before you, forcing you down a road that was often traveled by but many did not wish to cross. 

“We are to return to Kingslanding.” Your father suddenly announced. The dinner table went silent. The boisterous laughs and jests of your three older brothers and the babbles of your younger twin brother and sister growing hushed. “Why?” You asked quietly, breaking the silence. You pet the fur of your beloved feline, trying to calm your nerves as your mind brought forth a reason. “The queen requested our presence, dearest… it is time to meet your betrothed.” Your mother smiled and took hold of your hand, lightly squeezing it in comfort, thought you felt none. You lowered your gaze and tried to shut out the return of loud voices around the table. 

It was not that it was unexpected… it was just… wholly overwhelming. You took a few moments and a few more bites of your supper before excusing yourself from the loud table, needing peace and quiet. “Are you well, sister?” Your oldest brother, Edward, asked in concern, pausing his conversation with your other brothers, Edgar and Edmund. “Yes, I’m just tired.” You said with a small smile and left the dinner table with your pet. 

The matter of your betrothal with the prince was not at all an old matter. Ever since you were a child, they have instilled in your mind that you were Prince Aemond’s intended. That one day, you will be his bride. It was a subject you found troubling— for how can one live at ease, being promised to a man they had never met before? How could one truly live their life if their purpose is only to be married off— treated practically as a broodmare. 

 You were alone with your thoughts until you heard the faint knock on your door and your brother, Edmund, slowly opening it and peeking his head inside your chambers. “Yes?” You asked and sat straighter, removing your eyes from the fire you stared upon. 

“I am just making certain that you’re well.” He said softly and fully opened your chamber door, stepping in and bringing you a piece of cake for you had missed the dessert portion of your dinner. “Thank you,” You say gratefully, but simply place the piece of your favorite dessert on the table beside you, making your brother quickly grow suspicious. “What’s wrong?” Edmund asked in concern, taking his seat beside you. 

You gave him a forced smile and shook your head. “Nothing, I told you, I’m just tired.” You say softly, but your brother’s frown severed. “You’re clearly lying— no matter how tired you are, you always have energy for cake.” Your brother sighed, making you sigh as well. “I’m… I’m scared,” You admitted. Your brother nodded in understanding, “I would be surprised if you weren’t,” 

You twiddled with the ends of your hair as you and your brother were enveloped in a heavy, suffocating silence. “It’s just— I have been prepared for this since I was a babe… It’s all I know, but at the same time, I know nothing. I have no idea about him. What my life would be like after our marriage.” You say, your voice trembling with fear. “And I have been hearing rumors…” you say cautiously, your eyes upon your pet, who slept soundly on your lap.  “Rumors? You are never one to listen to rumors, "Your brother said in surprise; his sister was always indifferent to whispers and gossip. 

“Last summer, our cousin Eliza had gone to court… and there she observed Prince Aemond for me. To report to me what he was like because I had no idea of my future husband,” You began to recount the favor your cousin had done for you to ease your nerves about the marriage. “And?” Your brother leaned closer in curiosity. “She said he was… cold, aloof. Standoffish— ruthless when training with his sword. Indifferent, bordering into insulting to all members of the court.” You say quietly, uttering the harbored fear of your betrothed for almost a year now. Edmund licked his lips; your cousin Eliza was never one to exaggerate. 

“P—Perhaps it was just that summer… mayhap he has changed with the season,” Your brother tried to give a comforting smile, but it turned wary, neither of you believing his comforting but empty words. “I’m sorry, sister,” Your brother said quietly after a moment, looking at you with empathy. He also wondered how you would fare when married to a dragon prince and being a member of the den of vipers that was the court. 

You had always been timid, quiet, demure. He had always been skeptical of this betrothal set between you and the prince. He recalled how your father wanted to contest it, to break off the betrothal in your adolescence, seeing that his daughter was too soft for the harshness of royalty, but your mother did not wish for it, scared that it would offend her friend, the queen. 

“I don’t expect much from the marriage,” You spoke, “I… I only wish for him to be kind and perhaps grant me my solitude from time to time,” You added, and your brother nodded, “We shall see to it that you have it, sister. If we are to prove that the prince is ungallant or disagreeable, we shall convince Mother and Father to free you from him,” Your brother swore, and you gave him a sad smile, unconvinced by his promise but touched by the gesture of it. 

Edmund left his sister to the quiet she reveled and needed; Edmund marched in search of his other brothers. “She’s scared,” He announced as he found them in the drawing room; Edward, the eldest of them, lifted his gaze, “Who wouldn’t be?” He asked rhetorically as he sipped on his wine. “Are we truly that indebted to the crown? That we must oblige them with our dear sister?” Edgar questioned, “We are not indebted; our mother is,” Edgar replied. Your mother is forever grateful for her friend, the queen, who had shown her kindness during her time in court as a girl. She was greatly looked down upon, her father’s house inconsequential to the realm and often seen as a burden— through her friendship with Queen Alicent, she had risen through the ranks and had even secured a match with the heir of Highgarden. 

“Well, surely our sister is too great a price for this… emotional debt, especially when you consider the others who had wished to be her suitor, princes from Dorne and Essos who had sung her praises and showered her gifts for years. Yet they will force her to settle for a second son. She has not even met him! Not a letter or a token to show goodwill to his betrothed,” Edward sighed at his brother’s query. “What would you have us do?” Edgar asked, “I do not know… but if Prince Aemond is truly as harsh and tempestuous as Eliza and the realm says, we must convince them to break the betrothal.” Edmund was contented as his brothers agreed, all concerned for your marriage with a prince you had not even met yet. 

“Is all these frills truly necessary?” Aemond grumbled as he was being fitted for new garments, suffering through the needed preparations to meet his betrothed. “Yes. We cannot have you wear faded attire that reeks of dragon when you meet your betrothed. And I implore you to be kind and good-humored, Aemond. You must not scare off your wife,” Alicent sighed and nodded as the tailor bowed and finished taking the prince’s measurements. “She is not my wife,” Aemond gritted, “She is not your wife yet,” Alicent corrected, and Aemond shook his head. The dread in him was multiplying by the day. He was fortunate enough that his mother had not forced him to meet his betrothed years before, convincing himself that perhaps she had changed her mind and the betrothal could be broken, but alas, the fateful day to meet you has arrived. 

Aemond had not met you nor heard anything from you. He would think it common courtesy for you to send him at least a letter, to know him before this doomed marriage, but you had sent none— no introduction or anything. He did, however, hear talk about you, the bloomed beauty of the reach. A lady who was already betrothed the moment she was born but was still lined up by men who hoped to be her suitor. Aemond scoffed at the thought, perceiving you as promiscuous and maybe even defiled. Aemond met your cousin last summer, the lady Eliza, loud and not at all chaste. A shameless flirt who went around the castle and made a spectacle of herself, she was not you, but Aemond liked to believe that that is how you acted as well. 

Aemond tried to calm himself, to take his thoughts away from your arrival, but it would seem the castle was a growing reminder of you. He walked passed the great hall that was being dressed up for your family’s arrival. He passed the gardens where gardeners had been tending to flowers that were neglected, fretting that your family would take the wilted flowers as an offense. Aemond shook his head and walked through the guest wing, and saw how your chambers were being prepared. Aemond gritted his jaw and decided to retire early that day, but it would seem even the royal wing of the castle was being dressed up for your arrival. He frowned as he passed a once-boarded-up room being cleaned, “Who is to stay here?” Aemond asked a maid, believing his mother would place you in a chamber that was only a few steps from his own, a rather scandalous decision. 

“The prince Daemon, my prince, the hand says he is to stay for the moon,” A maid bowed, and Aemond furrowed his brow before giving a nod to dismiss the maid, and he walked off to his chambers; it would seem that it was not only your arrival he must worry about, he must worry about the arrival of his uncle as well. 

After five days of travel, you and the whole of your family arrived in Kingslanding. You took deep breaths before exiting the carriage, your kin being welcomed by a row of knights along with the Queen and her children. You could not even bear to look at anyone but the queen, scared to let your gaze travel to your betrothed. Your brothers stood by your side, offering support as all three pairs of their eyes assessed the prince, who had a look of disinterest. Edmund turned to his brothers, trying to see if they as well felt the animosity from the one-eyed prince that was easily felt. Through their eyes, they communicated silently and agreed. 

You straightened your back as you felt the Queen’s gaze upon you; only then did you raise your raise your gaze fully and presented her with a pretend smile. “My queen,” You curtsied lowly in respect; Queen Alicent smiled fondly and offered her compliments. The  queen bemused for her son to have such a comely wife. She turned to her side as she felt Aemond had still not stepped forward or had taken the initiative to introduce himself. 

Aemond sighed as he stepped forward and stiffly, almost reluctantly, bowed before you. He was staring at the skirts of your dress, refusing to look upon your face. He watched as the fabric moved as you curtsied before him. When you straightened your stance, you stared at the floor, still not catching a glimpse of your betrothed. 

You feel your brother Edgar’s arm link with yours as your family is escorted inside the walls of the Red Keep. The royal family walked in front of yours, and only then did you dare to look upon your betrothed. Recalling how your cousin had told you that prince Aemond was the taller of the two princes and had a curtain of straight, silver locks. 

Aemond felt your stare, and it took great restraint upon himself not to turn and gaze upon you to see the actuality of his intended. To deduce if the talk of your beauty was true or just another hoax. 

Aemond felt his mother step closer to him, “Invite your betrothed to the gardens— begin to acquaint yourselves with one another.” The queen whispered, and Aemond rolled his eye. “They have been traveling for five days; let them rest first before you force us to these rituals.” Aemond quietly spoke. His words were easily covered by the chatter of your brothers and two younger siblings, but he still had to hear a word to be uttered from your lips. “Very well then, but I expect you to sit and get to know her later during supper,” Alicent warned, and Aemond resisted verbalizing his disapproval, simply nodding along and going about his mother’s orders just as the dutiful son that he was. 

You and Aemond sat quietly in your seats as the table was filled with chatter. Aemond was not accustomed to it; their usual supper was suffocatingly silent; the only thing to be heard was the clatter of silverware upon porcelain and the breathing of his kin. Now, it was filled with varying conversations from your brothers and his, along with the chatter of the queen and her friend. Aemond had still not looked upon your face and nor you him. He stared upon your hand that was gripping your chalice; just from the looks of it, he could attest that it had never known a day’s work. The look of your flesh was soft, supple, unsullied—a stark difference from his own. 

“Do you think they will go on well?” The queen whispered to her friend; your mother eyed you, who sat in her seat, your gaze upon your plate. Her eyes then turned to your future husband, who gazed at the flickering amber light of a candle in between you. “I do not know… my daughter relishes in silence,” Your mother admitted, and the queen hummed. “So does my son,” 

You chewed on your lip as you noticed everyone at the table was chatting with one another, making small talk, except for you and your intended. You sat by his right, and you could make out the outline of him through the side of your eye; your view of him was a bit obstructed, but you could make out the contour of his nose. You battled with yourself if you should speak with him and, if you did, what topic would you bring up to converse with? 

Aemond licked his lips as he caught the eyes of his mother, imploring him to speak with you. He clenched his jaw and took a few calming breaths before parting his lips to speak. “H… How were your travels, my lady?” Aemond asked through gritted teeth, his head slightly turned in your direction. You blinked, trying to deduce if you had actually heard him speak. You turned to face the prince, finally seeing your betrothed eye to eye. “It was fine, my prince,” You answered quietly with a small smile before you and Aemond were enveloped in silence once more. 

Aemond did not know what overcame him when you spoke, and your eyes met his. He was expecting your voice to be shrill and loud— grating, even. He did not expect to hear such a soft, almost melodious tone when you spoke— a deep contrast from the voices of your kin. 

You bit your lip as you saw your mother from across the table imploring you to keep up with your conversation with the prince. “I— I heard you are quite fond of the histories, your highness,” You inquired quietly, holding your breath as your eyes locked with the unique gaze of old Valyria once more. “I am,” he replied curtly, and you nodded, uncertain if you should speak further or let his answer be, sensing he did not wish for small talk, a sentiment you, too, shared. 

You went quiet once more, and in other circumstances, Aemond would find relief in that, letting himself ease into the quiet, but there was an odd sensation in him that was pushing him to continue the unconventional conversation you two shared. Aemond, however, bit his tongue and let you two be enveloped in silence as you waited for supper to end. 

Aemond returned to his chambers, mind plagued by how to perceive his first encounters with you. He had prepared himself for the possibility of him growing annoyed and aggravated by your presence, but he was surprised in himself as he felt no such emotions rising within him. In truth, he felt somewhat serene that night, a feeling he had not felt in a long time. However, instead of enjoying the calm in his raging being, he ignored it, untrusting of it. Convincing himself that that night was luring him into a trap, one you had devised, acting ever so demure and coy, not presenting your true nature and only deceiving the prince. He will not fall for it. He fortified himself to not lay prey to this calming allure you offered. 

When the next morning came, Aemond was implored with the rest of his siblings to break their fast with yours. Your mothers forcing a bond between their children. Aemond expected his brother Aegon to complain and not abide by their mother’s wishes which is why he was caught off guard as his brother agreed, him being the first one to go to the gardens. “Your Highnesses,” Aemond heard your brothers greet in unison as you four stood and curtsied and bowed before the three of them. 

Aemond first assisted his sister to a chair before finding one for himself, and by fate, the only seat left was the one next to yours. Aemond sat quietly and tried to finish his meal as fast as he could without appearing crude. He listened in to the chatter across the table, surprised that you and his sister struck up a conversation as well. Aemond listened intently to your voice, trying to see if the volume of your speech was forced to lower or if that was just actually the way you spoke, soft— calming. 

He did not pay mind to the subject you and his sister discussed, but he supposed he should have as he suddenly heard quiet laughs emitting from the both of you. Aemond felt an odd warming in his chest as he heard you laugh; it was almost… surreal to hear it. Your laugh was what he imagined nymphs’ laughs would sound like as he read about them in his books. He was in a trance; it was… out worldly that even he, the well-spoken and silver-tongued prince of the realm, was speechless on how to describe it. 

He was proven wholly wrong as he based your manners to be alike your cousin. You were a stark difference from the lady Eliza, and a part of Aemond had hoped you were like her because then, he could justify the prejudice against you that settled and bloomed in his heart. Now, he must come to terms with shedding his cruel perception of you and might actually make an effort to know his betrothed better. Aemond stayed in the gardens that morning a while longer than he had anticipated, trying to deduce your character as you spoke with his sister and interacted with your brothers. A part of him still believes that what you presented was an act, that you were not as demure and chaste as you lead them to believe. But as he saw your small smiles, timid eyes, and flushed cheeks when Aegon would speak of such inappropriate topics, he started to feel as if you were being genuine. 

As the sun began to descend higher into the skies, the children of the queen and her friend decided to depart from the gardens, the heat proving to be too great for comfort. “My lady, would you perhaps like a tour of the keep?” Aemond boldly but quietly asked, he felt the eyes of your brothers turn to him, but he was trying to capture your gaze. A gaze that he had trouble locking upon his, your eyes always darting around the room, difficulty in holding prolonged eye contact. “I would very much like that, my prince,” You smiled, and Aemond stood straighter, feeling his knees give out under him just because of your smile. 

Your brother’s eyes followed you as you and the prince detached yourselves from the group. “Should we not follow them?” Edmund questioned, “Are they allowed to go about without an escort?” Edgar then asked, their queries pointed towards their eldest brother. “I— I do not know… perhaps we should just let them get to know each other, and if sister has any concerns, that is when we shall intervene.” Edward decided, his eyes following your departing figure that was next to a silver prince. 

Aemond was not entirely certain as to how he would go about touring you along the Red Keep; the castle was dreary and had nothing of note to look upon, so he took you to the gallery. It was a less frequented room in the castle filled with portraits of his family’s history as well as some of Westeros. You and Aemond stood before a portrait of the conqueror and his wives, him retelling the histories that you already knew of, but you still listened intently because there was just something in his voice that entranced you. It was deep, velvety, and quiet— holding a sense of calm that enveloped you with every word he uttered. 

Aemond guided you towards another portrait, but he noticed your gaze had shifted to the side of the room, your gentle gaze upon a harp. “Do you play, my prince?” You questioned, unable to resist the instrument that sat lonesome to the side, dusted and neglected. Aemond followed you, “No, I do not,” he answered, his eye going to your fingers, which seemed to itch to touch the strings of the unused harp. “Do you?” He asked, already guessing the answer. Aemond held his breath as your eyes finally locked with his, “I do,” you said, voice holding a pitch of excitement about the subject. There was a beat of silence, neither of you knowing what to do or say. 

“Would you like to play it?” Aemond questioned and he felt his stomach grow warm as a smile appeared on your lips when you nodded. You ventured closer to the dusted seat, but Aemond was quicker to reach it and wipe away the remnants of lapsed time. “Thank you,” You say quietly as the prince stands by your side and observes you play. 

Aemond was never one to enjoy music or songs, but he must admit, there was something captivating about how you played the harp. The tune you played was one he had not heard before, something bright and lively yet still soothing. Aemond stood in quiet awe, watching as your fingers danced along the strings and how your eyes closed, and there was a tranquil smile on your lips as you played the tune. Aemond tried to resist it, but he could not help but help himself as a smile twitched on his lips as he listened to your melody, which, unfortunately, quickly came to a halt. 

“It’s not finished yet,” You say in slight embarrassment, daring to turn to the prince, who you were surprised to see have a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You wrote that?” He questioned, and you nodded, “Well, I try. I don’t think I'm quite good at it, if I am being honest— but my father did say that this piece holds the most promise.” You say sheepishly. “I quite enjoyed it,” Aemond admitted, and that compliment made your heart grow warm. “I’m glad,” You smiled, and another silence took the room, the silence you and he found comfort in. 

With each day spent trying to acquaint with one another, you would like to beleive you and Aemond had reached a deeper understanding. Each of your perceptions made of each other before your meeting shed as you and him began to know each other’s actuality.

There was a secret language between you, a silent one, at that. An agreement that neither of you had to fill up the gaps and lags in your conversations, simply enjoying the quiet, not forcing another topic as a filler. Others around you found it odd that you and your betrothed just walked and sat in silence, occasionally speaking of something that only you and he were privy to, but you and Aemond quite liked your arrangements. 

“They just sit there in silence,” The queen fretted to her friends, finding the design of your accord quite odd. Fretting that the silence was brought by indifference rather than just a mutual and deeper understanding, because how could one get to know the other in silence? “Aye, they do, but they don’t seem… bothered or disinterested by it— I dare say they are fond of it,” Your mother said as the two observed you and Aemond, who walked along the gardens in silence, relishing in the sounds of nature. 

“My uncle shall arrive today,” Aemond broke the silence, assisting you to a seat for the two of you to have refreshments, “Oh, Prince Daemon?” You asked, wanting to make certain of who he spoke of. Aemond gave a nod and watched as your delicate fingers poured him a cup of tea. “Are you close with him, my prince?” You wondered. “No, not at all. I’ve only met him once,” He answered as he placed two cubes of sugar upon your cup, noting that is how you took your tea. 

“However, I must admit that I am intrigued by him.” You nodded, “I always hear talk in this court as to how the lords and ladies compared me to him in his youth,” Aemond confessed, “And does that please you?” Aemond thought about your question for a moment, staring into your gaze that has grown accustomed to looking upon his. “No,” he answered, watching as you nodded. “I would understand; it wouldn’t fare well if we are always compared to another’s likeness,” You mused before you and the prince were enveloped in the inevitable silence once more. 

When supper was nearing, Aemond felt excitement in seeing you once more. He had come far from the prince who dreaded your company; now, he sought it—altering his usual routine in order to spend more time with you. 

Aemond was the last one to enter the dining hall, his eye searching your frame, feeling a smirk twitch on his lips, but it quickly disappeared as he realized his uncle had taken his place. “Prince Daemon, we have saved you a seat next to the king,” Alicent spoke as she noticed Aemond’s arrival, noting how Prince Daemon was quick to spot you when he entered the hall and made a beeline towards you— chatting with you who had no interest in small talk but still participated out of respect.

“I am quite comfortable here, next to Lady Tyrell,” Daemon refused the seat, only settling further into his chair as he turned to the girl next to him, but her gaze was turned to one of his nephews, the one who had a resemblance of him in his youth. You hear the quiet yet disapproving hum of your betrothed as he orders a squire to place a chair by your right, just enough space for him to sit next to you. The new place on your right offered closer proximity between you and Aemond as you had scooted away from his uncle, but he did not like that you were on the side of a damaged eye, unable to see your outline. 

Supper was tenser than the ones shared before; the chatter had died, and the table was enveloped in silence, but not the kind you and Aemond found comfort in. It was the silence that everyone feared and tried earnestly to alter, but no matter the attempts, it seemed futile. 

Aemond clenched his fists around his utensils, hearing as his uncle tried to chat you up and you entertaining his queries. “So, what brings you and your family here, Lady Tyrell? Highgarden is quite a journey.” Daemon questioned. “They came for my betrothed and I to be acquainted,” Aemond suddenly interjected, turning his body to face you and his uncle, who he had noticed threaded closer to your side. Daemon hummed, quick to sense jealousy from his nephew. He knew he should be somewhat mature, but his mind could not help but conjure up possibilities to torment his brother’s second son. “Hm, you are quite fortunate to have such a lovely betrothed; it would seem the crown has favored you… I remember my first wife, Lady Royce, the bronze bitch whose sheep seemed to prove more comely than her,”

Your eyes widened at the elder prince’s words, disparaging his first wife so openly and offensively. “If my brother had provided me with a bride whose beauty was comparable to Lady Tyrell’s, perhaps there would be no need for me to leave my first wife… you are lucky, nephew,” Aemond clenched his jaw as he noticed Daemon’s eyes trail downward to your bosom that heaved ever so lightly as you were rendered uncomfortable by their topic.

You turned to your brothers, a plea in your eyes to save you from the princes you sat in between. Edward was quick to stand, “Come, sister, I shall escort you to your chambers,” He announced, and you let out a breath, Aemond standing as well to make way for you to exit, “Good night, my lady,” He bowed and boldly took your hand placed a kiss on your knuckles. A blush over, taking your cheeks as you curtsied before him, your mothers thrilled as they saw affection blooming between the two of you. 

“You looked quite uncomfortable,” Your eldest brother noted. “Is your betrothed proving to be ungallant? Must we intervene now and convince mo—“ You quickly shook our head, “No! Prince Aemond has been quite… lovely; cousin Eliza was somewhat wrong in her judgment,” You say quickly in defense of Aemond, who you had grown to deeply like the past few days. “I was just not prepared to meet a character such as the Prince Daemon,” You added, and your brother nodded in understanding; he, too, was scandalized as he heard the words uttered by the elderly prince. 

“So, you have grown to be quite… fond of your betrothed,” You bit your lip as you hear a teasing tone in his voice. You sighed and felt a smile coming to your lips. Whatever fear you had for the marriage subsided with every silent and serene moment with Aemond. “I have.” You confirmed, and your brother nodded. Placing a kiss on your temple before you enter your chambers and get ready for the night.

It has been three days since Prince Daemon’s arrival, and Aemond has been growing peeved at how his uncle would always trail you. Aemond’s new routine of spending the quiet hours of his days with you that was quick to feel like second nature, abrupted by the arrival of his uncle. There were now only scarce moments where you and Aemond were left in each other’s company and quiet, his uncle always trying to speak with you, and you could not deny him conversation, for it would be impertinent. 

It was past high noon when Aemond concluded his training with Ser Criston, his feet hastily carrying him away from the tiltyard to find you, who had frequented the gallery to play the old harp that found new life from your touch. He stood by the threshold and was quick to grow annoyed as he noticed his uncle was in your presence once more. 

“You do not speak much, do you?” He heard Daemon question, your fingers ceasing to play the instrument. “I take it upon myself to not speak unless spoken to, my prince. I do not wish to bother anyone. I know how… annoying it can be when one just simply wishes for peace and quiet, but there is an insistent noise you must attend to.” You say, and Aemond was quite surprised as he heard a slight in your comment, but his uncle did not seem to catch it. 

Aemond observed as you returned to play the harp, the melody easing whatever tension he harbored, but it was quick to return as his uncle wandered closer to you. Aemond stood rigid by the door; your back was face to him and he saw his uncle turn his head towards the door, a smirk on his lips as he stepped further into your space. Daring to take a lock of your hair in his fingers, twirling the lock. 

You tensed in your seat as you felt Prince Daemon’s finger twirl your hair. You looked at the strings of the harp wide-eyed, uncertain of what to do. 

When Aemond noticed your unmoving frame that did nothing to hinder his uncle’s actions, he removed himself from the door frame and marched back to his chambers. Whatever understanding made between the two of the past days was quickly forgotten as his cruel perceptions of your nature, he mustered before meeting you returned. 

You sat tensely at dinner that night once more, waiting for the presence of your betrothed to somewhat comfort as his uncle sat next to you again. When Aemond entered the hall, you placed your hopeful gaze upon him, but he did not turn to you, ignoring the empty seat next to you and instead to a seat in what was supposed to be the place of his uncle. 

Throughout dinner, you would peek a look at Aemond, who refused to meet your gaze. There was a prominent scowl on his face, and his demeanor held an air of indifference that strayed dangerously close to animosity. You started to wonder if the Aemond you stared upon right now was the Prince your cousin had warned you about. And perhaps the past few days spent with him was an act, a fictitiousness in him to appease his mother so the marriage would proceed. You were disheartened by the thought. 

When the following morning came, Aemond’s eye followed as you roamed the halls alone, following behind you but not close enough for you to notice your presence. You led him back to the gallery, where both of you were caught in surprise when his uncle stood in the room, waiting for you. Aemond clenched his fists, believing he was a witness in your clandestine meetings. The scandal of it! Here you are, an engaged woman meeting with a man who was old enough to be your father and was married to the King’s chosen heir!

“My prince,” you curtsied as you spotted him near the harp, having the urge to turn back around and exit the room. Uncomfortable to be alone in the Rogue Prince’s presence. “All alone? Where is your betrothed?” Daemon mused, stepping closer to you. “I— I do not know,” You said and backed away from the prince who was threading closer to your space once more. “Hm, it’s quite foolish of him to leave his lovely bride to be all alone… especially in this keep where danger always lurks,” Your lips parted at his words. Was that a threat? You thought. 

You swallowed thickly and turned to the door, wanting to make an escape but not one so obvious that it would make suspicion rise. Daemon smirked as he saw fear in your eyes; it was so easy. You were such an innocent and sheltered thing. He could smell you from leagues away, a lovely and tempting prey that a dragon could never resist. It was a shame that you were betrothed to his nephew, but perhaps that could still change. 

You gasped as you felt Prince Daemon flush your bodies; you stared at him wide-eyed as he took hold of your cheek. 

Aemond watched the scene; rage within burned bright and carelessly. He wanted to put a stop to whatever he witnessed, but he stood in wait, wanting to find evidence if this was truly how you were— promiscuous and would settle to be a whore of his uncle.

“My prince, wh—“ You panicked, trying to back away, but he held you still. “Such a pretty young thing you are… a shame that you’ll be wasted on my disfigured nephew,” You drew out all of your might and pushed away Prince Daemon, him stumbling only a few paces. You see a sinister smirk rise to his lips as he tries to close the gap between you once more, but you are quick to strike his cheek, rendering him in shock, and you take that opportunity to run out of the room and into safety. 

Aemond was hidden behind a pillar, and as you passed, he saw clearly the distress on your face and how you were on the verge of tears, rendering him guilty for not coming to your aid as he had thought you were in want of his uncle. 

Aemond saw as Daemon furiously marched out of the gallery in pursuit of you, but he was quick to step away from his hiding and face his uncle. “You dare try to sully her? Was my half-sister and your whores not enough? Must, in your old age, still prey on young innocent girls?” Aemond spat, ready to challenge his uncle in your honor. Daemon chuckled as the young prince stared at him wide-eyed. “You get ahead of yourself— they might compare you to me in my youth, but you are completely lacking of what it means to be a true Targaryen prince… you’d have to thank your cunt of a mother for that.” Daemon chuckled, and Aemond no longer hesitated to draw out his sword. 

A battle between nephew and uncle commenced in the halls; both men wielded their weapons with such authority that neither one could draw blood. Daemon was somewhat impressed by his nephew. He thought the talk he heard of Aemond was just propaganda spread by his grandsire, but it would seem that his nephew knew his way with the steel. That, however, did not deter the prince, for Aemond was still completely inexperienced when compared to him. 

One of the princes was near drawing blood when a band of Kingsguards appeared in the halls and were quick to separate the dueling princes. Daemon laughed as he was held back by the knights, his nephew still seething across from him, still ready to attack. The elderly prince brushed off the hold on his arms and laughed once more before walking away from his nephew, leaving their state as it was. 

Aemond brushed off the guards and hastily marched in search of you, wanting to make certain you were well— wanting to offer his apologies for his judgments and lack of protection over you. 

He knocked on your door, waiting on bated breath as he heard you shuffling inside. When you slowly revealed yourself, Aemond felt his stomach pit at the sight of your teary eyes that you tried to hide. “I’m sorry,” He was quick to breathe out, unable to stomach you in such a state of distress. Your brows knit together at his words, “What? My pri—“ Aemond shook his head and forced himself into your chambers. 

“I’m so sorry, my lady… I—“ Aemond repeated but you still had no clue as to what he refers to. “My uncle, he is a depraved man; I should have protected you from him.” He explained as he saw confusion in your face. Your eyes widened at his statement, “You saw us?” You asked in fear that he would think you were tarnished. “I have, and I… I should have come to your aid, but instead, my mind cruelly thought you were in want of him; I apologize, my lady.” It felt foreign for Aemond to apologize, but it seemed to roll off his tongue effortlessly for you. He would never have fathom to encounter someone or the day that he would apologize earnestly, ready to beg for forgiveness. 

“No… my prince, you need not apologize; it was not your doing,” you said, but Prince Aemond stubbornly shook his head. “It is my duty to protect you— to defend my lady wife.” You bit your tongue as he referred to you with such a title. It felt surreal… and you must admit it brought a stir in you that you quite liked. 

You and Aemond were in silence once more, the silence both of you had gotten used to, the silence within each other that you both craved. The serene silence that could only be provided by each other. “Will you still… still have me? Even after my transgression?” Aemond dared ask, not wanting to live in the hope that there would still be a way that you would be his. Surely, you would be deterred to take him as your husband, for he could not even defend you with such a threat. Aemond studied your face, his knees growing weak as a smile spread across your lips. “I still want you, my prince,” You admitted, heat blooming in your cheeks as you said the words. Aemond could not help but cup your cheek, wanting to feel the warmth of them as they flushed with color before him. 

“I must admit… I was dreading to meet you,” He said quietly, and he felt you nod. “I, as well… I was greatly warned that we might not see eye to eye.” You admitted. Aemond hummed and brushed his thumb across your soft skin, your bodies threading closer and closer. “I do not believe I would ever want someone as much as I want you,” Aemond confessed, his voice so low that if you had not felt his breath fanning your skin, you would think you had imagined his words. “I never thought anyone would understand me in the way that you do, my prince,” You breathed out as his face threaded closer to yours, his eye on your lips as you spoke. 

“You’re mine… say it, my darling.” Your eyes fluttered closed at his words. “I’m all yours,” Quickly after you uttered the words, you feel his lips upon yours. A kiss filled with longing— impatience. A kiss that was long overdue, for how could either of you live for years without knowing each other? How could Aemond try to ignore your existence, and how could you try to deny this marriage? It was set the day you were born. You two were simply destined for one another. 

As your lips parted, you smiled before your soon-to-be-husband. Aemond hummed in contentment and tucked a lock of your hair behind your ear, inhaling your intoxicating scent deeply. “Shall we tell our mothers that they shall prepare for our wedding, then?” Aemond smiled, and you let out a quiet laugh as you nodded, letting him hold you. “And urge them to make haste,” Aemond’s eye twinkled with amusement as he dipped down to capture your lips once more. 

A fortnight had barely passed before you and Aemond uttered your vows before the gods—an intimate wedding commenced, as you both requested. And it was followed by a family dinner after. Aemond was impatient, as were you, but you and he waited for the meal to end; for the past days, there was a need greatly bubbling inside him, having trouble finding restrtaint and contentment with just stolen kisses and touches. 

When it was finally night, Aemond led you to his chambers, you already flushing in anticipation of what was to come. When he led you to your shared chambers, you were met by something covered in a white cloth. You frowned and turned to your husband, who simply smiled and closed the door behind you. “It’s a gift for you.” He said and stood before it. You stepped closer as he urged you to uncover what he had given, though you already had a sneaking feeling as to what it was. 

Aemond watched with his heart in his eye as you beamed before him as you uncovered what he had given— a harp. Newer and grander than the one in the gallery, the body was plated with gold, and delicate carvings of flowers scattered its body. You bit your lip and step towards your husband, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your lips agaisnt his. “Thank you… I love it,” you said gratefully as your lips parted. Aemond simply hummed, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know we were to exchange gifts… I could’ve gotten something,” You then say, fretting he would take offense. 

Aemond shook his head. “You already have given me your hand; you are my wife. What more could I want?” Those words uttered, and the certainty in Aemond only made you melt further. He intertwined your lips once more, but the kiss shared held something wholly different from the ones shared before; it was urgent, filled with longing and desires that were greatly suppressed. 

You feel breathless, but at the same time, you make no move to part your lips. You feel him lead you to the feathered bed, his hands on your waist as he sits you gently upon the cushion. You blushed as you felt his fingers hover at the bodice of your dress, itching to undo the laces, but there was trepidation in him. You bit the insides of your cheeks and took the initiative to do it yourself. Aemond sucked in a deep breath as your dress fell before him, revealing yourself only dressed in your shift. 

Aemond fell on his knees before you, moving his hand to cup your cheek and the other to undress you further. He heard a moan escape your lips as he nipped your bottom lip. His cold hand cupped your breast that pebbled before his touch. You mewled his name as he parted your lips, your hands finding the buttons of his leather tunic. 

You ran your hands through his smooth, chiseled chest and Aemond felt chills running down his spine at the feel of your hands on his skin. You let out a breath as you feel your husband lay you down, his weight atop you, his weeping length aligned with your glistening entrance. You sighed as you felt his finger tease your folds, Aemond resting his forehead up your shoulder as he felt your arousal. “You’re all mine, my darling,” Aemond breathed out against your lips and swallowed your whines as his length penetrated you.

Aemond groaned at the sheer feel of you clenching around him. Pleasure and guilt swirled within him as he saw your face contorted in pain, kissing away your tears as you acclimatized yourself with his length. He truly thought himself indifferent in the ways of pleasure, only succumbing to it occasionally when even he could not suffice his lust— but now, he was certain he knew what the fuss was all about when it came to fucking. He had only a taste of you, but he was certain he was addicted. It took a moment before your whines of pain turned into whimpers of pleasure, your husband breathing heavily as you urged him to speed up his pace, but Aemond was conscious not to break and hurt you further. 

“Aemond, please… I wa— need more,” You breathed as Aemond’s thrusts were cautious. He bit his lip and sped up his pace ever so lightly, but that was not enough for you. With your legs circling his waist, you shifted your weight and placed yourself atop your husband. Aemond was rendered stunned by your actions, only watching in awe as you bounced upon his cock whilst you straddled his waist. He never thought you’d have it in you, but he supposed it was always the quiet ones who would be capable of the unexpected. 

“You were so quiet the days before, little wife… but look at you now— your moans could be heard throughout the castle.” Aemond hummed, and his hands found home on your waist, assisting you as you writhed against his length. Your hands were planted on his chest as your hips worked against his in search of friction. “Husband, please,” you pleaded, knowing you would not come to what you searched for without his assistance. Aemond smirked and moved his hands to cup your behind and lifted his hips to thrust deeper and harsher into you. 

“Yes… yes, gods, Aemond!” You cried as you heard him groan at how you scratched his chest, leaving imprints of your hands upon his skin. “Are you to come, my darling? Is my little wife to come at my cock?” He hissed as he felt his own release coming. His hands traveled your frame, cupping your tits and moving his head to take one into the cavern of his mouth. You nodded, your head that was tilted to the heavens, your back arched, and your husband’s name slipping your lips as you came undone. You hear him call out your name as he spills his seed deep in your cunt, your heavy breathings mixed as you collapse atop him, his lips finding yours once more. 

“You truly are made for me,” he whispered against your lips. Feeling a surge of new and overwhelming emotions that you could not yet utter, all you could do was kiss his lips once more and bask in the presence of the man who had been bound to you the moment you were born. 

[thedepartmentofdiscoveries]

[drtenebrisxii]

"Onírica - Magical Sparring!"

Dagna and Ayán training in the honorable art of magical combat!

Magica combate has to aspects: the visible one that is about manifesting spells and attacking the opponent with them, and the invisible one, the actual clash of wills through their auras. A wizard may lose if they get hit by an incapacitating spell, if they ran out of stamina first, or if the other manage to nullify their aura or manages to affect his mind and soul with a sneaky aura assault.

Aura's are invisble and require focus to see them, but wizard can naturally feel the aura of other wizards through emotions that are not theirs, and mental images, sounds and even smells that are associated to the owner of the aura. Every living being has an aura, but only magic users can control it at will to alter their enviroment (cast magic) and use them as a sort of sixth sense…

I'm using colors to show how the auras clash and try to pierce each other in attempts to get the rival. So far I like the idea but who knows what else may come :p

Hope you like this! ^^

[ladyempty]

"It's a beautiful night, and you even more so, My Lady"

° | !English is not my first language! ° |pairing: Yan!Daemon Targaryen x Lady!Reader ° | This is a yandere work and may contain triggering behavior. I'm not in favor of that in real life.

Power was Daemon's greatest motivation for living. The growing desire for more, eager to have more power, more influence, the pulsing, anesthetic adrenaline that clouded his mind making him act recklessly. Always living by emotion, almost never by reason.

Consequently, the Iron Throne and her parental rights were at the top of her list. Above anyone. It just felt right, he had helped Viserys rise to power, partly because he loved his brother, and partly because he liked being so close to the throne as Viserys' unofficial heir.

Daemon thought for years that having the throne for himself would be the greatest happiness he could achieve.

His teenage niece was key to his personal achievement. Of course, he thought Rhaenyra was beautiful, witty, passionate and fun. In addition to the burning desire that they both had along with the passion.

But nothing prepared him for the overwhelming, knockout feeling that would hit him with the speed of an arrow when he met you.

The moment the bright purple eyes of malice and mockery landed on his majestic figure, At the banquet organized to celebrate his niece's wedding, a burning fire rose through his body, infiltrating his bowels until it settled in his heart.

Daemon was not religious, he just believed, without much faith, in the Valerian gods. But upon seeing you, he was sure that a higher being sculpted you for his attention and temptation. Made for your eyes to analyze and admire.

From one minute to the next, the throne was a distant thought and Rhaenyra was just a momentary feeling, even superficial compared to what he felt so quickly and overwhelmingly for you.

He wanted you. Now. This instant. And Daemon had never been so happy and relieved to have gotten rid of his first wife as at that moment.

Yes, the first, because you would be the second.

The rogue Prince didn't like the color green, he abhorred the color with a fervent hatred, largely because of Otto, But he found the soft green dress you were wearing at the moment very pleasant. But a blood red dress would be even better.

His cunning eyes were fixed on you without any shame or shame. So intense and fun that he seems to see through your dress, undressing you in his thoughts far beyond simple clothes, he wanted to see beyond your soul.

And when Daemon Targaryen wanted something. He conquered. And not even his father's half-closed gaze could stop him, it just made him open a feline, predatory smile on his thin lips, a glimpse of his white teeth.

That same night, at that same banquet, Daemon decided to start pulling strings. As soon as the bride and groom's dance ended and the lords and ladies were able to gather in the center of the room to dance, Daemon was fast, moving carefully through the crowd of people, his eyes fixed on you as his calloused hand quickly snaked around your waist, pulling you close, almost against his chest, and smiled mockingly at the other lord. Saving the image of his face for a little visit later.

"Sorry, but I spotted it first." Daemon quickly pulled you away from the man, and didn't pay attention to any protests you might have while helping your body to dance.

After that, it didn't take long for the man's invasive procession.

The prince's intimidating presence was constant, almost a cunning shadow moving carefully until he found you, attracted like a magnet, starting conversations that were always more intimate than they should be, always deeper and with jokes and manners that were far from gentlemanly. Of course he had already investigated everything he could about you, but he liked it when you told him. His sweet voice softly entering your ears.

After the initial step, they saw the gifts, countless gifts with the intention of gaining favor and marking a territory that was no longer public. The countless red and black dresses,Valyrian steel pendants with heavy ruby stones, earrings and bracelets. All to mark you as a dragon and no longer a sheep. Just tell him what you want and he will gladly give it to you. And you can't ignore or reject their gifts.

The third step was to try to instill a certain fascination in you with ancient valyria. He will ascend to the heavens together with you holding tightly to his breastplate the moment he presented Caraxes to you. He would spend long hours talking about his victories and the superintendent of the Targaryens, after all they were closer to men than to the Gods. And would definitely smile broadly if you showed any interest. If you didn't seem intrigued or even upset, well, that's funny... Do you think you have choices?

Daemon is beyond possessive and jealous. This man is completely insane and has no hesitation in seriously harming or killing anyone he deems a threat. You are his. Why doesn't this get into other people's heads?

He doesn't want to lose you. Not that Daemon Targaryen thinks he can be replaced, but you know, they tried to attract or divert you from your path. And he won't allow it.

He wants you to trust him. Depending on him. He wants you to give yourself body and soul just to him.

And the wedding didn't take long to arrive. Don't you want to marry him? This is a shame because you will be his wife, have his heirs and be touched and admired only by his hands.

You should have already learned. You have no choice.

[themotherofblood]

Ruie my dear, can I get an imagine or oneshot fluff Daemon x poc Martell (or Essosi) fem! reader where they're married with kids and reader is pregnant again and for some reason Daem decides to give her a tiger as a gift, at first she's kind of confused and really surprised (like how/when/where and why of all possible gifts he chose a fucking tiger ) but the children are fascinated by the animal and in the end she ends up getting attached too. Just some good old fluff with some humor if possible please? (if that doesn't make sense, sorry is that I saw a picture of a tiger and a half of this idea and coincidentally saw that you reopened your requests, so… but feel free to ignore it and sorry for my English)

ahhh, I really wanted make a longer one but felt I should keep the fluff to the point so here’s a blurby fic

WC: 1.2k?

You had laid lounged out in the beach, your pink chiffon gown clinging to your skin in the warm summer breeze. A small white haired child sat a few feet away from you, six summers of age and the prettiest lady in all of the Known World. Her hair, the same as her father and her skin, the very olive tanned aura of your own. There was much serenity in the small family of comfort you had procured, a fiery husband who filled you to birth your firey daughter Alyssa. She sat making castles out of sand, far enough that the moat would fill with water but wouldn’t topple her creation.

“Madame, the prince had returned from Bravos,” an attendant tore you attention from your daughter, Daemon had been gone for near a week, away striking bargain or mostly threatening people with his dragon to get what he wanted. You acknowledged the servant before he took his leave, from your periphery out pours the vision of silver hair blowing against the winds as the thuds of his boots against the sand filled your ears

“Papa!” Alyssa shrieked, pulling herself up with wobbly legs and running over to Daemon. Ready to throw herself at him as he reached down to swing her body up to towards him. She giggled and shrieked some more, pressing kisses to his cheeks as she giggled at him tickling her. He smiled at where you were sat, curls in a neat braid and the curve of your swollen belly against your dress, he did that, the glow of motherhood adorning your skin so pretty, he did that.

He walked over with Alyssa in his arms to situate himself next to you, the girl once again ran of to finish her architectural masterpiece as Daemon leaned his head down to lay a peck at your belly before letting your lips, “have they been good?”

You nodded, “they simmered down a while ago, might have grown bored fighting within mama, huh?” you questioned at your belly.

“Papa look! M’ made a castle!” Alyssa said, waving her hands frantically to grab her father’s attention.

He complimented his girl, his lips curling wider. “I brought you something,” he whispered, his small finger tracing against your jaw as he kissed your lips once more before standing up. He reached down to pull you up before pulling Alyssa onto his lap as he led you inside the palace. Alyssa all through babbled about the shells she found and the baby crabs she saw. Daemon humming along, finding her stories to be valiant stories of knights, his perfect poppet with her legs hanging couldn’t help but spew every detail of her day to her father.

“What have you done?” you stopped at your tracks, the white feline that seemed of popped it’s head out a wicker basket.

“I’ve bought you a big cat,” Daemon said all nonchalant as Alyssa wiggled in his arms to be let down, “go on, help mama name it,” he told her.

“Daemon,” you hissed at him. “That is a bloody tiger,” you covered your daughter’s ear as you glared at him.

“Mind you, they are tigers,” he corrected as the other orange feline joined his brother and popped the basket over as they escaped.

“Daemon…” you sighed, feeling a nerve in your head pop as you looked the aquarium of snakes and the pit for the small alligator he had procured months before.

“Until my darling’s egg hatches, she gets whatever animal she wants,”

You hadn’t realized how serious Daemon had been about turning this palace into a humid jungle. “What does it even eat?”

“Boots apparently,” Daemon chuckled as one waddled over to him and began nibbling on the fine leather of his boot.

“We keep it?” Both Daemon and Alyssa began to give the eyes, this was a plot, being teamed up against with purple eyes pleading at you. “please mama,” she whispered, her little tongue poking out to pronounce her “l’s” as “w” this was extortion.

“Fine,” you sighed once more.

After supper that night you sat by the glowing hearth, in it laid the metal pot with Alyssa egg. You were willing to hatch with all your maternal rage, hatch you damn fire bird, “glare at it harder my love, it will bond to you instead Alyssa,” Daemon pulled you from your anger fuelled staring.

“I swear on my milk cakes Daemon, if those cats, lizards and snakes eat your precious daughter. I am not birthing you another,” you pouted as he slotted himself behind you, lifting your shift to lay his warm palm upon the babes moving within you.

“Hush, just shhh,” he hummed against your temple. “What animal do you want, I’ll get you one to be rid of this fuss,” he mused.

“I have you, isn’t that more than enough,” you chuckled, already picturing the scowl that settled behind you.

“Huh, I am a dragon, just as these beauties within,” he poked at your middle.

“I was thinking more of a cute white sheep,” you giggled once more.

“Oh? Sheep is it,” his brows shot up as he turned your body to lay under him as he held his weight up by his elbow next to you head. “Would a sheep make you swell so full, hmm.”

The piercing gaze of his eyes made you wriggle underneath him as you shook your head.

“Make your breasts-“ Daemon’s salacious deeds would have continued had you not heard a very faint crack, you both stared at the egg for moment before Daemon shook his head and resumed pressing kissed down your neck.

Another faint crack,

“Gods Daemon!” you whispered in shook as you furiously tapped his shoulder, the top of the egg cracked open. Both of you froze in your compromising position before Daemon shuffled of you and rushed for the door.

You wanted to peak inside, yet you knew to give the little things it’s time to realize what was happening. Daemon returned with a groggy Alyssa with her head buried in his shoulder. “Darling look,” he shook her, patting her back to wake her up just enough to see what she was to become.

The egg rattled as a wing popped out, one of red membranes and purple scales, then popped out it’s tiny head. Alyssa, though usually a loud child, silently watched as her new friend crawled away from the egg pot.

Alyssa lifted her baby finger, apprehensively hiding her face in Daemon’s chest as the baby dragon grazed her skin. She flinched away only to turn to you with the widest smile you had ever seen. “Name it,” you whispered.

“Dragon!” She excitedly whispered making Daemon and you chuckle. “Yes zaldrititos, but you cannot name a dragon, Dragon,” Alyssa’s smile downturned as she looked to her father. You could tell she was thinking hard, reaching within her small vocabulary to find a name.

“Crocus,” she looked to her father for approval, you shook your head. After all, something of yours influenced her as she named the dragon a flower from your hand grown gardens.

“Crocus,” he agreed.

Alyssa sat upon the rug with the baby dragon climbing in her shoulder as Daemon returned to sit next you, the scene unfolding in front of you, so intimate and sweet you hadn’t realized your eyes were wet until Daemon wiped at them.

“Daemon,” you sniffled, he hummed as a reply.

“You bring another animal into the house, you sleep on the floor,”

[mock-arts]

In honor of me not having any more bangs on the schedule for the year, here's part 1/2 of my 2023 cover collection! This portion 100% star wars. The next bit will be up tomorrow. I've started a cover collection tag for the compilations like this, but you can always look through all my bang art in my big bang tag. Though, not all of these were for big bangs. Eh, whatever.

Links and summaries below the cut!

Cover collection 2023

So There's this Guy by @catbuirs-alt & @elsaanna007 (art) (with more art by @anstarwar)

The war is over!

Jesse, Kix, Echo and Fives live together in an apartment on Coruscant.

Echo finds himself in a new romance with a beautiful woman named Hehna. After finding himself lacking in experience, Fives offers to help him out with advice and practice.

Unfortunately for Fives, this awakens some feelings he thought were buried deep and he doesn’t know what to do about them. He decides to put them aside and be happy that Echo has found someone.

Fives’ advice does help Echo become more confident with his new girlfriend, but something is holding him back. His thoughts keep returning to his best friend and he’s not the only one who notices. Will Fives keep his role as the best friend, or will Echo realize that his attraction to Hehna pales in comparison to his feelings for Fives?

Keep by @tallnegotiations (art)

Vader is a technical genius, it is a well-known fact. So, following his defeat at the hands of his old Master on Mustafar and the rise of the Empire, Vader executes his greatest act of genius to prove his dominance: he creates an artificial intelligence modeled after Obi-Wan Kenobi.

After the rise of the Empire, nothing remains of Commander Cody except for CC-2224, just another rank-and-file stormtrooper among many. He goes where he is told to go, shoots where he is told to shoot, and doesn't question it because good soldiers follow orders.

A droid told to be human meets a human told to be a droid. They meet somewhere in the middle.

(Tooka) Cat-Scratch Fever by @pebblish (art)

Luke is lonely, and instead of joining space bumble decides to cure the problem with a tooka cat. When he visits a shelter, he stumbles upon the most unadoptable feline there- a scarred, jet black, mangy creature that tears apart the homes of any who dare to adopt him.

Darth Vader has been turned into a tooka cat by his former Master, Darth Sidious. And now, he's been adopted by some blonde brat who has no idea who he's dealing with.

The pair of them are in for some startling revelations, and each will have to learn that what you want isn't always what you need.

I Wear My Sunglasses at Night by Trillium Orchid (art)

Force Osik can make things difficult and decidedly strange. Sith versions of Cody, Fox, Thorn, Thire, and Stone get switched with the bodies of their alternate selves that are from a near-cannon timeline…

They decide to Help Things- and manage to kill the Chancellor. Meanwhile, the vod’e that they switch with is trying to get back home and hop a few universes before getting switched back… after the Sith versions kill the Chancellor.

Ripple in the Universe by @darthtarvera (art)

Jango Fett has done many things in service to Mandalore. Tricking a couple of Jedi so he can use them to get to the heart of a conspiracy seems simple enough to add to the list. Get the Jedi, get to Mandalore, and find the traitors. One more step to take on his path to fix the mistakes from the last time he did this.

Ripples on the water can have longer-lasting effects than you might think. Jango Fett and Obi-Wan Kenobi meet years before they were supposed to.

This changes things.

An Hourglass in Hand by @ecarian (art) (with more art by @blog-o-randomness)

“I thought daemons didn’t eat,” Rex noted once, during a celebration feast, as he and Cody watched Boga devour her meal with some fascination. Varactyl she may be, but she was a tiny one. There wasn't much interior space for the truly momentous amount of meat she was ripping into. Boga daintily rubbed her beak against a folded serviette that looked kind of like a bird, and said, prim, “I can do anything a human can do.”

“Oh?” Obi-Wan said mildly, from where he’d been tapping at a datapad. “Shall I save you a portion of these reports then?”

No Trophies, Only Prisoners by @diviluscorner (art)

Jango’s life took a wrong turn somewhere around Geonosis and spat him out years later to haunt one of his clones.

Or perhaps Jango doesn't realize the Force has other plans for him.

Every Shadow by @kenobster (art)

The days on Kadavo were long, but the nights moved quickly. Hundreds of pairs of wide, sleepless eyes haunted the space of the holding cells. Droves of terror clogged the heavy, sweaty air, and every sound, however faint, was like a physical ripple across the crowd. Every sound. The jingling of keys, the clicking of locks, the thudding of boots, and that’s how the nights on Kadavo started—with a gradual increase in the degree of quiet.

OR—during the mass casualty event following Kadavo and Zygerria, Obi-Wan and Anakin seek ways to cope with trauma.

[wonderbias]

Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) - Chapter Two

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (Visenya Targaryen)

Warnings: MDNI, +18, language, violence, manipulation, sexism (style a la medieval), blood, angst, kinslayer Aemond, Valyrian supremacist Daemon.

AN: The dividers are from @itbmojojoejo. Their work is awesome, and they make one of the prettiest dividers I've seen. Any questions/asks/any kind of message, feel free to contact me. Enjoy!

AN2: So...here it is. I've been typing as fast as I can once I got the idea, not even my college projects got this much attention from me. Thank you so much for the support and for waiting, you don't know how much it means to me! As always, this isn't beta-ed so...any mistakes, it was a fairy or a witch. Thank you!

Aemond had never felt so confused in his life. The past few days had been a whirlwind of chaos, tears and so much confusion.

The news that his wife had vanished from their chambers had been sent to every House of the Realm. Everyone was distraught -even his grandfather had been very vocal about his worry- and the Lords were pressing on his family for any information.

The day that Rhaenyra renounces her claim to the Throne her only daughter disappears?

Strange.

“A plot” “A trap” “Too many coincidences” “Doesn’t look good” “Where does this leave us?”

The Lords whispered in the hallways and even in front of the King, the atmosphere was filled with tension and it seemed like nobody wanted to be on the Targaryen’s side.

But the days passed and, as Rhaenyra’s cries could be heard at every hour, the questions started to change -especially when the servants started whispering of seeing the Rouge Prince praying on the Godswood of the Red Keep- towards the Royal family.

“I’ve heard that the princess was lonely.” “She was locked in her room.” “Queen Alicient had forbidden her from contacting her family.” “Silverwing is locked in the Dragon’s Pit, she wasn’t allowed to fly.” “They wanted her gone.” 

Still, even with more questions, not even an answer came. 

The Hand was quick to diminish the rumors and assured everyone that there was a search party for the Princess, ravens had been sent and every House had been ordered to make a search party. The City Watch, with Daemon at its head, had raided Kings Landing in search for any clues or rumors, but it came back empty handed.

Nobody knew what to do.

At the advice of the Master of Law, the Crown and Rhaenyra -after some convincing of the Dowager Queen and Lord Corlys- had agreed on an interrogatory of servants, guards, lords, ladies, and any person who had been that day with Visenya.

After listening to the fifth servant describe how she had been scrubbing the floors of the Great Council’s room, Aemond had felt a stinging pain in the empty eye socket, caused without a doubt by the stress and the lack of sleep. He had tolerated it for some time, focusing on the table and not looking directly at the light, but as time passed the nausea appeared. He had been granted permission to leave the interrogatory by the Hand -the King was obviously very occupied fucking some maid to be present-.

As he moved through the room towards the door, he could feel Daemon’s and Rhaenyra’s eyes piercing his back.

He was pulled from his slumber by a knock in the wall.

A knock in the hidden passageway.

His hand searched for his dagger as he moved out of the bed, swiftly walking to the wall he knew hid the passageway.

Only when he moved closer did he hear the pattern.

tap tap

pause

tap tap tap

Quickly and with his heartbeat resounding in his ear, he opened the entrance.

A body crushed into his, its scent of sandalwood and dried flowers hitting his nose. He pressed his face against the thick black hair, his hands roaming the curves of the body he knew so well, covered by a thick dress. After a few minutes they parted, and the green -almost feline- eyes locked with his lone violet one.

"My Prince...I'm sorry, but I had to see you...alone," thin, bony hands were grabbing his forearms, and her green eyes were shining with something he couldn't pinpoint. "The Master of Whispers has forbidden me from leaving my rooms, and all that I know I've picked it from the servants."

His knuckles softly caressed her cold face, his voice merely a whisper, "She's gone, my Lady."

Alys head tilted slightly forwards, her eyebrows furrowing - not in the gesture he liked oh so much - "What do you mean?"

"Visenya has disappeared, no one knows where she is," was his stoic answer. "Seems like the Seven have blessed me and cursed me at the same time."

The look in his Lady's face slowly morphed from one of slight nervousness to something that the Strong bastard never had shown him: confusion.

A pale hand, a hand that had caressed him and satisfied him so many times, moved to rest on his chest, "My dearest...I've not seen it."

A soft breeze filled the chamber, the light of the candles trembled, projecting shadows behind them. 

'A candle is an offering,' -his Alys had once said- "we ask the Lord of the Light to come into the room...to chase the shadows away, to chase the bad spirits away from us.'

He could see her green eyes fixed on the candle and then moving to the fire at the hearth. A soft furrow appeared between her eyebrows.

'But, sometimes, we can see more in the shadows...the shadows hold all that is putrid... and that the fire can not burn.'

The hand on his chest fell slowly. Mumbling a soft apology, she went back through the same passageway, the door closing behind her.

'The shadows hold the darkest intentions of a person.'

"Princess Visenya was absolutely miserable here, the only thing that gave her joy was sneaking around and going outside to help the people of Flea Bottom," Lady Reyne's voice filled the room. Her honey colored eyes went through every single one of the members of the hearing, staying a bit too long on the Princess parents, her gaze softening. There was a rumbling of papers and Lord Jasper Wylde cleared her voice, "My Lady, all the gates are protected by Gold Cloaks and White Cloaks, there's no proof of-" Her nostrils flared, "Surely a man as intelligent as you knows that there's other ways of sneaking out of the Red Keep. Visenya knew them. And we used them." The Lord Hand's eyes narrowed, but the Lady's tongue was quicker, "Visenya was unprotected. Even I, a mere wife of a minor House that was staying as a guest, had more protection than her." Daemon's eyes fixed upon the Lord Hand, "You kept my daughter without protection?" Otto's answer was quick, his voice raising, "There was no threat to the Princess and she's in the most safe place of Westeros." "Safest place in the world but a Princess of House Targaryen disappeared under all your noses!" Daemon was almost screaming, ready to throw himself at the man, his wife's hand holding him back. "My Lord Hand, Prince Daemon, please, let us calm down," one of the Lords tried to keep peace, and both men sat back down. "My Lady, please continue." Lady Reyne nodded, her chin going slightly up and her hand resting over her pregnant belly, "As I said, the Princess and I are close confidants, we have a beautiful friendship. I had to see my friend withering away every day that passed, and it broke my heart…it still does." She took another breath, "I suggested she run away, back to her parents, she has a dragon, after all. But she didn't want that, her duty was to mend her marriage, even after…" The Lady stopped talking as a sob came over her, her eyes filling with tears, "I-I…forgive me." There was an awkward silence between the people present, only those genuinely worried about the Princess seemed to worry over her tears, Lord Corlys even offered Lady Reyne a handkerchief, which she took with a soft smile. "T-Thank you, my Lord," she dried her tears and took a deep breath. "I am very lucky in my marriage, even though it was born of duty, I have three magnificent children. I know that men have…needs but…” She raised her head, “Prince Aemond took everything from Princess Visenya.”

As soon as he stepped a foot into the dining room, his mother was moving towards him.

"Where were you? You didn't join the search party!" her fingers were digging into his arms, her auburn curls coming out from the green and gold headpiece.

His lone eye scanned the room: the King was sitting at the head of the table, his thumb and forefinger pressing the bridge of his nose -surely hangover, since there was no pitch of wine at the table; the Lord Hand was at his right, his eyes fixed on Aemond while he drank some tea, his hands rearranging the cutlery, and his sister -sweet Queen Helaena- was eating her fruits, her gaze lost in some corner of the room.

"I was sleeping," he finally answered.

Alicient looked at him dumbfounded, her fingers digging even more into his flesh and her eyes holding a storm of emotions, the same ones he had seen in the night of the famous dinner, "Sleeping?"

His hands moved to grasp hers, softly moving them away from his arms, "Yes, mother. I've been on Vhagar's back searching the Kingsroad and the alternative paths, also some forests and tricky spots. I needed sleep."

Aemond moved away from his mother and sat down beside his sister, his hands reaching for the tea and some sausages.

The steps of the Dowager Queen were heavy as she moved to sat down, her face resting on her hands - a moment of vulnerability, a moment where everyone could appreciate how much of a toll this was on the Queen Mother.

After a few minutes, she raised her head and fixed her eyes on Aemond. The regality was back, "Did you -"

"I've given the order to send the Strong bastard back to Harrenhall. She'll be parting tomorrow," Otto said nonchalantly, not caring if he was interrupting the Dowager Queen.

His head turned to look at his grandfather, but this one raised a hand, "Her presence isn't helping us here. The King has already signed the notice." Otto picked the napkin and cleaned his mouth before standing up and leaving the napkin on his seat. "If you excuse me, I have issues to solve, like the matter of a missing Princess."

Before the door closed on his back, the Lord Hand turned and fixed his eyes on Aemond - a gaze that Aegon and Daemon Targaryen knew a little too well, "If you decide to come to another meeting of the Council, by the Seven, have the decency of looking worried."

The door closed softly but slowly behind him, control in every single one of his movements. His words left a bitter taste on Aemond. He was worried, yes, but not for Visenya (how could one worry for someone who was a stranger?) but for his family, for the danger that a mourning mother and father with dragons represented.

His mother's voice distracted him from his thoughts, "I am taking my leave, too. Aemond, it would make me happy for you to join me in my prayers... I know that, if you ask for their guidance, the Seven will help you."

The Dowager Queen stood from her place at the table, lips pressed in a firm line and anguish in her amber eyes, Visenya’s disappearance was taking a toll on her too

"Just so you know, brother, I never signed any "notice" to your bastard lady," Aegon spoke immediately after their mother left, not daring to say the words in the presence of the ‘elders’. "I would never get in between a man's cock and his favorite cunt."

Aemond’s hands focused on cutting the sausage in equal parts, “That’s a consideration I have never expected from you, brother. You are getting softer…metaphorically…and literally too.”

The King laughed at his jab, his hand smacking the table, “Quite the humor for a widower!” Aegon leaned closer and there was now a hint of seriousness in his lilac eyes, but also of doubt, “Tell me, brother, what did you do?”

“You may want to be more specific, my King,” was the only answer he received.

With a quick and graceless motion of his hand, Aegon dismissed the servants, leaving the three siblings alone. He moved closer to his younger brother and, almost mumbling, he asked, “Did you kill her?”

There was no sound in the room, even Helaena had stopped eating and was looking at Aemond. The Queen had a face that was incredibly expressive, but it all lost meaning when one looked at her purple eyes that seemed far away.

Aemond sighed, his voice another whisper, “I did not do anything, she just…vanished.”

At that, the King relaxed back in his seat, but his expression remained the same, “I will be honest, brother: this does not look good."

That seemed to make the One-Eyed Prince laugh - a soft, humorless chuckle erupted from his mouth while his lone violet eye fixed on his brother. Aegon seemed displeased at that, his lower lip encased between his teeth. For the first time in their lives, they were acting just like their birth roles: the older brother scolding the youngest one.

The King drank more of his goblet and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, an expensive-looking black and golden tunic, "Listen…listen to me: I was out that night."

That seemed to catch Aemond's attention, so Aegon continued, "I was not that drunk, yes? I was a bit…lively, but I remember using the hidden passageways and…I locked them."

They locked eyes, really looking into each other's eyes, Aegon's eyes were a pale violet that showed no emotional restraint, so similar to their mother's eyes.

And, for the first time in his life, Aegon showed the same mix of disappointment and fear that Alicient usually had in her eyes when looking at her eldest son.

The doors opened suddenly, interrupting the small talk of the people. The Princess and her Consort turned around to find her firstborn son walking towards them.

Rhaenyra's eyes softened but her tone was serious, "Jace, you shouldn't be here."

Her eldest son was breathing heavily, his eyes darting between his mother and his step-father, "I want to testify."

Daemon and Rhaenyra exchanged a glance between them, until Daemon whispered so that no one could hear them, "Have you been hiding something from us?"

Jacaerys eyes fixed on those of his step-father, "I have."

Rhaenyra sighed and turned around, to inform the other members of the hearing, "Prince Jacaerys will testify now." With that, she moved to sit on her designated chair, Daemon following her.

There was a soft murmur of some Lords whispering, the majority absolutely disinterested in the matter.

The Hand motioned to the chair, "Be brief, please."

Jace stared at him before sitting down, it was obvious nobody wanted to hear him.

(

"Nobody cares for us, Vis," he had said. "Even Lord Corlys looks at me as if I'm a…pretender."

His older sister had thrown him a cushion, "You're the child of the Princess, the Heir. You're legitimate."

He had rolled his eyes, "You know what I mean."

"The fact that our mother had an affair with a Gold Cloak doesn't make you less of a Targaryen," she had replied, her nose furrowed in a mocking manner.

"That's the point, Vis, I'm no Targaryen, I'm a Velaryon. Have you met a dark haired Velaryon?" 

She raised her eyebrows, "We could say that you dye your hair with those inks that father buys from Pentos."

He threw back the cushion, "Are you even listening to me? Stop joking!"

She kicked his calf, her pale eyebrows raised, "I'm listening to you, and what you say is utter shit. You know who is to blame that you are…you? Our grandfather and Lord Corlys. Four eyes and they were fucking blind to notice that Laenor liked men."

"Mother was already pregnant with you when she married, why did she decide to have me?" He whispered.

Her hands went to grab the collar of his chemise, pulling him closer, "Because she wanted to. And because she knew that she could protect you, and that I would when I become Queen."

Time stopped for a minute as brother and sister stared at each other, her hands holding him tight and a fire burning in her eyes. He could see tears pooling in her eyes, and that made his amber colored eyes wet too.

He gave her a watery smile and poked her cheek, "You love me."

"Yes, but I wouldn't dream of being your wife," she teased him, cheeks covered in tears.

"As if I wanted to be your husband, I prefer you as my sister. Mandia," he said.

"And I prefer you as my valonqar," she sniffed before giving him a nudge on his shoulder. "Now, let's finish this wine before father finds us. Where did you take this from?"

He saw her take a big gulp of the sweet drink, "From that room close to the Maester's room."

She stopped drinking, "That's the room of the Valyrian priest."

They both looked at eachother, amber eyes fixed on violet ones. Until she left the bottle of wine on the floor, "You fucking idiot, you grabbed the ceremony wine!"

His eyes opened wide, "What?! Are we married now?!"

"Do I look like I know?! I need to puke!" Visenya quickly stood up and went to the privy, her fingers entering her mouth.

)

Jace smiled at the memory, one of the many he had with his older sister. She loved them fiercely, and even though they were both stubborn and had many arguments, he knew she would always protect him.

Someone cleared their throat, a sign that they were waiting for him to speak, it brought him back to reality.

His baby sister. Luke. Vis.

His fists clenched and he straightened his back. Looking at no one in particular, his voice became sharp as he started talking, “Princess Visenya and I wrote to each other once a week.”

He saw Larys Strong leaning forward in his seat, his head tilting slightly towards Otto Hightower. Good, - he thought- you didn’t know that. His eyes moved towards Daemon and he could see he had also noticed Larys gestures.

Stil, Otto Hightower was adamant on passing this revelation as irrelevant, “I’m sorry, my Prince, but I can’t see how this information is relevant-”

“It is relevant, my Lord Hand, because I keep every single one of Visenya’s letters and, in those letters, she mentions, not only once but several times, that she keeps a diary in secret,” Jace interrupted him.

There was a silence, he could see that even his mother was surprised - no one had expected that.

A lord, Jasper Wylde, he believed, spoke first, “You mean that…there's a written record from the Princess.”

“I know what you are thinking, my Lord, and yes: my sister kept a record of her marriage, her life in the Red Keep and every political discussion she heard of,” he continued, not giving anyone time to think. “Find the diary and you will find out what happened to Princess Visenya.”

A day had passed since that breakfast.

Five since the disappearance.

Of course there was no news about Princess Visenya. The lack of any clues meant that both parties -the Royal family and Visenya's parents- could switch the tides to their favor spreading rumors between the common folk and lower nobles.

What was certain was that the Lords interest in the disappearance of a Targaryen Princess had diminished. Even though Corlys Velaryon insisted that his House would demand answers, the truth was that almost every House was polishing her daughters of marriageable age to, when the time came, present them to the court as candidates to be the prince's wife. Obviously, some Lords were waiting for the opportunity to introduce their daughters to Aemond - Otto Hightower style.

But then, something happened.

After a ride on Vhagar's back, going over some roads and forests, again, Aemond came through one of the passages only to find some Kingsguards, a carriage and Daemon Targaryen in his armor.

Ser Arryk moved forwards, "We have orders from the King and the Council to deliver you to them, my Prince." The White Cloak motioned to the carriage, he seemed a bit distraught.

He took a deep breath through his nose, his eye never leaving his uncle's figure, "Was it necessary to come and pick me up?"

"The Queen Mother insisted," was his answer.

If it was a decision from his mother then she must have had her reasons, but it was somewhat strange that she had allowed this. She always waited for him to come to her to deliver some news. This was odd.

He nodded stiffly and stepped inside the carriage, not having another choice. As the door was closing, a blade made it's way through the crack of the door, "I will join my nephew. Take my horse."

His uncle didn't wait for an answer since he opened the door and climbed inside, sitting in front of him.

They looked at each other, both men analyzing and studying the other as if they were in a duel - slowly circling the prey and waiting for its movements.

The carriage started moving and, soon enough, all that was heard was the wheels through the potholes and the horses hooves hitting the stony pathway. 

He noticed that it was the first time that he was alone with his uncle, a person he had once admired and dreamed of being like him. Another second son. A second son who had made it's own name in the world.

The Rogue Prince. He inspired fear and hatred and his enemies knew him well. All across Westeros they knew Daemon Targaryen for his skills and for wielding Dark Sister.

Aemond Targaryen was only known for having one eye and for being a Kinslayer.

His mother had said that, as long as his actions were led by the grace of the Seven, he would find success and his own name. Everyone would remember him.

But he could see history. They would write about him, without a doubt, but he would be no more than a cripple, the one who had murdered in cold blood his nephew and whose wife had disappeared.

That was not what he had dreamed.

"When Visenya told me she intended to marry you I could not believe it," his uncle had spoken abruptly, his voice clear and firm through the noise. "Mine own daughter mixing with a cripple half-Hightower? I would have preferred if she boarded to Lys."

Daemon's fingers were twisting a ring on his little finger, his violet eyes fixed on it, "You know her answer?"

He kept his mouth shut, internally praying to the Crone to give him strength and prevent his uncle from carrying on this talk.

But the Gods hadn't answered before, why should they now?

"She told me: 'He's intelligent, a good swordsman and ambitious. A second son, after all. But he's incredibly kind and loyal to those who he loves. Just like you. What more can your daughter desire than a man who will love her as her father loves her mother?" his thumb caressed a small ring on his little finger. "So I gave her my approval, as if she needed it. But I gave it to her."

In a second, Dark Sister was stabbing the wood of the carriage beside Aemond - the movement too quick for him to react, "I even braided her hair for her wedding. Do you know that? I walked my daughter to you, you cunt, and you took her from us."

"I am sure that Lord Royce feels the same way about you," Aemond's voice came in a whisper.

Rage flashed in his uncle's eyes, he could now see why he was deadly in the battleground, "Do not even dare to compare my daughter to that bitch." The sword's edge moved closer to Aemond's face until it rested against his jawline, a threat that both of them knew that Daemon Targaryen could fulfill.

The older man moved his face closer, until their noses were almost touching, “You better start praying to the Seven for a quick and merciful death.”

The carriage came to an abrupt stop - Daemon took Dark Sister and pulled it from the carriage wall, sheathing his sword. “Come.”

The door opened and, once his uncle descended, he was facing the stairs to the Red Keep, the Dowager Queen waiting for them, her hands intertwined while her fingers picked against each other. The mask of regality fell for a minute when she saw him coming after his uncle, who immediately walked past her, barely giving her a glance. 

Alicient moved quickly towards her second son, her hands going to grab him in his arms, “What were you doing with him alone?”

“He came with the carriage you sent for me, mother,” his voice was a mere whisper, the close encounter was proof that there were certain ‘loyalists’ to Rhaenyra in the city.

His mother took a deep breath and whispered back, over her shoulder he could see Ser Cole watching over them, “The members of the Hearing want to see you. Your grandfather says that they are adamant on having you there.”

He closed his eye, just what he needed, “Lead the way, then.”

“State your name,” said Lord Corlys.

Her hands grasped the rough fabric of her apron, “R-Rosey, my Lord.” She could feel the gaze of the Cro-Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon fixed upon her, hopeful and impotent. “I was, am, one of Princess Visenya handmaids.”

The sound of a feather against scroll is heard, someone is writing down what she's saying, but she doesn't know the name of the person (or Lord, she thinks for her insides). The Lord Hand looks at her, “What did you do the day of the disappearance?”

Everyone looks so bored, she's another mere servant girl after all, “Me and Wylla prepared the Princess tea and breakfast, as always. Wylla had spent the whole night sewing a dress for the Princess, so by morning she was quite tired, so I was the one to deliver the breakfast to my Lady. When I arrived at the chambers the guards told me that the Princess was indisposed, and that Prince Aemond had instructed to let her rest, so I retired.”

More writing and then the tired voice of the Lord Hand is heard, “Thank you, Rosey. You may retire now.”

She gulps and stands, her eyes fixed on the floor as she walks towards the door.

“Why did Wylla spend a whole night sewing the Princess dress?” Princess Rhaenyra’s voice sounded void of emotion.

“Princess, how is that relevant? The girl has already declared-” Otto Hightower started speaking again, only to be interrupted.

“The Princess is asking a mere question, as the mother of the Princess she has every right to keep the interrogation,” Prince Daemon interrupted the Lord Hand. His violet eyes moved until they were fixed on Rosey, “Sit back, girl.”

Rosey moved nervously on her spot and walked towards the chair, only to raise her eyes and find Lord Corlys giving her an encouraging nod, “It'll be just a few moments, Rosey.”

Biting her lip, she sits on the chair and looks at the floor, “Wylla did it because it was one of Princess Visenya's favorite dresses… and she wanted to wear it at the signing of the Peace Treaty.”

Unconsciously, she lifts her head to look at Princess Rhaenyra (Always look at me in the eye, -her Princess had said to her and Wylla- and be honest. I'll be honest with you too.) and she's struck by the similarity between mother and daughter, by the way their mouths curve in the same soft smile.

She can hear her lady's laugh in her ears, making her heart ache. She can also hear her crying, and she's reminded of the metallic scent.

("You must promise me that you will not say a word."

"Princess-" Wylla had tried to make her see reason.

"No, Wylla, not a word. And you too Rosey, not a word."

She had choked on her tears while cleaning the cuts on the delicate skin, "But, my Lady-"

"No. Just…obey. Not a word.")

Maybe it was the pain of losing her beloved Lady, maybe it was the sleepless nights, maybe it was the way she had seen Wylla praying on her knees hoping that their Lady would come back.

Maybe having lost everything meant that she had lost the fear.

"Princess Rhaenyra, Prince Daemon, there's something that you should know."

As the doors closed behind him, he immediately knew something was wrong. There were four people sitting at the table.

His grandfather was standing at the end of the table, face red and morphed into a mask of rage. Larys Strong was standing in one corner, his eyes going over the people in the room, barely fixing on him

“Prince Aemond,” the voice of Rhaenyra filled the room. He barely turned his head, but it was enough to see some Lords and Ladies, not enough to fill the room, but enough to make his mouth go dry.

What in the Seven Hells was this?

“Brother,” that was a way to catch his attention, and he turned to look at Rhaenyra. Her hair was filled with braids, in the same way he had seen Visenya’s hair so many times, but her lips were pressed in a thin line. “You must be wondering what are you doing here, so I will be brief.”

Her pale hands moved over the table, the sound of parchment being moved was heard, “This…Hearing has received disturbing news during the few days we have been working.”

He opened his mouth to speak, his eye darting to his grandfather for a clue, only to receive an unperceivable shake of his head. Don’t say anything.

So he looked back at his half-sister and nodded, that seemed to surprise her but she hid that quickly, “Were you aware that the Princess Visenya, your own wife, felt lonely at the Red Keep? That she wasn’t given the same treatment as the members of the Royal Family?”

That was it? His mouth moved quicker than his brain, “Visenya never liked Ladies-in-Waiting, so if she felt lonely it was partly her fault. She insisted that she didn’t need ladies going over her as if she was a bored child.”

Princess Rhaenyra exchanged a look with her husband and Lord Jasper Wylde, “Your answer to the second question?”

He sighed, his thumb and forefinger pressing between them the fabric of his riding gear, “I can’t speak of that matter…she was always happy attending her own duties as the wife of a Prince.”

There was a mocking snort from Daemon, but it was Corlys Velaryon who spoke, “Wife of a Prince? She was already a Princess. And before King Viserys last wish, the heir of his heir.”

The man’s eyes fixed on him, “You meant to tell me that my granddaughter never attended a Council meeting? Never went to visit the city?”

Aemond shrugged his shoulders, almost imperceptible, “She liked to take Silverwing on long rides and reading.”

There was silence in the room, which Daemon interrupted, “I think I used to know my late wife, Lady Royce, better than that. And she hated me.”

There were some laughs in the room, but Aemond interrupted them, “We were just…distanced, but that does not mean that I didn’t know my wife.”

“I wonder what caused that distance,” muttered Daemon Targaryen. “Now, we have spoken to Layde Reyne and she states that Princess Visenya was more like a prisoner than a Princess.”

His eyebrows furrowed, “The lady wife of Lord Reyne? What does she have to do with this?”

He saw his grandfather close his eyes for a moment, until Rhaenyra spoke again, confusion in her voice, “You don’t know the name of your wife’s closest friend?”

He scoffed, looking over the four persons, “I would remember if Visenya told me that.”

The four members of the Hearing looked at each other, while his grandfather stared at him with pure anger.

Princess Rhaenyra started to talk but was interrupted by a hand on her shoulder, her husband and uncle now speaking, “Did Visenya write to someone?”

He pressed his lips together, “To her parents only. And to her brothers and siblings, but much more sporadically.”

He remembered Visenya writing on her desk, the calligraphy was precise and neat, her fingers never smudging the ink.

Prince Daemon smiled, the predatory smile that his mother swore he had when he killed someone, “So you don’t know that Visenya kept close contact with her brother, Jacaerys? They wrote once a week to each other.”

Once again, he furrowed his eyebrows, his lilac eye moving over the persons sitting in front of him, "I-I didn't know."

Rhaenyra looked at him, her lilac eyes void of emotion, "You don't know what my daughter did here. You don't know who her friends were. You don't know she wrote to her brother once a week. Tell me, Prince Aemond, what do you know?"

"I just know that I left my wife in our shared chambers in the morning five days ago, and she vanished," he quickly replied, his temper already showing. "We might have some differences, yes, but she's still my wife and responsibility, and -"

"A responsibility that you planned to shove away," Rhaenyra interrupted him, her tone cold and slightly shaky. "You planned to nullify your marriage to my daughter so that you could marry the new lady of Harrenhall."

It felt as if he had been punched, the air suddenly leaving his lungs and his eye moving to look at his grandfather, "I…" But what was left to say?

Rhaenyra stood and grabbed the papers, not minding him, addressing the guards, "You may bring her in."

He turned around when the doors opened, hoping to find his mother or his sister, someone to give him answers.

He certainly didn't expect Alys.

His lady walked into the room, clad into a dark green gown, her green eyes moving throughout the room. But she didn't look at him. Not once. Not even when she stood a few feet away from him.

"Alys Rivers. Soon to be Alys Strong. Repeat your words," was the order from Lord Corlys.

Alys took a deep breath, it looked like she was nervous, her hands fidgeting with her gown, but Aemond knew better: she was pretending, "Y-Yes, my Lord. I know that Prince Aemond Targaryen wanted his wife gone."

Liar. Traitor. Witch

"And how could possibly a woman of your…standing could be so close to the Prince," Rhaenyra asked, her tone filled with fake curiosity and superiority.

That made Alys press her lips together, a real sign that she was pissed, "I was close to him and-"

Somebody sighed and rumbled through the papers, "It states here that: 'Prince Aemond and I became closer during his stay at Harrenhall. First, I was his maid. Then, I became his lover. Our contact didn't cease even when he returned to Kings Landing, for he would visit me weekly. A moon ago he told me of his plan of leaving his wife and marrying me, that way he would become the new Lord of Harrenhall.' So…Lady Alys, is that true?"

For the first time since she entered, Aemond recognized the woman close to him - one full of resentment and bitterness, "Yes, your highness."

Rhaenyra stared at Alys, both pairs of eyes fixed on the other, a sort of unspoken threat in the former Crown Princess's eyes. A threat that the Strong bastard seemed to pick up quickly, since her whole demeanor returned to a submissive one, her head going down slowly.

A smirk appeared on Rhaenyra's face, a cold and calculating one, "Well…since that is clear, I want you to repeat your previous words, spoken to this Hearing earlier."

Alys swallowed and, for the first time since she had arrived, she turned her head slightly to look at Aemond, "Prince Aemond hated his wife and couldn't wait for her to be gone. My silence was bought with the threat of not legitimizing my birth."

Her voice turned firmer, "I realized I was being manipulated by him, it was all a plan so that he could earn a lordship easily."

“I had no way to turn against a Prince, I was his spoil of war. In Harrenhall I had no one that I could confide in or ask for help. His grip on me tightened when I revealed that I could see visions on the fire and…” she lowered her stare to the ground.

Traitor. Whore.

“And…?” Rhaenyra pressed, seeking an answer.

The dark-haired woman sniffed softly and straightened her back, “He asked me to perform a spell on her…one that prevented her from carrying a child.”

Chaos erupted in the room. Lords, ladies, servants screaming and talking in disbelief at the confession.

Aemond felt cold all of the sudden. The same sensation crawling up his spine like when he had returned from Storms End.

He could see his grandfather reaching for a chair, not being capable of staying on his feet for a minute longer.

Lord Jasper Wylde was white as a sheet, but his hand slammed the table several times, “Silence! Silence!”

Not many people obeyed. He could hear some insults thrown at him, there were people spitting on the floor, as if cursing him.

He turned his head to his left, his breath leaving his lungs as he watched his mother standing with her hands against her chest, tears falling from her eyes. It was her eyes that made him feel dizzy and sick.

You are not son of mine, they said.

Prince Daemon’s voice was heard, and that was all that it took for the people to calm down, “You may retire, Lady Alys.”

His former mistress turned around, walking towards the doors, not even sparing him a glance.

“Now, bring Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, Lady Reyne, and Princess Visenya’s maid, Rosey,” he commanded.

He had barely any time to react, his mind buzzing and his ears ringing, when his nephew and a young woman entered the room.

Clad in a Velaryon blue cape over a black and red riding gear, Jacaerys Velaryon did not even spare him a glance. Aemond gritted his teeth, even now the bastard thought himself more of a man than Aemond, a true born son.

The young woman beside him, wearing a simple servant dress and an apron over it, looked incredibly nervous, her hands playing with the fabric of her dress. 

The lady wife of Lord Reyne was wearing an ugly pink dress that looked like a huge cake giving the advanced state of her pregnancy, jewels sewn into her pronounced neckline, her brown hair twisted into some braids and a sour expression on her long face.

“Prince Jacaerys, reveal to the Prince what you have found,” commanded Daemon, a predatory smile on his face.

The oldest of Princess Rhaenyra’s sons stepped forward and raised a thick and worn out book, its cover black, “This is the diary of Princess Visenya Targaryen. In it my sister describes the entirety of her marriage to Prince Aemond…as well as the physical abuse to which she was subjected.”

More gasps from the court, more chills crawling up Aemond’s spine.

“Here is an entrance of a few months after-” Jacaerys interrupted himself, the words still hard to process. “After…Prince Lucerys death.”

Still, he continued, “In it the Princess wrote: ‘...when I finally mustered up the courage to mend the relationship with my husband and ask him to lay with me, to start trying to get pregnant, he laughed at me. I did not understand: I told him I had decided to put away the grief of the death of my dearest brother at his hands, so that we could return to our marital duties. He struck me. His hand went to my hair, tugging it so hard that it left a bruise on my scalp. Then he slapped me again before leaving the bedchamber. I stayed on the floor, the stone cold against my hot cheek.’”

“Here is another entry: ‘...the King called me a ‘whore, just like her mother’ during dinner. Nobody said anything to him. Not even my husband.’ And here is another: ‘...finally managed to get a dagger and a few hours of sleep a day. I need to be careful. There are so many people praying that I am gone.’ “

The court was in utter silence, no one daring to speak.

Jace closed the diary, “There are many more entries like that. But one thing is for sure: Visenya was being abused and her life was in danger.”

Daemon nodded, his hand grabbing his wife’s own, “Lady Reyne. Tell us.”

The woman in a pink dress stepped forward, her pointy chin tilted upwards defiantly, “The Princess told me how afraid she was of her husband, how he kicked her and slapped her. She also told me how she had found out about her husband’s plan to get rid of her and marry a mistress he had in Harrenhall. Apparently, he had been taking money from her dowry coffer to buy gifts for his mistress. He also was the one to order for her to be completely isolated.”

People started talking again, but that didn't seem to stop Daemon Targaryen, “Thank you, my Lady. Now, Rosie, please come forward.”

The trembling girl stepped forward, “W-What his highness, Prince Jacaerys tell us is true, my Prince. Wylla and I were the ones that cleaned up the bruises and cuts from the Princess. We bathed her bruised body and cleaned up her tears.”

The servant’s head raised and her brown eyes fixed on Aemond, her pale face filled with red spots, “You harmed my Princess, and even then, she asked you to try and mend things. My poor Lady still loved you, even though you hurt her, she longed for you.”

The memory of Visenya asking him to mend things came over him, her hands over his asking for a second opportunity.

Tears ran down the servant’s face, and Aemond did not need two eyes to see that every woman in there, and some men, were in the same state.

Still, the girl did not stop, “Princess Visenya asked that of you because she was with child.”

TAG LIST: @snh96 @neenieweenie @marihoneywk @tinykryptonitewerewolf @tired-night-owl

[goodeapple]

badapple for your thoughts?

Ysilla gets sent back in time via a spell, some real timeturner shit, to the night of Rhaenyra & Laenor's wedding. For what reason, that's unclear. To stop the Dance before it can ever start, to sway Rhaenyra back into a certain knight's arms, to cut Otto's head off, who knows. All she knows is that there are certain someones who she should avoid at all costs, and of course, that's the exact person she runs into...

Tonight is my mother’s wedding is a wild enough thought to entertain, let alone a situation the Princess ever thought she’d find herself in. 

She sips from her cup longer this time, hoping the liquid sloshing in her stomach makes her feel fuller rather than more alone. She’s vulnerable here, all by herself, her companion long since abandoning her for a quest he did not clue her in on. 

Laenor dances with another man, and his smile and his eyes are warmer than that of a thousand suns.

Her Nan and Grandsire look so much younger, and Ysilla’s heart aches for them. They’re here, now, with both of their children alive and glowing under the candlelight and there’s nothing she can do to save them from their fates. 

Ser Criston paces restlessly around the edge of the celebrating crowd, hair floppier but still such a hard glint in his eye. Ysilla frowns. Some things must never change. 

Ser Harwin Strong glides just past her, a hulking shadow enveloping the dainty form of her mother and Ysilla has to look away. It’s too much to bear. 

She upturns her goblet to her mouth, swiping at a stray droplet that dashes from her lips before abandoning the empty glass on a table and stealing another full one. The alcove she's tucked herself away in offers her nothing but a place to hide in, the mice and the spiders rotten company. She can't stand it, being alone. She'll hang in the doorway of the kitchens if she must- the line between being a nuisance and a grantor is a thin one and she's just charming enough to not get herself into too much trouble.

Ysilla spins around blindly, and it's her fault entirely as she crashes into a solid mass of muscle.

“Shit, apologies Ser, I wasn’t paying mind to-” Her words sputter out and suddenly she's one-and-ten again, and her mother is formally introducing her to her new stepfather.

Fuck her luck. Daemon Targaryen stands apart from her in all of his dark aura-ed glory. 

THIS is the one Ysilla's not supposed to run into, btw. But drunk off of the wine and the strings that no longer bind her (and desperate for a familiar face), she does what Targaryens do best.

Ysilla leans back, resting against the wall. He looks different- younger, uninhibited in a way that has his shoulders thrown back and a fire roaring in his eyes. Maybe it’s the hair. 

“Are you done inspecting me?” Daemon asks and the Princess is quiet for a moment before she smirks. 

“I’m not sure yet…” She gives him a long look over, taking her time, working her way up his towering frame. Her stepfather has always been handsome. Time has been kind to him, that much is evident, but here, now, in his prime, the feline slouch of his gait and hungry curl of his lips has a heaviness sinking low into her belly.

“I was sorry to hear about your Lady Wife, my Prince,” Ysilla offers guilefully, doing her best to steer their conversation away from the unholy thoughts flowering in her head. “My condolences.” 

“Keep them, I have no use for them.” Daemon is quick with his retort, taking a healthy swig from his cup. The red of the wine tinges his mouth a deep pink and Ysilla finds her eyes falling there more than once. 

She sighs, more for show than any other feeling. She can’t recall much about her stepfather’s first wife, other than the small passages detailed about their short union in Targaryen bloodline journals. 

“How a man so pretty can be so cruel, I’ll never know.” Ysilla suppresses a giggle as she says it, mirth alive and alight in her eyes. It’s fun to play with Daemon like this, even if she’s the only one in on the joke. 

He stares at her, puzzled but intrigued. “Do we know each other?” 

“I would hate to think of myself as so forgettable, but no, no we’ve never met.” Just in another life. She brushes her lips at the rim of her glass, but doesn’t let herself indulge in the fruity spirit. It's intoxicating enough, Daemon's presence. She would be smart not to further inhibit herself.

“Then let us remedy that.” His voice is nothing short of a purr, and she shivers. He takes a step closer, and he blocks out the torchlight above him. Even with the liveliness from the festivities spilling into her hiding spot, it feels as if it's only the two of them.

“Daemon Targaryen, Prince of Westeros.” His bow has him sweeping low and as he rises, he catches her hand in his. Heat seems to roll off his skin, and she basks in the warmth.

“Ysilla Sand.” She offers in an unsteady voice, the false name catching in her throat.

Her hand is brought to his mouth, where his plush lips brush affection across her knuckles. Ysilla swallows, her heart thrumming a beat faster. Oh.

Oh. 

She thinks it’s funny- she must have an affinity for second sons.

and then they-

[grizzersmamma]

Bloody Paws and Broken Strings | Simon “Ghost” Riley x John “Soap” MacTavish | Daemon AU

Summary: Simon and his daemon Elanor have more than a little trauma from his time with Roba. Call of Duty daemon AU.

Notes: This took a lot longer than I thought and was much longer than I intended, but I hope y'all enjoy!

Pairing:  Simon “Ghost” Riley x John “Soap” MacTavish.

Warnings: Past Childhood Trauma, Torture, Amputation, Daemon Torture, Forced Separation, Being Buried Alive, Permanent Injuries, Fluff.

Series Masterlist: Here

CoD Masterlist: Here

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When Simon thought of torture, he thought he had everything figured out. As a SAS member, he’d been through all the training to resist pain and had sat through lengthy explanations of anything and everything the enemy might be willing to throw at him. It would all be unpleasant, sure, but he was confident that both he and Elanor could handle anything that came their way.  

How wrong he was.  

It was after only a week of captivity among Roba’s men that the unspeakable happened.  

The concrete floor was uncomfortable, but it was far better than the steel table they had strapped him to. The leather bindings were far too tough for him to break through without a blade, and there were enough of them holding him down that he couldn’t so much as twitch without the material digging into his limbs and bare throat.  

Elanor was on a table to his side, and she had been much more difficult to deal with. While she was already muzzled from their capture, her legs had been left loose enough that with one swipe of her paw she drew three deep gashes into the face of the nearest man. It was bad to antagonise the enemy, Simon knew, but he couldn’t help the way his lips twitched upward slightly. After a week of torture, it was rather cathartic to see one of his abusers yelling and cursing while another attempted to stop the blood spurting from his colleague's face. 

Unfortunately, one of the other men in the room must have noticed his minor amusement, for he reached forward, digging his filthy fingers into Elanor’s scruff with a bruising grip. “Think that’s funny, English?” the man hisses, giving the daemon in his hold a firm shake.  

Simon is smart enough to remain silent, schooling his features into neutrality. He can feel the pressure of the other man’s nails digging into Elanor’s skin but refuses to give them the satisfaction of knowing how it affects him.  

The man continues, “I suppose we’ll have to ensure that can’t happen again, hm?” His hold on the panther vanishes as he moves around the table, pulling the bindings on the daemon’s legs tighter. A sinking feeling begins to grow in Simon’s stomach, but he pushes it down, settling for simply watching the man with narrowed eyes.  

“Don’t worry, I hear this is a standard procedure for cats that don’t know how to keep their claws to themselves,” there’s a glint of silver as the man selects a pair of bone shears, testing them out briefly before he turns back to Simon. “Of course, normally the patient is unconscious, but I’m sure you can handle it, right?”  

In response, Simon simply grits his teeth and focuses on his breathing, staring hard at the crumbling ceiling above. The man moves to stand in front of Elanor’s front paws, grabbing one of them and squeezing the top and bottom of the feline’s paw to force the claw to slide into view. He can’t see what the man does next, but he certainly feels it.  

Pain explodes throughout his body, completely blinding him as his vision is washed in white. He presses his head back into the table, choking back any pained noises that threaten to escape him, even as he listens to his daemon’s agonised yowls and thrashes. He can feel tears creeping into his waterline, but before he can even try to fight them back, there is another sickening crunch, and the pain intensifies once more.  

By the time they reach the fourth claw, Simon is panting, sweat beading his forehead. It’s difficult to focus on anything happening with his eyes blurred by tears and his whole body shivering from the pain his already weakened body is struggling to handle. He can vaguely see Elanor weakly struggling out of the corner of his eye, feeling her pain and terror flooding his body.  

No matter how he pulls against the bindings he can’t free himself, the lack of food and dehydration leaving his body feeling heavy and sluggish.  

Simon had been foolish when he thought that he knew how much it hurt to have his daemon harmed. He thought pain was when his father struck Elanor, or his despicable serpent counterpart would sink her fangs into them. But that was nothing compared to the feeling of his daemon having parts of herself cut away in uneven, bloody chunks.  

Elanor had taken such a large, dangerous form to keep her boy safe from the horrors of the world, but here these people were, muzzling her and snapping off her claws. She was reduced to the same defenceless little daemon she had been before settling, cowering in fear and pain and unable to save her person from being terrorised.  

He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that everything would be okay and they would make it out the other side. He tries to push those emotions to the forefront of his mind, desperately clinging to their bond in the hopes of ignoring the pain.  

Unfortunately, the moment he thinks he might just be able to get through the agony of his daemon’s mutilation, Roba’s dog moves on to the next finger. The pain is increased with each claw removed, and it quickly gets to the point that Simon almost wishes he could just pass out rather than soldiering through it. But his brain keeps him wide awake, registering each and every sensation that shoots down his nervous system.  

By the time it’s all over, Simon’s entire body is in so much pain that he hardly notices when they loosen the straps around his arms and legs. The skin where the bonds were has been rubbed raw, leaving behind thin trickles of blood that has soaked into the leather. The room stinks of something metallic, but it’s difficult to tell with the way bile burns his nostrils.  

Hands grip his arms and drag him off of the table, dropping him down onto the cold, hard ground with little care for the pained sound he makes when his body collapses into a heap. He grinds his teeth when he feels someone grab Elanor’s body but is far too weak to do anything about it, watching as she’s carried away.  

It feels like hours pass before they return for him, grabbing him from under the arms and dragging him across the floor and down the hallway back towards the detainment area. They throw him onto the ground again when they reach the room he’s been kept in for a week now, leaving him in the centre of the damp cell alone.  

Simon eventually musters the strength to roll over onto his back, searching the room for Elanor, only to find himself alone. He can feel darkness beginning to creep in around the edges of his vision, consciousness growing harder and harder to hold onto by the second. It isn’t surprising when he finally gives in and lets the abyss claim him, escaping from the waking world and the pain that comes with it.  

He isn’t sure how long it took for him to wake again, struggling to blink his heavy eyelids open with the way they’ve crusted over during his sleep. Elanor is still nowhere in sight, but other than the throbbing pain from the previous torture, she seems to feel alright. She must be nearby if he isn’t feeling the uncomfortable strain on their bond.  

“Ellie?” He grunts out softly, hoping to not draw the attention of any nearby guards. “Elanor?” He tries again when he doesn’t get a response, moving to push his back off the ground. It’s uncomfortable with the black and blue bruises that coat his chest and back, straining at his already swollen muscles, but he manages to slump into an upright position.  

He listens intently for several long moments while heaving air into his lungs, exhausted by the simple exertion of changing positions, until he hears a muffled growl from nearby.  

Struggling against his own body’s deteriorating state, Simon hauls himself across the floor and as close to the front of his cell as he dares. Leaning his head against the cool bars for a moment, he swallows down the foul burn of bile lapping at his throat, choking out a whisper-soft “Ellie?”  

In return he hears a quiet growl, accompanied by the sound of chains shifting across the ground with faint clinking. He can’t see her, but he feels the way their bond lights up with feelings of relief, Elanor seemingly just as happy to hear from her boy as he is her.  

Simon moves to press himself into the corner of the cell, as close as humanly possible to where his daemon is being kept. His head rests back against the wall separating them and he fights back the panic threatening to overtake logical thought at the inability to see, to feel, his daemon. His fingers twitch with the need to run through her silky fur and feel her warmth pressed up against his body.  

It’s unnatural for a person to be without their counterpart for any period of time, let alone somewhere so dangerous. They can’t protect one another while they’re apart like this, can’t comfort one another and lend each other their strength.  

Elanor had always preferred smaller forms while they were children. A tiny squirrel or fluffy rabbit was perfect for her Simon to scoop up and carry around safely in his arms. He had always been so picky about which textures felt good or bad, but Elanor's fur never felt strange or weird, unlike some materials he would touch. He could bury his face into her soft fluff and revel in the way it pleasantly tickled his rosy cheeks.  

But then Simon’s father grew more aggressive toward them. He would corner Elanor and grab at her tiny body, cackling when she squealed in pain. Begging for him to release her only resulted in Simon being berated further for showing such weakness, the cruel man’s bony fingers digging deeper into her tender flesh.  

Small forms, while good for evading capture from the drunk bastard, did little to hinder the man’s slimy python daemon.  

Karoline was a sadistic creature, loving nothing more than to grab the young boy’s daemon and crush her with her muscular torso while Simon wailed for her to stop. More than once she had used her needle-like teeth on the other daemon to hold her in place so she couldn’t escape to somewhere Simon’s father couldn’t reach her.  

The worst was when the man insisted Simon kiss the serpent, “don’t be a coward Simon! Show some respect for your old man’s daemon,” he would growl, only to burst out laughing when the young boy earned himself a bite to the face.  

Being small and meek and avoiding confrontation hadn’t worked, so one day, refusing to allow her boy to be used as a punching bag anymore, Elanor had shifted into a panther. She slashed at Karoline with her new claws and a snarl on her face, badly wounding both snake and man in her attack.  

Neither Simon’s father nor his daemon raised a hand to Simon after that, and Elanor would never be able to shift again.  

For her to lose her claws is more than just painful, her entire purpose for choosing such a form was to be dangerous in defence of her human, and now they’re both just as vulnerable as they were as children. Simon isn’t sure how they will be able to adapt if Elanor is crippled for life – the procedure wasn’t exactly precise – and such an injury could very easily have them removed from service.  

If they get out of this situation alive, that is.  

Dwelling on the future, however, is cut short when Simon catches sight of several guards heading in their direction. There aren’t any other prisoners down this hall, so there’s only one place they could be heading. 

Time for the next round to begin.  

“You know, I have a contact in Mexico who specialises in daemon removal surgeries,” one of the guards says conversationally to the man beside him, but given he is speaking in English rather than Spanish gives away the fact they’re hoping Simon will hear. “Won’t even cause the daemon to dust,” he continues, “I hear the market for daemons that don’t have human counterparts is pretty lucrative these days.” 

The other man scoffs, “the boss wants English broken, not braindead. Haven’t you seen the state that surgery leaves people in?”  

The first man shakes his head “no”.  

“They are...” the man pauses for a moment to consider, “sin alma, they have no soul, empty.” 

While Simon has never had the displeasure of encountering a daemonless person, he has heard the horror stories just like any other soldier and has been told by other men who have seen it firsthand just how terrifying it is to witness. Men, women, children, all with their daemons cut away from them and sold as slaves on the black market.  

Their eyes are dull and their bodies shaky, always searching and reaching for their other half, continuing to live even after suffering a fate that should have killed them. No man should be without their daemon, no matter their crimes. It wasn’t just unethical; it was unholy to tamper with the connection between a person and their soul.  

But if Roba won’t allow these men to remove his daemon, even if it would ensure his subservience, then there isn’t much more they could do to him that he doesn’t already know they can endure. They can survive the torture; they just need to figure out a means of escape. Nothing could hurt the way having someone tearing off chunks of his other half could.  

Only Simon was very, very wrong when he had thought that physically hurting Elanor was the worst these monsters could come up with.  

An hour later and he can only press himself against the bars of his cell with a hoarse scream as he feels his connection to Elanor burn with strain. She’s been put in a small crate and slowly, agonisingly slowly, they’re pushing it further and further away from Simon. At first it was only a little uncomfortable, then painful, but now? He can hardly see straight.  

He knows he’s screaming and thrashing, throwing himself against the steel bars with a wild kind of abandon only brought about by the desperation to survive above all else. The tethers that bind the man and daemon together have been stretched beyond anything Simon has ever experienced, and he can feel some of the bonds shuddering, dangerously close to snapping altogether.  

With shaking knees, Simon falls to the ground, clutching at his chest in a desperate attempt to choke down some oxygen. He can’t even scream anymore with the lack of air in his lungs. It’s hardly a surprise when his body finally gives out, watching the ground rush towards him before everything fades to black. 

This method or torture isn’t used only once, but again and again and again. Every day they stretch their connection further, as if it’s some kind of game for them, to see how much they can tear them apart before risking death. More than once, Simon had hoped that Elanor would dust and they’d finally be at peace.  

“You should thank us, English,” one of them grins, watching the way Simon whimpers, his body shaking uncontrollably, “it is rare for someone to be able to separate from their daemon, you’re already able to be further from that cat then when we first tried this.”  

Simon doesn’t bother replying to him, closing his eyes and silently praying that the man and his coyote daemon will simply leave him to suffer in peace. They’re thankfully finished with the torture for the day, shoving the crate containing Elanor back into her respective cell.  

It has been several months since Simon last saw his counterpart, even longer since he heard her voice thanks to the muzzle she has been forced to keep strapped tightly to her face. She’s still in pain constantly, and he can feel his mind slowly falling to pieces at the loneliness. He still tries to talk to her, even if she can only offer a tiny chirp or purr in return.  

He sometimes catches stray thoughts sent his way, but most of them are of how they both ache and yearn to be able to touch one another again.  

It continues for another month, until Simon can hardly feel his bond between them being yanked at. The pain has dulled down to an old ache that he’s learned to ignore over time, his spirit beginning to wane as the days pass by. The thought of escape has started to drift away, replaced only with thoughts of trying to get through the current day.  

He really shouldn’t have been surprised when Roba finally loses his patience.  

Resilience is a vital trait for anyone serving in the Special Air Service – they are routinely pushed to the brink of human endurance to ensure they can handle taking on the most difficult of assignments without breaking under the pressure – and Simon is no different. His homelife fostered a certain tenacity in him from a young age and, coupled with his time in the service, an unbreakable will had been born.  

Roba had admitted that his mettle was impressive, but it was costing the man time, money and resources, and as of yet had failed to yield any worthwhile results.  

The smell of being trapped beside a rotting corpse in a wooden box is something that will never leave him. It was a battle to keep down the tiny amount of water left in his system from the intensity of the odour, but the smell was nothing compared to the sensation of maggots wriggling around beneath him, crawling over his body after bursting from his old major’s deteriorated remains.  

Tearing the jawbone from the dead man’s face is difficult, even with the tendons holding it in place having largely withered away. The foul sludge that had once been the man’s blood makes the bone slippery and difficult to keep a hold of, but he’s able to grip it long enough to crack through the top of the casket he’d been buried within, tearing the wood apart with his bare hands.  

He’s amazed that he has any energy left at all when he crawls out of the sandy ground, dragging his body a few feet away from the hole, before rolling over onto his back. His wounded ribs burn as he pants heavily, the dry, hot air a blessing compared to the quickly depleting supply he’d been surviving on for several hours now.  

The gentle tugging at his bond draws his attention toward the wooden crate abandoned nearby. Despite his weary bones, he pulls himself closer, still brandishing his bony weapon.  

His fingers are coated in a thick combination of muck from Vernon’s corpse and his own fresh blood that makes it even harder to pry apart the box’s hinges, but with the last of his strength he’s able to pull the front of the crate open.  

He drops back down onto the sand, tossing away the bone with an exhausted huff. Reaching inside the box, he grabs Elanor’s front legs, pulling her toward him as gently as possible. He can’t speak, too focused on swallowing down fresh air as he unstraps the leather muzzle from her face and unravels the rope tethering her paws together.  

The moment she’s free, Elanore is pressing her face against her boy with a deep, pleased growl. She doesn’t mention the damp spots on her fur from where Simon presses his face into her, his body wracked with sobs and half-mumbled apologies. His grip is on just the wrong side of too firm, but neither of them care, not when they haven’t been able to feel one another this close in God knows how long. It’s pure bliss, even if their bond still pangs and spasms every now and then.  

They need to move quickly, lest the cartel return to confirm their prisoner’s demise. And so, ignoring the throbbing of every inch of his body, Simon hauls himself to his feet. He wobbles at first, but Elanor is there to support him, gently leaning her weight against his body to keep him standing straight.  

As they walk, Simon’s fingers are buried in his daemon’s pelt, unable to physically release her. Her every step is agonising, the tiny particles of sand digging into the poorly healed wounds from the exposed nerves and bone of her toes. It feels to them both as though glass is tearing at her paws and, eventually, Simon is forced to try and carry the massive feline to try and ease her suffering.  

He can’t let anything else happen to her. He won’t let anything else happen to her. He wouldn’t let anyone touch Elanor again, ever.  

Of course, all those years ago, he hadn’t factored in the existence of one John ‘Soap’ MacTavish. 

Johnny seemed to have been born an expert when it came to worming his way past Ghost’s many, many layers and directly into his very core where the remnants of Simon reside. No one had believed he could do it, including Ghost himself. Yet somehow, there the man was, lounging on his bunk as though he belonged there, Elanore laying peacefully on the Scot’s chest.  

Gwen, the honey badger, has her face nosed up against Elanor’s side, grooming the feline with her rather rough tongue. She’s purring loudly, very pleased that Elanor has simply decided to concede defeat and allow the smaller daemon’s doting behaviour.  

While Johnny lays on the bed, his hands ever so gently glide over Elanor’s muscular front legs, exploring the panther’s stunning body with a touch so soft that Ghost barely notices it. The sensation he does feel is unusually pleasant, almost as if he can feel the affection radiating off of the sergeant through his bond with Elanor.  

Anyone who treats his daemon with such tender care, as though she might shatter at even the slightest mistake, is a rarity and something Ghost isn’t entirely sure he deserves. He doesn’t know how he got so lucky as to have Johnny in his life, but he’s determined to do everything in his power to be as worthy of such devotion as humanly possible.  

He’s drifting off again, mind pleasantly hazy as he relaxes back into the chair under him. Both he and Elanor are so distracted by the delightful sensation of another person’s touch that they don’t notice when the man’s hands draw closer to the feline’s paws.  

Johnny gently slides his fingers down one of Elanor’s pads, going to massage the big cat’s paws with his thumb and-  

Elanor snarls, shooting to her feet and near enough throwing herself away from Johnny, Ghost just as startled by the way pain suddenly shoots through him. The panther’s lips pull back in a panicked hiss, her fur standing on end.  

“Ellie?” Johnny sounds horrified, sliding down from the bed and onto the floor where he kneels down, “are ye alright, bonnie?” If anyone else had tried to call Elanor by “Ellie” they would have had their face bitten, it’s reserved for Ghost only, but the name sounds so right coming from Johnny’s lips that neither of them have said a word about it.  

Ghost shivers slightly, but quickly pulls himself together, placing a hand on Elanor’s spine to pacify the frightened cat. Johnny is looking between Ghost his daemon frantically, trying to piece together what caused the feline to react so aggressively, and Ghost can’t help feeling bad for not warning the other man in advance.  

“’s alright, Johnny,” Ghost promises, feeling his heartrate slowly lowering back down again, “old girl’s paws are sensitive.” 

Now much calmer, Elanor creeps a few steps closer to Johnny again, offering a headbutt to the hand the sergeant offers her. An apology for responding so hostilely toward a loved one. She very quickly has Gwen rubbing up against her side with little chirps, clearly concerned.  

“Did she get hurt somehow during the last mission?” Johnny asks, laying his hands in his lap rather than trying to touch Ghost’s daemon again, providing her some much-needed space.  

Ghost gently wraps one of his fingers around Elanor’s tail, watching as the daemon’s limb curls around his arm in response. “It’s because of her claws, they cause her pain,” he explains, “it wasn’t your fault, Johnny, we didn’t think to tell you.”  

“What happened to her claws? Never seen the lass use ‘em, are they really that sore?” Johnny looks so upset by it, brow wrinkled as he frowns in worry.  

“She doesn’t have claws anymore, they got removed.”  

“Why would-” Johnny cuts himself off, thinks for a moment, before immediately puffing up indignantly. Ghost has to fight down the urge to mention just how adorable it is when the sergeant and his daemon visibly fluff up like disgruntled birds whenever they’ve decided that something has personally insulted them. “Who th’ hell removed ‘em?!”  

Ghost isn’t entirely sure how to de-escalate the situation, but settles for simply telling his partner the truth, “Ellie had the tips of her fingers removed while we were captured a long time ago, scratched the wrong person,” he chuckles, refusing to show just how ill the memories make him feel, “she just never healed right because of the shoddy job the bastards did, cut through the bone wrong and fucked up the nerves in her feet.”  

To say Johnny was mad would have been an understatement, he immediately jumps to his feet, shouting curses and rambling angrily in what might have been a weird mixture of English and Scottish. It’s difficult to tell with how rapidly the man is grumbling to himself, hands flailing in his obvious distress.  

Abruptly, Johnny turns to Ghost again, face red and his hair a mess after running his hand through it too many times, “yer both in pain? All the time?” He sounds so heartbroken at the very thought.  

Ghost isn’t sure what to say to that, offering a slight shrug, “normally. Doesn’t cause much trouble for us unless we’re going through rough terrain.” When that doesn’t seem to satisfy Johnny he adds, “we’re used to it, you don’t need to worry yourself about it.”  

He can see that his partner still looks as though he’s going to argue, so Ghost decides to cut him off before he can, rising from his chair and walking over to the man. “Really Johnny, Ellie and I are fine,” he breathes, gently taking the sergeant’s hands into his own and rubbing circles into the back of them. He never been great with intimacy, nor with helping to calm others, but with luck his genuine tone will do the trick.  

It takes a few moments, but Johnny eventually breathes out a heavy sigh, his shoulders drooping. “Sorry, ah shouldn’y have lost me heid,” he admits, scratching at the back of his neck, “am sorry fer makin’ you tell me all tha’, and fer hurting Ellie.”  

In response, Elanor leans over to butt her head against Johnny’s thigh again, “we’re okay, Johnny,” she purrs, licking at the top of Gwen’s head. The badger’s fur sticks up like a carbon copy of her counterpart’s Mohawk, much to the panther’s amusement.  

They’re able to gently steer Johnny and Gwen away from the conversation, but Ghost can tell that the other man isn’t quite ready to drop the subject entirely.  

It isn’t for another few days that it’s brought up again.  

Ghost is preparing to ship out for their next assignment in a few hours and he’s taking a moment to do a final check of his travel pack. There’s a knock on his door and, upon opening it, he’s met with a rather nervous Soap, holding some fabric in his hands. Before he can ask what’s going on, Johnny shoves the bundle into his chest.  

“I, uh, got ye somethin’,” he says quickly, tanned face quickly turning a bright shade of red, “ah thought ye might appreciate it, y’know, considering we’re shipping out in a few.”  

Ghost glances down at the fabric and then back up at Johnny again. He carefully removes one of the items from the collection, flipping it over in his hold as he inspects it, “the hell did you get these?” At first, he had thought it was a couple pairs of gloves, but they’re the wrong shape and have some tread built into the bottom.  

“Got ‘em from a local handcrafts store,” Soap grins sheepishly, “they’re supposed to be shoes fer cat daemons, ta keep their feet warm ‘n comfy durin’ winter. Ah thought they could be useful fer when we’re out in the field and there’s rough ground.” His face is bright red by this point and he’s looking in every other direction than at Ghost.  

The lieutenant can’t help swallowing thickly, a warm feeling filling his chest. This is, perhaps, the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given to him and it’s making him feel a strange fluttering in his stomach.  

Pulling open the velcro holding the glove together, he bends down and gently takes one of Elanor’s paws, wrapping it around the end of her limb and securing it in place. He moves through the rest of Elanor’s feet until her feet are completely covered.  

Elanor wiggles her paws within the confines of the new gloves, testing them out by stepping from foot to foot. The inside of the little boots are covered in soft wool and the bottom are supported by a soft sole. The tread on the bottom of the shoes keep her from slipping and, while they’re likely not intended for intense use, they’re certainly a lot more comfortable than walking barefoot.  

“They’re perfect, Johnny,” Ghost offers his partner a rare, genuine smile from behind his mask, “thank you.”  

Johnny’s whole face lights up in that adorably excitable way of his, Gwen wriggling about equally as eagerly at his feet, “ah, it’s nothin’,” he waves away Ghost’s thanks, smiling brightly, “am just glad ye both like it.”  

Ghost wishes he could take the time to well and truly thank his sergeant, but the clock is ticking and they both need to get a move on. “I’ll see you on the tarmac before take-off, sergeant,” he says, noticing the increase in activity outside his room and deciding to take a slightly more professional approach, just in case anyone should be watching.  

Johnny simply offers him a nod and a half smile, “sure thing, L.T, catch ye soon.”  

He watches as the Scott makes his way down the hall with Gwen hot on his heels, waiting until he is out of view before pulling his door closed again. He still has that gooey, mushy feeling inside and, judging from the way Elanor is grinning at him, she feels it too.  

This must be how it feels to be loved.  

[rainwaterapothecary]

"Unsettled" pt. 4

Serennedy Golden Compass au - [Pt. 1][Pt. 2][Pt.3][Lore overview]

Luis' Arctic Islands Safehouse, 1947.

They made it far enough into Leon’s stay for him to start examining the cabin before the truth came out.

Frankly, Leon and Panza were surprised their chatterbox friend was able to keep his peace for that long.

Although, his verbosity was only matched by his penchant for doom.

The scientist spent a good fifteen minutes pacing the cabin and talking with his daemon through their link, picking up journals or books before putting them back down.

When Leon caught long, tanned fingers beginning to brush over Panza’s bracelet in an anxious tic, he settled in for the full story and pulled the proverbial pin.

“So…what are you doing up here? Not that I’m not ecstatic to see you, I mean, you look amazing and me ‘n Fiorire have missed you like burning, but… The North Pole?”

“It’s all my fault.”

Leon had to tilt his head to hear better.

“What?”

“I said, it’s all my fault! I’m the reason you’re here at all!”

“I’m pretty sure the United States Military is the reason-“

“¡Cállate! How do you think the military got the idea?”

“Plagiarism sounds about right-” The blond raised an eyebrow.

“No! Leon, you don’t understand!” Luis' hands flew to his own curls, clenching them in emotional agony to center himself. Leon raised an eyebrow and settled his free hand on Fiorire’s head.

“I wasn’t there, Leon, but I was- my research was-“

As Luis turned away, the overhead light caught a flash of gray.

Leon knew that fear in Luis’ eyes.

That was the terror of a small child on an abandoned playground who was about to lose everything dear to him.

His stomach swooped and his hand clenched her fur tighter.

“I’m the reason this whole ring of hell exists.” If it wasn’t deathly silent in the small cabin, Leon would have had to strain to hear what his friend had said.

“What are you saying, Lu?” Gooseflesh had spread across Leon’s arms and the back of his neck at the implications of what his friend was confessing. He ached to press his fist into the space in his chest that held her Tether, just to remind himself that nothing was tearing it out of his sinews and crumpling his lungs like-

“It was my research that proved distance could be put between man and daemon without turning it into Dust. I just wanted to help people, keep their daemons safe… I couldn’t fight, no one would let me fight, then the United States Government said they wanted my mind and I knew about the draft and the thought that you- That she-“

His hand twitched first at Leon and then at his wolf. Big, agonized gray eyes turned their full, pleading force on the seated man.

“Could be killed just because a stray bullet hit one of you-! I- I-“

Luis hadn’t looked this small since Leon watched him sail out of his life. The scientist’s breathing stuttered and he held the tiny head of his bird daemon close.

His shoulders sagged and he said his next sentence into the soft, feline fur of Panza’s shoulder.

“It was how Abuelo died and I couldn’t let that happen again. Nunca más.”

“Wait, Abuelo is dead?” Before the sentence was completely out of his mouth, Luis and Panza sagged into his chair.

“Sí- He…he passed a year or so after we made it back. He was out hunting and a rabid wolf attacked him. Galatea stood between them, I guess, and by the time they got back into town he was bleeding and she was barely breathing.”

Wide, gold eyes snapped to Leon’s, pleading for understanding- begging the human to keep his person from completing the story.

Then Luis shook off Leon’s gentle hand on his shoulder and took in a shuddering breath.

“She d-“ His voice broke and the story finished in a whisper. “She died first, right on our kitchen table. Her Dust was… it was beautiful. Unearthly, in a way, but I would have given anything to have her back.” Leon’s expression crumbled and he felt his eyes mist. He knew what happened next. He’d seen it happen often enough on the front lines and or when a daemon took a hit meant for its human.

Fading.

The human would fade. Little by little, then all at once.

“He asked me, with his eyes, you know. He asked me to kill him.”

If Leon’s grasp got any tighter on Fiorire’s scruff she would have to nip him to let go, but the alternative was reaching over the table and gathering the crumbling scientist into his arms and that… Well, with Panza in the way, what chance did Leon have?

At the moment Luis’ daemon was a small, black cat that fit perfectly into his arms, where Luis cradled him before shooting to his feet. He began to pace, Panza’s tail trailing through the air in their wake.

Leon sat back on his chair and exchanged a look with his own daemon, though his mind was far away.

Abuelo Serra was an incredibly pious man. Faith was as much a part of him as Galatea, woven into him and reflecting him in everything he did. Never in a bigoted way, in fact, the only time Leon ever saw Abuelo set his jaw was when a priest learned about Luis and tried to ‘convert’ him.

Rafael Ruiz Serra never raised his hand in anger to any man, but he gave that bible-thumper a Look that would have made the gargoyles on the old churches hold their hats to their chests.

Then, with one hand on Luis’ shoulder and the other holding Leon back by the center of his chest, Abuelo Serra told that preacher that there was nothing wrong with his grandson and that the priest should look a little harder at the book he reads from every Sunday.

God the Father and their Mother Mary loved his grandson, that should be enough for any of their servants.

Luis had gone from holding back tears to barely controlling all the love that wanted to radiate out of his little body.

Leon wasn’t far behind.

…That man would not have committed suicide like the men Leon had fought beside.

Not someone so faithful and trusting.

He hugged Fiorire’s head and tried to make his breaths as even as possible. For Luis.

“What happened?” His whisper sounded like a gunshot. Luis froze, his fingers in claws around Panza’s sides.

“He…he left me to bury her in the forest and never came back. He kept her in a little glass jar, in the end.”

Leon broke at the weight of Luis’ words. The picture they painted.

Hands slid from Fiorire to gather Luis to his chest in one fluid movement.

Luis buried his face in Panza’s fur and shook apart.

Both men sucked in a breath when a warm weight leaned into Luis’ leg, supporting him from the side where her human was holding him together.

Being touched by another daemon is…

It’s like brushing your fingers across the Dust that makes up the bond between man and soul.

Leon held him tighter before the man and his cat shared a nod.

Luis’ now-free arm slid between his friend’s shoulders and pulled him into his own chest, Panza closing the gap by butting his head into Leon’s diaphragm.

All air went out of Leon’s lungs at the sensation.

After weeks in a cage having his other half shredded, years of brutality in a war that covered him in the blood and Dust of men and their companions, a lifetime of being on the outside looking in, an immigrant boy forced to flee from his family to a new world with only his stern Sicilian grandmother to keep him on the ground…

Being held by two daemons and the boy who knew him best was a sensation that was overwhelming each and every aspect of what made Leon… well, him.

A small hiccupping sob left one of their mouths and the other leaned in further, bringing all four of them to their knees in the little cabin surrounded by snow but filled with home.

---

A/N It's been too long fam .... I think this calls for a double upload today, what do you think? ;) ¡Cállate! - Shut up! Nunca más. - Never again. This chapter is Abuelo, next chapter is... Leon >U>

[Pt. 5]

As always, memes and brainrot are under the #serennedy daemon au tag on my blog ^^

[eidetictelekinetic]

OK so thoughts on vampiric daemon mechanics

Daemons re-settle at turning but they can shift back into their old form. This is a strain, though, and they can only hold it for so long; the more drastic the change, the worse it is

The exception to this is, if a person's daemon was unsettled prior to turning, turning settles the daemon but they have no second form (this is probably against the Great Laws too)

Vampiric bloodlines have daemonic types - all predatory but, like, canines, felines, foxes probably go in with canines, birds of prey, etc

So a fledgling isn't necessarily gonna have the same daemon as their maker but a vampire with, say, a wolf daemon might turn someone whose daemon re-settles as a coyote

Oh god I'm doing this aren't I

[tennessoui]

Do you think obiwan would be a dog or cat person? Or i guess a canine or feline person lol

i wrote a fic here that i think is a satisfactory answer to this question - basically an au where everyone has a soulmate and everyone has a daemon (concept and word taken from golden compass, where people are born with an animal representation of their soul) and in it, you're actually born with your soulmate's daemon

so obi-wan spends 16 years with his own daemon because his soulmate hasn't been born and he and his daemon don't actually get along very well (it's a vulptex aka like an ice-cat/fox thing?) and then one day he wakes up and anakin's daemon has switched places with his, and it's what grows into being a loth-wolf and they get along great)

so basically he has the soul of a prickly cat-fox thing but gets along better with big canines so he's cat person but really a dog person

but really a bunny person

[humanpurposes]

Karma is a God

Chapter 8: Dragonstone

The Dance of the Dragons begins on a lie, and Aemond owes a debt, one Lucerra will see repaid in Fire and Blood // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond x Lucerra Velaryon (fem!Lucerys)

Warnings for this chapter: none

Words: 5700

A/n: Originally posted on AO3, posting to Tumblr before I get back to regular updates.

They rode through dusk, darkness and daybreak, far above the clouds to evade the prying eyes of friends, foes or otherwise.

When the wind picked up, Grey Ghost began a descent and the Narrow Sea sprawled out underneath them. At the sight of the water and the rush of waves, Luke gripped the dragon’s scales a little harder.

She couldn’t shake the feeling they were being watched. She looked over her shoulder, and every time she saw nothing but empty space.

They finally rounded past Claw Isle and a fortress of grey and black stone faded into view through a salty mist. Dragonstone was forged with fire and magic, so the histories claim, the last outpost of Old Valyria, with stone dragons adorning the walls and towers against a backdrop of smoke swirling up from the Dragonmount.

This is where Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya planned their conquest, and now Queen Rhaenyra plots a war of her own.

Grey Ghost settled just outside the castle walls. She had tried to guide him to the courtyard, but he wouldn’t do it. Too loud, too busy, too vulnerable.

Two bodies collided into her the moment the gates opened. One was small, wrapping his skinny arms around her and pressing his head of dark curls against her waist. The other encompassed them both, pulling them into his chest.

Luke clutched Joffrey so tightly she worried she might squeeze the air from his lungs. She could think of worse fates than being smothered by the embrace of a loved one.

There had never been a day when the Velaryon siblings were parted, not until Storm’s End, not until their uncle had tried to tear her away from them. And yet here she was, in spite of it all, in spite of him, running her hand through Joffrey’s hair and leaning into Jace’s arms, pledging a silent vow to never leave them again.

For a few precious moments she allowed herself this bitter happiness.

Two dragons called out in sorrowful joy from the Dragonmount, Vermax’s rippling screech and Tyraxes’ almost feline growl. Some of the strength she had gathered shattered at their cries. No matter how long she held her brothers, the reunion was incomplete without Arrax.

Eventually she followed Jace to the hall of the painted table, where their Queen stood before a raging hearth, flickers of flame dancing in the gleam of her gold crown and silver hair. Her eyes were wide and glassy, fixed upon the map before her.

Every other pair of eyes in the hall fell to the Princess, Lords Celtigar and Bar Emmon standing by the Westerlands, Ser Steffon and Ser Lorent by the Vale, Lord Corlys and Baela by Driftmark and the Gullet, and Rhaena, standing by the Queen’s side.

Daemon, she noticed, was not present.

“Princess Lucerra,” Ser Lorent finally announced, “of houses Velaryon and Targaryen.”

She must have looked anything but royal, draped in a heavy Northern cloak, her hair a tangled mess and the skin of her cheeks red from the wind.

She hadn’t stopped for food or rest during the flight from Winterfell, but she had been so desperate to make the journey that the thought of delaying by even a moment had filled her with dread. Another moment for something to go wrong. Another moment for someone else to die.

Her eyes were sunken, her lips downturned and effortlessly solemn, still, she looked to the Queen with a childlike innocence, waiting for a spark of recognition in her mother’s eyes.

Rhaenyra looked up from the map slowly. “Lucerra,” it came like a question, muddled as though she had just woken from a dream.

She wanted to run across the room, to collide into her mother and melt into her arms as she had done with Jace and Joffrey, but something kept her frozen where she stood. There was an emptiness Rhaenyra’s in eyes, like one of Alicent’s statues of the Seven, ethereal, but lifeless. 

“I am here, mother,” Luke said.

Rhaenyra wordlessly reached out a hand, and Luke approached her cautiously. When she curled her fingers around her hand she found her skin was cold.

Rhaenyra brought her other hand to cup Luke’s cheek, barely hovering a thumb over the almost faded cut below her eye, unable to take her gaze from it. 

Her lip trembled. “My sweet girl,” she uttered, “my precious girl.”

Living on Dragonstone is nothing like the quiet isolation of her childhood. Now it is like living in a history book. Soldiers train in the courtyard, knights patrol the hallways, Lords gather and debate around the painted table, and a fleet of ships hover beyond the shore.

Rhaena tried to suggest a walk through the village, to take their minds off it all, but even that left Luke with an uncomfortable feeling gnawing at her insides. The people scurried about like mice, quick and avoidant, terrified at what might come should this war get bloodier.

She does not find comfort in her bedchamber. It feels too large, too empty, and when the wind is too harsh her mind starts to slip, to the rain, the storm, Vhagar’s open jaws… 

When the nightmares persist she goes to Jace’s chambers. If he’s awake he’ll let her have the bed. If he’s asleep she settles on the settee and watches the embers in the fireplace fade until she can’t keep her eyes open.

Her mother’s council gathers daily to discuss the war, but it is not the Queen who takes command of these meetings. Jace has aged again after their time together in the North, only now it shows through the assuredness of his voice, the way he carries himself, the eager glimmer in his eye as he addresses their allies.

Luke ensures she is present for every meeting, standing alongside Lord Corlys and her step-sisters.

Daemon sends ravens from Harrenhal; their numbers are increasing every day as more and more houses of the Riverlands pledge their fealty to the one true Queen, either of their own admission or with some ‘persuading’ by the Rogue Prince and his dragon. Given the pact made with Cregan Stark, the North will soon come to double their numbers.

Baela gives her a suggestive glance at the reminder of her betrothal. Luke’s eyes dart down to her hands as she runs her nails over her fingertips.

Lord Celtigar asks about Dorne. Maester Gerardys notes Prince Qoren is keen to avoid this conflict and similar sentiments come from the Tyrells.

“We should not disregard the Reach,” Jace insists. “Highgarden may not want a part in this war but the Hightowers have influence enough in Oldtown to form a formidable host.”

“Indeed, Lord Ormund has already begun the march to King’s Landing,” says Lord Bar Eammon.

Jace presses his lips together and inches the Hightower figure along the map. The Greens have the support of the South and the West of Westeros, and their allies are closing in to defend the capital against Daemon’s growing host.

Then comes the concerns of dragons.

Rhaenyra straightens her shoulders. “We still outnumber them,” she says stiffly.

Lord Corlys’ eyes darken. “The simple fact remains,” he says, hands clenching into fists by his side, “as long as the Greens have Vaghar, we are at a disadvantage.” 

Luke feels Baela tense beside her and reaches for her sister’s wrist, stroking her thumb over her sleeve, the same way her mother had always soothed them as children. 

Rhaenyra returns Lord Corlys’ glare and the room settles into a restless silence. 

Eyes flitter everywhere, between the Queen and the Lord of the Tides, locked in a cold conflict neither have any intention of backing down from, and to Luke herself, the Princess who should be dead. She grips Baela’s wrist a little tighter.

Rhaena had told her of the day the raven came from Rook’s Rest. Rhaenyra had simply stared at the letter from Lord Staunton, begging for aid in the face of the Green host. She said Jace had volunteered to go with Rhaenys, and that Rhaenyra seemed to come to life when he did, only to forbid him from going. So Rhaenys went alone. And shortly after word came of her demise.

With Meleys dead and Craxes in the Riverlands, no dragon they have could hope to stand against Vaghar.

For this though, Jace has a solution.

She wakes with the sunrise and Jace is already gone. She returns to her own chambers where a maid is waiting for her with new riding leathers. She slips into black leather leggings, a crimson skirt and matching undershirt. Then the maid helps her into a black leather tunic, patterned with intertwining dragons of red and gold. The material is thicker than she’s used to, for keeping out the cold presumably, it would hardly save her from Vhagar’s teeth and talons.

Her eyes are drawn to a breastplate and pauldron set, laid out by the window. The metal is plated with silver and layered like dragonscales. Beside that is a sheathed sword.

“Do you like your gift?” Even when softly spoken, the voice of Lord Corlys is booming and demanding.

Her eyes dart to where he stands in the doorway, his tall and broad frame obstructing her view of the hallway behind him. She has never known him as a young man, and yet for the first time she truly sees his age on his face. She wonders what has finally cracked the Sea Snake, the six years of war in the Stepstones? The fever that had his family fighting over his throne? The death of his beloved wife seems the most obvious answer.

He offers her a small smile that does not reach his eyes, and nods towards the blade.

When she looks closer, she sees the golden hilt is fashioned into the image of a seahorse, the sigil of house Velaryon. She supposes she should feel some sort of pride to wield the image of her father’s house, and yet…

She wraps her fingers around it and her brows twist into a delicate frown. “This is for me?”

Lord Corlys sighs. She listens to the thud of his boots against the stone floor as he makes his way to her side. If he understands her reservation, he will not satisfy it. “Prince Jacaerys tells me you are a rather capable combatant.”

She grips the hilt tightly despite the resistance in her fingers. Her strength is still not what is once was.

“Daemon made sure of that,” she murmurs.

Her step-father’s name comes with an image of the silver-haired twins she had only gotten a glimpse of in King’s Landing, the terrified little glares on their pale faces as they hid themselves behind their mother’s skirts. It is too easy to imagine their linen gowns stained with blood.

She dispels the swelling in her eyes and looks back up to her grandsire, the man who had put himself between her and a vengeful Alicent all those years ago on Driftmark, who had held her as she had cried herself to exhaustion on the night of Ser Laenor’s death. She forces a smile of her own.

He tilts his head down to her, bewildered for a moment, before he opens his arms. She settles unsurely in his embrace, but he holds her firmly, resting a hand on the back of her head. She takes a few shuddering breaths to find he smells like Laenor.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters.

“Whatever for?”

She takes another shaky breath, breathing in his bitterness and warmth, and the lingering scent of the sea. She wasn’t the one who ordered a dragon after Meleys and Rhaenys, she wasn’t the one to sever Jaehaerys or Jaehaera’s heads from their bodies and yet she feels the burden of their deaths in her heart. “Everything.”

Corlys gently pulls away from her, so he can look into her eyes. “War enacts a terrible price…” the thought seems to get caught in his throat. 

“The pain must be worth something,” she says in a shaky voice.

He does not answer her.

It will be worth it, she tells herself, when the Black banners line the halls of the Red Keep and Rhaenyra Targaryen sits the Iron Throne. It has to be.

Lord Corlys follows her to the entrance hall where Jace is already waiting with five others, all dressed in riding leathers, though their faces are unfamiliar to her.

Two spark some kind of vague recognition. They must be brothers, the same features in their faces, the same dark skin and shade of silver hair. The taller one has an assured smirk on his lips and locks that fall to his shoulders. The shorter one has a slightly more timid, wide-eyed gaze and close cropped hair. 

Her grandfather greets them warmly, gripping their hands and slapping their backs. Then she realises, their smiles are identical to the Sea Snake’s. She glances at Jace. He raises his eyebrows at her.

Corlys introduces them as Alyn and Addam of Hull, bastards of Laenor’s, her half-brothers. Luke grins, she can think of several ways why that might be a lie. At least they seem more savoury than the other pair of men with silver hair.

Hugh Hammer is a monster of a man, tall and built like a bull, and he frowns like one. By contrast, Ulf, ‘the white’ as the people of Dragonstone call him, is thin and wiry, next to Hugh, he looks like nothing more than skin on bones. They only make gruff grunts of acknowledgement when Jace introduces them, glaring at her through harsh violet eyes.

The last of their group is a girl, with black braids and dark skin, dressed in humble brown riding leathers. She’s shorter and slimmer than Luke, but the scar across the bridge of her nose and the creases around her mouth lead her to wonder if she is older than she appears. 

“Nettles,” she says, extending a small but calloused hand. 

Luke doesn’t understand at first.

Jace huffs a laugh. “Princess Lucerra, might I introduce Nettles.” He turns to the girl. “Nettles, Princess Lucerra is the daughter of the Queen, you should address her accordingly.”

She tuts to herself and bends her knees in an odd attempt at a curtsy. “Sorry, Princess.”

Luke takes her hand and squeezes it reassuringly. “That’s alright, I’m not usually one for formalities at the best of times.”

Once Baela appears, dressed in leathers that match Luke’s, they make their way out to the yard, towards the Dragonmount. 

In all her years living on Dragonstone, she has only seen glimpses of the larger dragons, heard their roars from the mount, seen their distant figures soaring through the sky. And all of a sudden she is faced with Vermithor, Silverwing and Sheepstealer, stalking towards their new riders. 

Her heart leaps at a familiar whistling screech as Seasmoke rises from the mount, twirling through the air before he lands to come to Addam’s side.

She watches as Jace’s eyes light up at the sight before them; six dragons, eager for flight, ready to take their place in this war. 

She has to wait until the others have taken flight before Grey Ghost finally comes to join her. Not too eagerly, she summons some of the dragon keepers, bringing with them heavy bundles of leather. The dragon grumbles at the company, but she keeps a hand against the scales of his neck, stroking where his hide is delicate, uttering phrases of reassurance. 

It takes her a while to figure out how to fit the saddle. The dragon keepers had always helped her with Arrax, but she manages it, helped immensely by Grey Ghost’s unusual but welcome show of patience. 

Once she has given him a few moments to adjust to the feeling of the saddle, she gives the order, and they bolt into the sky. 

At first they are a restless mass, flashes of bronze, silver, pale green, emerald, and grey dancing over the castle, until Vermax emerges from the group, darting out towards the sea. The others follow behind him, forming an instinctive formation, Grey Ghost and Moondancer, Seasmoke and Sheepstealer, with Vermithor and Silverwing bringing up the rear.

Luke looks over to Baela, her silver curls flailing in the wind behind her, a wide and eager grin across her lips. Ahead of them, Jace keeps his eye fixed on the horizon, leading them all through twists, turns and dives down towards the sea until seven tails skim the surface of the water. 

“Today is only the beginning,” he promises once they have dismounted. “We’ll be an army in our own right, the most formidable force of dragons since the conquest.”

“An ambitious standard,” Baela says with a sly smile, tearing her gloves off with her teeth. Luke can’t help but agree.

There can be no room for error in a dance of dragons. One faulty manoeuvre and you fall. One oversight and you are claimed by teeth and talons. And that’s so long as you can keep control of your dragon. Restraint and unity, above all else, is essential. Fly as one. Think as one. Die as one. 

Jace has the Dragonseeds training from the early morning until dusk each day and Luke is keen to include herself. Grey Ghost is still wary of the other dragons, especially the larger three, Vermithor, Silverwing and Sheepstealer, but he warms to Vermax, Seasmoke and Moondancer well enough. They fly over Dragonstone and Driftmark, along the routes she and Arrax had well memorised. 

Grey Ghost eases under her guidance every time they fly. Each day she pushes him a little further, urges him to fly faster, climb higher amongst the clouds where the air is thin and dive back down to the sea until there are tears streaming from her eyes. 

When she comes back to the ground she goes to the yard, to spar with the sword Lord Corlys has gifted her and practise with her bow.

The sun fades with no great bursts of red or gold painting the sky. Darkness creeps in slowly, and the clouds above Dragonstone turn to a deep violet. The wind howls against the battlements around the courtyard, but the air is still. Luke’s fingertips are raw as they pull back on the bow. She has promised herself she will not return to the castle until she can shoot ten bullseyes in a row.

She releases the arrow. It cuts through the air with a whistle and lands in the straw, perfectly centred. One.

She traces her fingertips over the feathers of the next, squinting at her target through the low light of the evening and the dull fatigue in her eyes.

Two… three… four…

She hears the crackle of dirt underfoot as someone paces behind her.

Five… and the sixth is a little off centre. She gnaws at the flesh inside her mouth, but allows herself the benefit of the doubt and lines up her next arrow.

“You are relentless, Princess.” 

She finally lowers the bow, realising the ache that has appeared in her left arm, but what is pain to her now? She’s suffered worse. “Would you expect different of me? We are at war.”

Alyn takes a step closer to her, plucking a finger against the string of her bow to her frustration. “Lord Corlys speaks very highly of you... and your brothers.”

She flicks his hand away from her bow. “How endearing, but it is a shame he has never mentioned you.”

“Addam and I are bastards, nothing of note.”

An attempt at humility, or perhaps he means to insult her? But there’s a sadness in his eyes, despite the small smile playing at his lips. 

She presses her teeth together. Sometimes she feels foolish for not having realised why her hair was brown sooner. Jace whispered it to her, as they watched Harwin Strong leave the Red Keep from a window.

“Have you always known?” She asks.

“My mother always told us stories of our father, a great warrior and an even greater sailor; some might say the greatest the world has ever known. Imagine my surprise when the Lord of Driftmark paid a visit to Hull and told me my true father was Laenor Velaryon.”

One of her hands curls into a fist. “Don't you dare. Laenor was an honourable man."

“I wouldn’t dream of denying it," he says with a slight tilt of his head. "Though he had an incredible talent for fathering children, despite his... preferences."

In a fluid flash of movement she positions another arrow into her bow and shoots. Seven. “So you’ve decided to approach me merely to insult my father?”

“He is my father as much as he is yours, Princess.”

She huffs a disbelieving laugh and lets another arrow loose. Eight, though slightly off again. 

Alyn’s eyes follow her strike. His lips curl into a strange sort of smirk. She can’t decide if he’s impressed or amused. “I've gotten off topic. No, I only meant to say that Lord Corlys is fond of you.”

“Why would I need to hear that from you?” She asks, keeping her eyes on the target as she lines up her ninth arrow.

“Surely it hasn’t escaped your attention of his-”

Crack. She grins as number nine splits right through the first arrow.

“-current displeasure.”

"Have some sympathy for our grandfather, Alyn, he is still in mourning for his wife after all."

His nostrils flare as he takes a slow and steady breath. “He believes Rhaenys might have had a chance, if only Rhaenyra had allowed Prince Jacaerys to join her at Rook's Rest.

Luke stands rigidly as a shiver slips down her spine. Burned beyond recognition, their scouts had said. The Queen who never was, left as a pile of ash in a pool of dried blood underneath the rotting carcass of her dragon. Meleys was a force enough on her own, and Rhaenys had a lifetime of skill and experience. It still hadn’t been enough to save either of them.

“To send Jace would have been to condemn him to death," she decides.

“And yet you managed to survive an encounter with Vaghar.”

Crack. Number ten cuts through number nine, leaving a scattering of splinters on the ground below the target. They both watch them fall. 

The howls of the wind become more ghastly with every passing moment, as does the sound of the waves, crashing and retreating against the shore below the castle and the cliffs. If Laenor were here she is certain he would anticipate a storm approaching.

With a grim “hmm” through a clenched jaw, she sets the bow aside and marches to pick the arrows from the target. 

Alyn trails her at a respectable distance, standing just over her shoulder. “Rhaenyra needs the Velaryon fleet,” he says under his breath, “she cannot hope to win this war without us, without Corlys.”

Luke sighs. “The Targaryens and the Velaryons are kin. Corlys will defend his family.”

“If we are so closely bonded, why did Rhaenyra need to betroth her son to Lady Baela?”

Rhaenys had seen right through Rhaenyra and called the arrangement for what it as. A desperate offer, but they needed Driftmark. It seems a lifetime ago they were stood in the throne room of the Red Keep, arguing over petitions.

With a particularly tough yank, she pulls the final arrow and turns to face him with a vacant glare. “Are you trying to bait me?”

“I wish for you to know that we can speak freely with one another, we are family after all.”

She pouts her lips disapprovingly, not realising she's doing it.

“I do not doubt Lord Corlys’ loyalty,” Alyn says, “but the Queen would do well to earn it.”

A flash of anger fades from her chest as quickly as it comes. He's insulted her family so brazenly, but somehow she understands him.

Because he’s right. The Velaryons have sided with Rhaenyra by the will of one man, even after she named Joffrey heir to Driftmark and Daemon beheaded Vaemond Velaryon for daring to speak against them. Her mother treads on thin ice, and should Corlys decide his interests could lie elsewhere… 

“Luke!”

She snaps her lips shut and glances over her shoulder. Baela is waiting for her on the steps to the castle.

“You’ll be late for dinner if you delay any further,” her step-sister calls, striding towards them, uncaring as the hem of black gown drags along the dirt of the yard. “Gods, are you still in your riding leathers?”

“You can help me dress,” Luke says, reaching for her bow and her sheathed sword. She buckles it to her hip, letting her fingers run over the golden seahorse hilt. She tilts her head to Alyn. “I wish you a pleasant evening,” she says shortly.

“And you, Princess,” he says with a smile. His gaze doesn’t linger on Luke for long before he turns to the woman beside her.

Baela looks rather immaculate this evening, her hair pulled into a bun to display a pair of delicate pearl drop earrings and a silver necklace sitting on her collar.

“Lady Baela," he says in a surprisingly warm tone.

Baela mutters a formality, glancing at him for only a moment before her eyes dart to the ground. 

Luke grabs her arm and the two march back through the doors of the castle.

Baela shoots a few glances over her shoulder, to find the corridors as quiet as they had left them. “What did he want?”

Luke sighs, knowing she can’t stall for too long. “He spoke of my father- our father, I suppose.”

“Anything else?”

I wish for you to know that we can speak freely with one another. He’d certainly been honest in that regard.

“Nothing of any significance,” she says as lightheartedly as she can.

Baela pouts her lips and presses no further.

Lord Corlys’ displeasure eases once Jace names him Hand of the Queen. Rhaenyra presents him with the very pin she tore from Otto Hightower in a brief ceremony before the council. Alyn and Addam stand by his side, now proudly bearing the name Velaryon.

With the Velaryon fleet holding the Gullet and the Dragonseeds patrolling the skies, Jace puts forth his strategy to take King’s Landing within a matter of weeks. 

Luke stands by her mother’s side and keeps her eyes fixed on the floor.

There is just one detail keeping Jace from mounting Vermax and leading the other dragons to the capital.

“We have Vermithor and Silverwing to match Vaghar on strength,” Addam says, “and aside from that we have the numbers to overwhelm her.”

“It would require sacrifices nonetheless,” Rhaenyra says, clutching at Luke’s fingers. Her touch is still cold.

Jace stands at the other end of the table, leaning on his palms over the vast expanse of the North. “Vhagar may be their only fighting dragon, but Aemond is ruthless.”

The Queen agrees. “We will wait upon Prince Daemon’s word.”

Luke frowns. Wait for what?  

Until then, Jace sets another plan into motion. Two ships wait in the harbour, one headed for The Eyrie, the other for Pentos, and the dragon keepers have been instructed to prepare Tyraxes, Moondancer and Grey Ghost to leave Dragonstone.

Viserys is too young to put up any resistance. He sits in Rhaena’s arms, fiddling with a silver bead in her hair and cooing to himself. But the boy knows something is wrong when his sister holds him a little tighter and his brother, Aegon, starts to wail.

Joffrey clings to Luke’s hand, his head darting between his older siblings. Jace can’t look any of them in the eyes, but Luke glares at him all the same.

“You can’t be serious, Jace,” Baela says, crouching beside Aegon to muffle his cries against her shoulder.

“It’s for your own safety.”

“No,” Rhaena breathes, “we can’t be parted from each other.”

“It won’t be forever, just until the war is over.”

“But you cannot say when that will be,” Luke says.

Jace meets her eyes.

Her brother has always been her protector, the voice of reason where she had an impulse for recklessness. Braver than her, stronger than her, stubborn in his own way but not as determined as his little sister.

Now looking at Jace is like looking in a mirror, two pairs of brown eyes, with the same flecks of gold around their pupils, glaring back at each other with passive fury that could bring the Targaryen dynasty to its knees.

“I won’t go,” Baela grumbles.

“Nor will I,” Luke says.

“And me!” Joffrey pipes in, “please, Jace, I want to fight alongside you!"

“Enough!”

The older siblings cease their bickering, the stunned silence interrupted only by the cries of the little ones as Rhaenyra rushes to take Viserys into her arms. She looks more like a mother than she has for weeks, without a crown, her hair loose about her shoulders and wearing a simple gown underneath her black robe.

“Oh my loves,” she breathes, rocking her youngest into a settled sadness. Viserys gurgles little sobs into his mother’s neck, but the quiet It dispels Aegon too, clutching at Baela’s skirts and gazing up at Rhaenyra with sad, lavender eyes.

Luke squeezes Joffrey’s hand. What she wouldn’t give to be that small again, curled into her mother’s arms.

Keeping Viserys in one arm, Rhaenyra brings the other around Baela’s shoulder, pressing a delicate kiss to her forehead. “You have all been so brave, but you should not have to be.”

“It is our duty, is it not? To stand by your side and claim what has been taken from us,” Baela says.

Rhaenyra’s eyes fall to Luke. “I have already asked too much of my children.”

Luke frowns. She was not ready to go to Storm’s End, she knew it the moment she saw Vaghar over the battlements. But she will be ready the next time she crosses paths with her uncle. 

With the little ones handed back to their nursemaids, and Baela and Rhaena taking Joffrey’s hand to bring him to bed, Luke stands before her brother and her Queen. 

The heat from the hearth, almost the height she is, burns against the right side of her face and lights a fire in her eyes. “I want to fight for your throne,” she says.

“Out of the question," Jace snaps.

“I have already survived an attack by Vaghar.”

“Barely. And Arrax didn’t.”

“Grey Ghost is not Arrax.”

“You’re being foolish.”

“Do you think you know better than I what is at risk? Is that why you get to play war and I do not?”

“This is not a game, Luke,” Rhaenyra warns.

She shakes her head frantically, hardly aware she’s doing it. “Of course it isn’t, but there has to be a reason, a reason why I suffered.” Her breath seems to fade from her lungs. “Aemond- the Greens must suffer for what they have done to our family!”

“You think you could be the one do it?” Jace sneers. “You slashed out Aemond’s eye and had nightmares about it for eight years.”

She digs her nails into her palms to stop herself from screaming at him. She allows herself a moment to slow her breath, to gather her thoughts through the pumping of her heart in her ears.

“Things are different now. I am different.” She sees it in the world around her, fixing her attention to the cold and the colour grey more than she used to. She feels it in the constant ache in her muscles, like every movement she makes is wrong. She’s so tired and yet restless. “Please, mother, do not send me from your side.”

“She should return to Winterfell, to her betrothed-”

“Jacaerys,” Rhaenyra holds a hand to silence him. When she looks back to Luke, she seems equally exhausted, hardly able to muster neither a smile or a frown. “I would not have you be a warrior.”

“But-”

“Promise me, Lucerra, promise me you will stay by my side.”

“I… I promise, your Grace.”

Joffrey and Rhaena leave the very next morning. After a tearful farewell, Rhaena boards the ship that will take her to the Eyrie with her pale pink hatching, Morning, perched on her shoulder. Once the ship sets sail, Tyraxes swoops down from the Dragonmount, to fly alongside them. 

And the day after that, the little ones begin their journey across the Narrow Sea, to be fostered by the Prince of Pentos. They make their way down to the harbour in the early morning, the Queen and her children, with Ser Erryk to accompany them.

Aegon toddles along the dock with his dragon, Stormcloud, clutched in his arms like a doll, while Viserys keeps his egg close to his chest.

“Don’t lose it, Vis,” Jace smiles, “hold it tight.”

The boy shakes his head and tightens his grip as much as his pudgy little arms will allow.

Rhaenyra holds them for what must be an eternity, knowing it will never be enough time. She lets them go, choking down a sob as she bids farewell to two more children. She cannot bring herself to linger for long. Once the ship leaves the harbour, she walks with Ser Erryk back to the castle.

Luke, Baela and Jace stand and watch the ship until it vanishes over the horizon. The sun has started to set and the sky burns a blood red, illuminating the sea in a similar shade.

“It won’t be for long,” Jace says, “the moment I step foot in King’s Landing, I’ll send word, and we’ll be together again.”

Luke looks to the West as the sun sets. The Red Keep is there, somewhere beyond the skyline, it always has been, but now she feels more aware of it than ever.

She doesn’t dream much as of late. Her sleep is broken, fading in and out of darkness. Sometimes she sees glimpses of faces, flashes of silver hair, spurts of blood and flickers of flame.

Other times she feels a breath teasing the skin of her neck, a cruel whisper of a voice as a hand traces along her body. Her own voice hums in her throat. She utters the last half of a name that makes her blood burn.

She shifts up to see if Jace is still in his bed. Luckily for her, he’s fast asleep, jaw slack and snoring.

After that she starts sleeping in her own chambers, no matter how loudly the wind howls or how the sound of the sea makes her shiver. When Jace asks her why, she lies and says it’s because her nightmares have stopped.

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[laura1633]

It's easy to imagine Max as a lion/cat animal shifter or have a feline spirit animal/daemon since the lion is his whole brand but which animal do you think fits Charles the best? Or do you think another animal would fit Max?

For Max I think the cat/lion thing does fit him well.

I think if we are thinking on-track Max then his sprit animal being a lion makes sense - aggressive when needs to be, confident, decisive.

Off track Max is more the kitten/cat - I think he is playful and fun but also smart. Cats are sometimes misunderstood as not being caring or loving but they really are, I think they just have to feel safe and feel like they can trust someone. And of course he just has a little squishy cat face!

For Charles, I am actually not so sure. the obvious one that comes to mind is a dog/puppy. I think of dogs as being super loyal (like Charles is to Ferrari) and having lots of excitable energy (which I think he displays quite often), he is also friendly and good around people. I do also think he has that fighting spirit in him so perhaps a little bit more of an aggressive dog on track 😂

Did any of that make any sense at all haha! I am really rambling today!