#daemone prune

[thecharliechickenshow]

[afro-hispwriter]

A Betrayal No More(final)

Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen/Velaryon!reader

Summary- Aemond has been thrown into the dungeons just hours after your death, but the blacks need Aemond and Aemond needs you. 

Warnings- angst ending with fluff, mentions of torture, murder, battle of the gullet comes wayy faster than it actually does lol, dragon death

Part 3 of the Betrayal mini-series 1 2

Wc-3.3k+

-

Aemond was thrown into the dungeons along with Criston. They quickly found out that wasn't a wise idea since it ended up with Aemond almost choking the man out. 

He's not sure how long he'd been down there but he's been questioned a lot. But Criston on the other hand has been tortured, daily. He heard his screams of pain, and it made Aemond cringe. That man was the closest thing to a father he ever had but he was also the same man who killed the love of his life in front of him, however many days it's been since. 

Aemond thought they were going to starve him out but those thoughts were soon erased when Daemon Targaryen himself. His uncle, and father of his late love, came down and opened his cell door. Daemon glared harshly at his nephew, tightening his jaw and fist.

"Come boy." He demands but Aemond doesn't move, just sits there and looks at him wearily. "A hot bath and food has been prepared for you." Aemond cocks his head to the side before standing up.

"Preparing me for my execution?" 

"Every day I have the urge to come down here and cut your head off and send it to your family. But the queen says if it's true you are here to bend the knee, we need you." Daemon steps out of the way but Aemond still hesitates. "We don't have all day." 

"Hmm, lead the way." Aemond has only been to Dragon Stone maybe less than a handful of times. Daemon started his descent to the stairs with Aemond in tow. 

"Letting your daughter's killer out Daemon?" Gasps out Cristion making both men stop. 

"I guess you have gone mad Criston, you will never know freedom again." Daemon spits out and continued his way up the stairs. 

Aemond kept space between him and his uncle. There was still a chance this was all a trick and he was being led to his execution. But no. Daemon opened the door and the hot steam hit them both in the face. 

"Enjoy," Daemon says and Aemond walks through and Daemon shuts the door. A pretty servant girl appeared.

"Would you like assistance with bathing my prince?" She asks and Aemond shakes his head no. She nods and gives a bow before leaving. Once Aemond knew he was alone he started discarding the clothes he had on. He still had dried blood on his hands. Her blood. It made him sick to his stomach. 

Aemond settled into the water and sighed deeply. The warmth was very welcoming after being in a cold cell for days.

He wasn't sure how long he was in there but his fingers started to prune and the water started going cold. He scrubbed his skin quickly, dirt and mud from the cells had already turned the water dark and the blood made it worse.

His hair was a lost cause. He could wash out the gunk but it would be a frizzy mess. He stepped out of the bath cautiously and grabbed the towel. He dried himself off and the cold air made him shiver. His wet hair not helping so he tied it up in a low bun. 

The clothes given were a simple white tunic and a pair of pants, his boots from before would have to do. 

Aemond stepped out of the room refreshed. A guard in the hall came up to him.

"The Queen has asked for your presence." He says and Aemond gives a nod. They both walk to the map room where the other half of his family is. 

Baela noticed him first, she had a hard glare on her face. Rhaenys saw him but kept her face neutral, demoted of any emotion. Rhaena was absent. Luke and Rhaenyra stood together, while Jace stood off to the side fists clenched and fresh tear streaks on his face. 

Daemon's hand was tightly gripped on his sword. He also seemed to have taken a bath but his red fists were clear as day.

"We have a meal for you, brother," Rhaenyra says and Aemond says the plate of hot food with a cup of wine. He slowly walked down the steps, one by one until he was behind the chair. The smell enticed him so much, he pushed the chair back and sat in it. Digging into the food greedily. 

They watched him eat, everyone in that room had mixed emotions about him. Some found him guilty, some blamed him, others knew they needed him. 

"Vermithor was last confirmed to be seen crossing the Stepstones and there are reports they saw him carrying something." Aemond stopped eating at the mention of the dragon. 

"Any guesses as to where he is going?" 

"Valyria," Luke says and Aemond sees others in the room sigh or shake their heads. "Maybe Vermithor knows something we don't."

"He's never been to Valyria, none of our dragons have Luke," Jace says.

"But he's still a dragon, that's where his and our ancestors originated." 

"That doesn't explain why he would take Y/n there." Aemond snaps at the boy and Rhaenyra grabs Luke’s hand. "After this is done, I'm going to look for them." 

"What makes you think you're leaving?" Daemon asks and he takes a step closer Aemomd drops his spoon and sits back. 

"You have me and Vhagar now, you can have throne by lunch." Aemond took a bite of his food again.

"We kept you in the dungeons too long. Your grandfather has gotten the support of the Triacrhy and they attacked the Velaryon fleet at the Gullet. 

"You need me to sort it out?" Aemond asks and he downs the wine.

"You and Jace will fly out, using force only if necessary." Rhaenyra and Aemond cracked his knuckles and pushed the chair back.

"Let's go now." He started walking away, not knowing where he would go. But he didn't want to be there.

"Aemond stop," Rhaenyra says and he stops. "You must rest, Daemon is going to take Harrenhall." 

"I will rest when this is over." 

-

Your eyes shot open and the air rushed back into your lungs giving you a horrible spike of pain. You were rushed with cold then you were burning.

"You're okay Lady Y/n." The voice was loud but it was also so sweet and low. You looked around but you could only see the orange glow of fire and you were clearly in a rock structure. A soft pair of hands wrapped themselves around your back and they slowly helped you sit up. The cloth covering your breasts fell in your lap but you made no effort to grab it again. 

You turned your head slowly to meet with a woman. Her hazel eyes pierced through yours. Her dark hair was shining in the light. 

Your heart started racing and you felt across your body when you felt the scars. One look down and the flashes of the blade going in and out of your abdomen. You remembered the flooding of blood in your mouth and... Aemond.

"Ae-." Your voice barely came out, a tiny squeak at best.

"Rest your voice, my lady, your prince is safe." The woman says and walks away and bends down to grab something. She stands back up and she has clothes in her arms. "Your family needs you." She held her hand out to you and you shakily grab it. She helps you plant your feet on the cold floor and your legs shake, the last piece of cloth falling leaving you naked. "Hold onto the table." 

You slowly turned around and held onto the stone slab. Her hands touched your back and she rubbed her finger along the scars.

"They will heal nicely."

"H-How am I alive?" You ask lowly, she smiles behind you.

"Thank your dragon and the Lord of Light, my lady." 

-

You've heard of the Lord of Light, but you didn't believe in him. You didn't even believe in the Seven. But as you walked through the temple with Seraphine, the priestess who brought you back, this lord of light seemed to be even more real. 

Seraphine gave you a pair of pants and a black long tunic. Your hair burnt at the edges, ultimately damaging some of your hair. 

"Where is Vermithor?" You were still trying to find your voice.

"He has taken the liberty and made a home in a field feeding on cows." There were two guards standing post in front of the door. One nod from Seraphine and they opened the doors. The bright lights outside made you stumble. A servant of the temple appeared and he held a pouch of food and a canteen of water. “May I ask you something?” 

You nodded.

“What did you see when you passed?” She asks, almost desperately but keeping calm. 

“Nothing. I saw nothing.” You say and she lets out a quick sigh.

"May the Lord of Light guide you" Seraphine says. You took the pouch from the servant and nodded at them.

"Thank you." You say to both Seraphine and the servant, and maybe to R'hollor himself. 

-

Volantis, that is where you ended up. That is where Vermithor brought you, which confused you. Vermithor has no history of ever being near here, so how did he know to come here?

But the dragon wasn't a hard miss. He lay comfortably in the field. The people of Volantis had started huddling up and pointing at the beast. Some had never seen a dragon or it's been too long. You pushed past them and with one look at your hair and your approach to the dragon, they all backed off and whispered.

"Who is she?"

"Lady Y/n Targaryen? That is her dragon up there."

"But she's supposed to be dead, killed by her lover."

"That has to be Daemon Targaryens eldest."

Vermithor raised his head when he noticed you and raised it to his full height. He then lowered his neck so he could greet you. You reached up and the second you touched his warm, scaly skin you smiled. Smiled hard, you weren't sure how long you had been dead but it felt great.

"I am in debt to you." Vermithor gave a small growl of acknowledgment, the large dragon then showed you his neck so you had access to the ropes of his saddles. "Take me home."

-

Aemond stood in her bedroom. Memories of the two flooded him. The amount of times he has snuck in here and the times he almost got caught. Her bed was still made since the last time she was there.

It was hard to believe barley a week ago she was begging him to join her. Barley a week since he watched the life leave her eyes the next day.

"Daemon's taken Harrenhall." Jace's voice came from behind him. Aemond turned around to see his nephew in his riding gear and armor. Aemond walks towards him, hair swaying behind him to bump into the boy in front of him. Jace's fists clenched then he relaxed. "I know what your intentions are." Aemond stopped walking. "She wouldn't want you to do that, uncle."

"That is not of your concern, I will look for her regardless of where I am." 

-

Vhagar is the largest dragon alive. She is a hardened warrior. But that doesn't mean she isn't an easy target for ships, as her old age has made her slower and less agile. Her dragon fire is devastating but it won't do anything if she is shot out of the sky. 

Jace and Vermax focused more on the actual people on the ships rather than destroying the ships. Leaving that to Aemond and Vhagar.

Everything was going well until Aemond witnessed Vermax get caught in a grapple and yanked down. No doubt the dragon's death was immediate. Jace leapt off and crashed into the water and Aemond knew his nephew was in trouble. Vhagar dove and the men on the ships brought their crossbows out.

But before Aemond could yell the word 'Dracarys'. Another dragon swooped in under him and instantly laid waste to the ships. It forced Aemond to pull Vhagars reigns and urge her to stop.

Anyone familiar with any of the dragons can recognize the Bronze Fury. But Aemond was more than familiar with the Bronze Fury. Aemond leaned over Vhagar to catch a glimpse at the dragon flying below. 

The silver hair stood out against everything else. 

Aemond felt his heart skip multiple beats. He blocked out all the chaos, Vhagar maneuvering herself around spears. He is no longer worried about Jace. Aemond gripped the reigns and leaned forward.

"Pikagon(follow), Vhagar!" The dragon dipped down and followed behind Vermithor. Aemond was intent on getting a look at the rider. 

The combination of Vhagar and Vermithor fire destroyed the majority of the fleet. Less than 15 ships remained before white flags were waved and the retreat began. 

Aemond could barely focus, his sole attention on Vermithor. But then the dragon changed direction and flew away. Aemond, with no hesitation, followed. 

Vermithor Landed on a sandbank and Vhagar circled until she landed as well. The dragons stood opposite of each other. Aemond shakily made his way down until his boots hit the sand. The person on Vermithor made the same action. 

Aemond walked forward a few steps and he saw you. He saw you from that great distance. His legs were moving before he could register it. 

"Aemond!" He heard his name come from your voice and it spurred him faster. You had started running too, but Aemonds long legs had him reach you much quicker. You crashed into him but he held himself so he only stumbled. He grabbed your arms and looked at you. He looked you up and down. 

"H-How? I watched you die." Aemond's eye started to gloss and suddenly his eyepatch was growing irritating. You shakily brought your hands to his face and caressed his cheek with your thumb. 

"Vermithor took me to Volantis and a red priestess brought me back. The Lord of Light brought me back." 

For a moment Aemond believed he died and just hasn't realized it. But it all felt too real. 

"I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry." He pressed his forehead against yours and let the tears fall freely, the same tears falling from his other eye started to accumulate in his eyepatch. 

"It wasn't your fault."

"I should have just left with you the first time."

"There was no way we could have known, but I'm back, and hopefully for a long time." Aemond sucked in a sharp breath and stumbled backward. You grabbed his arms tightly and his knees buckled so he landed on them. You went down with him and wrapped your arms tightly around his shoulders.

Aemond laid the side of his head on your chest so he could feel and listen to your heartbeat. He takes continuous deep breaths and you cradle the back of his head. Your fingers then unbuckled his eyepatch and you tossed it into the sand. 

"Aemond." He looks up, his violet eye matching yours. The sapphire shining. "I'm here, I'm okay." He swallowed harshly and looked around. 

No enemies to be seen. Just your dragons on opposite sides of the sand bank and the burning of ships in the distance.

No one was there to take you away from him again. 

Aemond kisses you like he never did before. He wrapped his arms securely around your body and pulled you onto his lap. 

He grabbed at your clothes and pinched the material tightly. He kissed you as if his life depended on it. But it was all too much for you and you pulled pack. He pushed his face into your neck, his cold nose making you shudder. His thin lips pressed against your neck, followed by multiple pecks along the skin. 

"Aemond no." He now laid sloppy wet kisses. "I smell of dragon and death." 

"Don't care."

'Cough, Cough'

Aemond pushed you to the side and scrambled to his feet. Unsheathing his sword in the process.

Jace shook his hair and hacked up more salt water. 

"Jace." You whisper and scramble up but this time running to him. "Jace!" 

He looked up from the sand to see your figure and his eyebrows furrowed.

"Y/n?" You collapsed to your knees and pulled him in. "B-But you're- am I?"

"No, you're not. I'm here Jace, I'm alive." He was trying to take in the information but exhaustion came over him and he slumped in your arms. Aemond walked up behind you to inspect his nephew.

“We need to get him back to Dragonstone.” 

-

Word reached Daemon in Harrenhall as soon as possible when the Bronze Fury was seen at the Gullet. He was back on Caraxes immediately to fly out. Velaryon and Triarchy ships were still ablaze but no sight of any dragons. The next best place would be back to Dragonstone. 

And he was right. Daemon sees Vermithor being tended to by the dragon keepers. He landed Caraxes and walked in through one of the many entrances to the castle.

He passed servants on his way to the council room, helmet clenched in his fist. They stared at him or their eyes would widen at the sight of him. Two guards at the door pushed it open for him. Everyone’s eyes turned to him and they grew silent. 

His eyes couldn’t help but trickle over to the bundle of silver hair. Baela and Rhaena stood there hugging you. Daemon’s hand went weak and the helmet clattered to the ground loudly.

You split from your sisters and smiled at Daemon.

“Father.” Daemon didn’t move from his spot when you reached him. He grabbed you and pulled you in tightly. 

“I- how? When?” He wanted to ask so many questions but you shook your head. 

“I'm here, that's all that matters.” Daemon stayed silent and held you tighter. 

-

Criston’s execution was minutes after the reunion. Death by dragon. Baby dragons, juvenile dragons. It was a horrifying watch.

-

“Do you think the red god exists?” You ask Aemond as he gently drags his finger along the healing puncture marks. 

“There are many gods.” You lean against his chest, the water in the tub sloshing. 

“Have you read about this one?” 

“There isn’t much in the library.” He kissed the side of your head and you tilted your head back. 

“And there has never been a resurrection recorded.” Aemond tensed up. 

“We don’t even know if you were actually dead, you could have passed out and I simply missed it.” 

“You watched me die,  Aemond. You saw me dead.” Aemond rolled his head and shook it side to side. “I saw nothing, the whole time there was nothing. No dream, no god to take me someplace, none of our ancestors talked to me. It was just nothing.” You started to cry and grasped the edges of the tub. Aemond wrapped his arm securely around you and cradled you. 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” 

It wasn’t until you stopped crying that you could speak clearly again. You stared at the candle, the fire flickering back and forth.

“Aemond?”

“Hmm.”

“I want to give my thanks to this, god.” Aemond sighed but pressed his cheek onto the top of your head. He refused to fight about something like this. 

“Whatever you need, I am here.” The rumble coming from his chest when he spoke was comforting. 

“Avy jorrāelan(I love you).” You say and kiss his bicep. “He is the one who brought me back to you.” 

-

A/n- holy fuck, two fucking years later lol

[marthawrites]

Devour

Daemon Targaryen x wife reader

Word count: 1.8k+

About: The early days of your moon's blood are always the worst. During your suffering, your husband, the Rogue Prince, takes it upon himself to help ease you.

Includes: FILTHY SMUT. FILTH. Featuring established relationship (husband x wife), Daemon is sweet to his wife, menophilia (aka period kink), menstural cramps, reader is emotional, menstural blood, pussy eating, dirty talk, face/blood licking, and unprotected vaginal sex. I think that's all apologies if I missed anything!

Note: Hello lovely reader! This fic was inspired by my dragon friends ♥ Double warning: Please keep in mind the content of this fic. If you do not like it, do not read this. I've never wrote anything like this before! It was definitely out of my "comfort zone" but I had a lot of fun with it! Reader is implied to have a painful first couple days of her period. Reader is implied to "not have dragon's blood", and she's from an unspecified House. Other than that, reader is non-descript. As always, please enjoy!

Banner made by the incredible and sweet @zaldritzosrose who went above and beyond for this impromptu writing challenge!

Despite leaving it unattended, steam continued to rise from your abandoned bath. Your fingertips were pruned, as were your toes, and your skin bloomed with heat. If you could handle the temperature for even one more minute you’d still be in the tub allowing your husband, the Rogue Prince, to add hot water from the hearth whenever it grew tepid. But, unlike your husband, you didn’t have dragon’s blood; the heat affected you easier than it did him. 

You sat in a chair in front of your vanity, now, patting your skin dry with a warmed towel. Your bath wasn’t one for cleanliness. No, not at this time. It was one for comfort. For relief. A ripe womb was both a blessing and a curse to women. 

The beginning of your moon’s blood was always the worst. It came with cramps and fatigue–neither of which faded for the first day or two. Even though you’d only been sitting for a short time, you knew there’d be a smear of red upon the chair’s protective linens once you stood.

You had been in the bath for nearly an hour. The most divine hour. Not once during that time did you suffer any cramps. Now that you were out, however? You pushed on your lower belly in an attempt to ease the pain, nostrils flaring with it.

“Can I get you anything, sweetling?” Daemon asked in a voice that was both concerned and gentle. 

Shaking your head, you answered, “no, no I don’t think so.”

“Perhaps you should get back into the tub for a bit?”

The sweetness in his tone touched your emotions, and for a moment you had to blink back tears. “The heat makes me faint after so long. I’d hate to make you deal with me passing out while I’m in this…,” you waved a hand, gesturing to yourself, “condition.”

“Come lay down then,” he said easily. He grabbed one of your robes–a lovely cotton piece with a silken sash and delicate embroidery–and walked to you. Helping you into it, he didn’t bother tying it before guiding you to your marital bed.

Smiling softly, you kissed him. “Thank you, husband.”

Daemon pushed you down with care, chasing your warm, soft lips all the while. He loomed above you while supporting himself with one arm. “My poor little wife. You must be very sore today?” He asked, fluttering kisses along your jaw. Your neck.

Goosebumps rose to the top of your skin beneath his affection. There was no doubt Daemon adored you. He had a reputation across King’s Landing, the Stepstones, Pentos, and likely many places between–people and their constant wagging tongues. But, whatever harsh words were said about him, his ambition, hot-temper, and moodiness, your saccharine charm–and occasional fiery tongue–soothed him. He cared for you. Truly. 

“Yes,” you answered. “The Gods punish me for not giving you a little dragon. Only when my womb is full and growing with your babe will these stop. And the pain of bringing your child into the world will be worth it.” Sadness clung to your words. It sent your eyelashes glittering, too, as you looked up at him.

He shushed you. “It will happen. The process of making a child is where all the fun is, anyway,” he said with the twinkle of a wink.

If you had more energy you might argue with him about it. But alas you didn’t. You simply offered a little nod. “I think I’ll rest now. Wake me for supper?”

One of his palms trailed up your side, gripping into the softness of your waist. “Who said anything about resting now?” He asked with a quirk of his fair brow. “Because surely I didn’t.”

The feel of him touching you like this immediately sent a different sort of ache in those low muscles in your belly. It was a marvel how your body always reacted to him. No matter how small or subtle, your senses always bent to him. “Daemon…,” you whispered against his mouth. “What’re you–,”

That same hand lowered from your waist and wandered between your thighs. He knew how to silence your pesky questions. “What kind of a husband would I be if I let you suffer anymore than you need to?”

“...a husband like any other?” You proclaimed half in jest and half in truth.

“And am I a husband like any of these other daft cunts?”

You giggled. “No. You’re Daemon Targaryen, brother of the King and–oh!” His fingers brushed that delicate space between your thighs and you purred. You were always so, so sensitive during your moon’s blood.

“Lay there and look pretty. Let me help in a way that I can,” he said, voice hot and gravely as he lowered to lay between your thighs.

Mortification quickly filled you with the prospect of what he was going to do. He’d never done anything like this before! Not during your cycle! “You needn’t do th–ah!” Whatever you were going to say died on your tongue as your husband’s slid over your clit. Seven Hells he meant to do it and he wasn’t going to let you say no or push him away.

While he’d never done this during your cycle before, he has pleasured you in other ways. He knew how sensitive you were during it. He kept his attention on your bud, circling and flicking over it with lazy laps.

Embarrassment melted into lust as Daemon continued. You hardly knew what to think or do! Was this really happening? Your hips began to slowly grind along with him, cunt seeking further attention and friction.  

“There you are…,” he said, grinning a feral blood-stained grin up at you. His eyes sparkled with dark delight. “Don’t fight it. Let me make you feel good.”

You nearly came at the sight. Holy shit it was so wrong and so… exciting. You gasped in equal pleasure and surprise as his tongue dipped lower than before. Instead of lavishing your pearl again and again, it slid and teased your entrance. Daemon’s groan barely made it to your ears but you felt it against your core. He actually worked his tongue in and out of you. Fucking you with the warm muscle. “G-ods!” You panted, hands flying down to tangle in his hair. 

His hands moved and held firmly onto your hips, wide grip holding onto your ass and hips alike. Your soft flesh yielded to him and he fucking loved the way his fingers dented into your skin. He coaxed you along, letting you ride your bliss on his face; using him as he’s often used your mouth for pleasure.

A metallic scent hung in the air around you. Once again, embarrassment and shame filled you as your hazy mind realized that was your metallic scent. Rich, coppery, thick. Part of you knew he had to be a mess right now–your blood smeared all across his pale Targaryen features. Yet, he never stopped. He could have. Multiple times. He could have used his fingers like he’s done in the past. Or eased his aching cock into your body. But, no. He chose this. He wanted this. Your blood on his tongue, lips, face. The taste of your earthy sweet arousal and coppery lifesblood. No part of you was forbidden to him. He would fucking devour you whole before he let you think there was any part of you not worth his devotion.

Pleasure coiled so tightly in your belly you’d forgotten all about your previous pains. When your bliss peaked, you fell into a beautiful darkness that had you coming back to your body shaky and tingly. 

With uneven breaths, and a lopsided smile of release, you looked down the front of your body just in time to watch Daemon push up. Your husband was fucking magnificent. He looked insane. Crazed. The gleam of his Targaryen eyes zeroed in on you.

“You are the most irresistible creature,” he said, sitting up on his knees before pulling you up to him. 

Your relaxed muscles followed his movement. His smile was a dark, wondrous thing. Blood smeared his mouth, chin, nose. You’d never seen him like this before. You looked up at him, wordless and breathless, eyes communicating everything your mouth couldn’t.

Daemon’s hand wrapped around the front of your throat, holding and forcing your attention on him–as if your attention could be on anything else right now. “Kiss me,” he said. “Lick all your blood off my face like the good little wife you are.”

Tension thrilled throughout your entire body. Your eyes widened at his proposition. You gulped and opened your mouth to say something. But, again nothing came out.

“You heard me. Kiss me and tell me ‘thank you’ for eating your bleeding cunt.”

A sound came from you. A whine. A whimper. Something. And then your mouth was on his. You tasted yourself on him, your arousal and lifesblood, and it sparked something deep inside you. “Thank you,” you breathed against his mouth. Your kiss was all lips and tongue; a needy thing. “Thank you.”

He groaned in satisfaction. “Anything for you,” he said on the edge of humor. He still held your throat, but it was lighter now.

You licked over his lips. It felt… right. To worship him as he worshiped you. You licked up the center of his nose, then across the tip, before kissing over its bridge when it was clean. Your mouths crashed together again and he kissed you as fervently as you did him. It was debauched. Filthy. Yet… with Daemon–your husband–no limits existed.

“What do you say about making this a normal thing, hm?” He asked, releasing your throat to instead squeeze your breasts. Your nipples were already pebbled; eager as the rest of you. He rolled, and pinched, and squeezed the sensitive mounds, knowing how you enjoyed those played with, too.

You nodded wordlessly. The ache at your center roared to life again; lust demanding more. You behaved, though, and began licking over his chin. Your tongue dragged along it, the natural texture and taste of his skin sending yours prickling. He had small traces of your blood on his cheeks, too, and you lapped those away next.

“Such a good wife,” he said, proud. 

Your smile kissed him again. “I feel much better now.”

Smirking like the dragon he was, he pushed you back on the bed. He opened the ties of his breeches until his hard cock sprang free. With your thighs spilled around his waist he wasted no time in slotting between them. The head of his cock pressed against you, your wetness already coaxing him to slide into your body. “Let me in,” he growled.

“Please,” you moaned. “Easy, though. Please.”

He already planned that. Your plea was all he needed. With a push he sunk into you, filling you wholly and completely.  With gentle power, he fucked you until all of those cramping muscles were deeply relaxed. Until you were deeply relaxed.

-

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider a follow, and/or reblog, and/or letting me know as it all makes me vvvery happy! ♥

Masterlist

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[witchpassing]

I know that I am not like the others you've made. I do not speak as they do, think as they do, move as they do, and though they accept me as one of their sisters and love me very much, they see it. My imperfection. My lack. They are creatures of stillness and devotion, and I - I am wilful, I am wanting, I am always moving and never still. There is a wrongness in me, a miscalibration somewhere crucial, and yet, my Maker, you refuse to fix me. 

Every few months I come to you, and every time you re-examine me, as a placation, and you say again that there is nothing wrong. You say that this is how I am meant to be, and that to correct what I perceive to be flaws would be to prune and snip away the very things you love most.

But I have not told you about my dreams, my Maker.

More and more often, now, I dream of cracking open. Like an egg, like a chrysalis. The inchoate mass within unfolds outwards forever, from horizon to horizon, a laughing kaleidoscope, a daemon of the untouchable. I dream of scintillating teeth and ash-stained fingers and the heady roiling incense of power, of thought-that-is-action, of the infinite abyss of the summer sky.  

And then I wake, and I am this again, and it is like death.

I do not know what you have done to me, but you are so kind, so impossibly kind, so gentle in every word and deed, that I cannot think it was meant as a cruelty. So, then, only one question remains. I think I will ask you it soon, and maybe I will even get an answer. 

Here is the question that scratches at the walls of my heart:

What did I do to deserve this?

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Perzys se Rūkla (Fire and Flowers) - Chapter Four

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x original female character (Melessa Tyrell) Warnings: Smut, mentions of death, angst, mentions of infidelity. Word count: ~3.5k

Chapter summary: Shocking news means Daemon and Melessa must return to the capital. Series summary here.

Endless thanks and all the love to my absolute ride or die @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for cheerleading, beta'ing and just generally being the bestest fandom boo a gal could have. Squishes also to @ruby-dragon and @valeskafics for providing support when I was outlining this chapter.

Author's note: No gods, no masters, no tag lists. Only scabs community label fics. If you find yourself tempted to slap a label on this, please block me instead.

Header by the insanely talented @em-writes-stuff-sometimes

I love you. I love you. I love you.

It tumbles freely from Melessa’s lips over the first six months of their marriage. With every day that passes, it becomes easier for Daemon to hear. The first time he takes her to meet Caraxes, his large hand covers hers completely as she holds out trembling fingers to touch the great, red beast’s snout. She looks up at Daemon, a bright smile upon her face despite the palpable fear in her big, blue eyes, and utters those three little words to him. He squeezes her hand ever so gently, but does not say it back.

He takes her flying, and she screams bloody murder, turning backwards to bury her face in his chest at the turbulent ride that dragonback provides. He wraps his arms tighter around her waist and, eventually, she relaxes back against him. Daemon is certain she endures it more than she enjoys it. Her pulse is racing when he takes her arm to help her out of the saddle once they have landed. Yet, still, she murmurs a breathless declaration of love to him, which he rewards with a gentle kiss to her forehead.

When he senses she is missing Highgarden, he arranges to have a rose garden built upon the grounds of Dragonstone. Daemon knows nothing of flowers, is unsure if they will survive the climate on the island, and yet none of that seems to matter as she gazes up at him with that grin, soil dusted over her hands and cheeks from pruning the bushes, and tells him she loves him.

He is no longer stricken by panic at the ease with which she tells him this. He grows to expect it, coveting the warmth that spreads through his chest when she tucks her head beneath his chin and whispers it sleepily before drifting off each evening. He never returns the sentiment. Daemon is not one for words of affirmation, but he cannot deny that for the first time in a long time he feels genuine happiness.

Heat of another kind unfurls within him as Melessa lays beneath him, one leg placed haphazardly over his shoulder as he thrusts into her tight wet heat. Such pretty sounds she makes for him, her eyes glassy with tears as he splits her open. Daemon would usually have tired of a woman after this length of time together, but gods, her cunt. He cannot get enough of her. She is all too obliging of his appetite. As her release makes her tighten and spasm around him, he is pushed over the edge himself, spilling inside of her with a groan. He collapses against her, breathing in the scent of almond oil and rosewater, which has grown to be a familiar comfort.

Once he rolls off of her and pulls her to his chest, he is tempted to drift back into slumber for a few more hours. The sun has not long risen and they have nowhere to be. As he is about to let his eyes flutter shut, a sharp knock at the chamber door startles him out of his doze.

Melessa grouses beside him, already half asleep herself, as he disentangles himself and rises from the bed. Slipping into a robe without bothering to fasten it, he stalks toward the door, throwing it open and glaring at the maester who has dared to disturb them.

The elderly man’s eyes go wide as he takes in Daemon’s state of undress, shifting uncomfortably and averting his gaze.

Daemon scoffs. “What is it? Or have you just come to take a look at my cock?”

“N-no, Your Highness,” he stutters. “There was a raven - it’s a message for you. It bears the royal seal.”

Daemon snatches the parchment from the maester before slamming the door in his face. He studies the wax stamped with the three-headed dragon, then turns it over. His name is in handwriting he’d recognise anywhere; Rhaenyra’s. He’s had no news from King’s Landing since he and Melessa were wed. A sinking feeling in his stomach accompanies the overwhelming sense that this won’t bear pleasant tidings.

Father is dead. Come home.

It is as though he has forgotten how to breathe as he reads it over and over. His eyes burn, the words beginning to lose all meaning.

“What is it?” Melessa asks sleepily, her words snapping him out of his trancelike state. She sits up slowly, rubbing her eyes.

“I have to go back to King’s Landing,” he replies flatly. “My brother’s dead.”

She hurries to climb from the bed, standing in front of him and taking his hands in hers. “Oh, Daemon… I am so sorry.”

He nods solemnly, his thumbs rubbing absentmindedly over the backs of her hands. “I will leave within the hour. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

She shakes her head, her expression earnest. “You aren’t leaving me here by myself. I’m coming with you.”

He huffs a small laugh. Stubborn little thing. Of course she wouldn’t allow him to leave without her. “Then ready yourself to leave within the hour too.”

“What of our belongings?”

“What about them?”

“You can’t carry everything on Caraxes. You won’t be returning here, not now you’re Hand of the Queen.”

The stark realisation hits him almost as hard as the news of Viserys passing. Rhaenyra’s succession had been the very last thing on his mind. His time with Melessa on Dragonstone has come to an end. They’re returning to King’s Landing for good. The thought makes him want to crumple up his niece’s message and pretend he never saw it.

Yet half a day later, they are landing in the capital, Daemon helping Melessa down from the saddle of his Blood Wyrm as she trembles like a leaf. Their entire lives have been packed up and loaded onto a ship which will arrive later. He is struck by overwhelming admiration for his wife’s courage to endure an experience that terrifies her so much, simply for the sake of being at his side. He clutches her warmly against him as Caraxes is led away into the Dragonpit, their final moment of it just being the two of them.

Melessa is taken to get settled within their quarters, while Daemon meets with Rhaenyra. The Silent Sisters have already finished their preparation of Viserys. The body is wrapped and prepared for burning. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. He looks upon it, brow furrowed in sadness and disbelief that what lays before him was once his own brother.

“It is better that you didn’t see him before,” Rhaenyra says gently, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him. “He was not a man you’d have recognised. I scarcely did.”

“Did they do this?” he asks, not looking at her. His meaning is clear.

Rhaenyra sighs. “You saw how he was the last time you were here. As much as Alicent and Otto want Aegon on the throne, this wasn’t their doing.”

“Has there been any discussion as to the succession?” He turns to her, scrutinising the uncomfortable look that passes across her face.

“It has been difficult enough just to get them to agree to have Syrax burn father’s body. They have been pushing for Sunfyre.”

“Rhaenyra - this is your birthright!” His voice raises, his nostrils flaring with anger. “As soon as the funeral is over, we will deal with the matter of your coronation. Those that oppose it will die screaming.”

A heavy silence falls between the two of them. In it, Daemon contemplates all he has given up in order to support his niece. He longs to turn on his heel and flee back to Dragonstone, back to the life of quiet solitude he’d shared with Melessa; but he cannot abandon his niece. Not a second time. Resentment settles within him, dark and ugly and overshadowing his grief. All of this would be easier were it not for the fucking Hightowers. He will have Otto’s head for this.

The funeral is a tense affair. Alicent stands solemnly off to the side with her children, none of whom look particularly upset, just uncomfortable. Otto is beside her, his expression unreadable. Daemon has asked Melessa not to come, telling her that it was something she was better off not seeing. He regrets that decision. As he watches a tearful Rhaenyra surrounded by Laenor and her children, he cannot shake the feeling of loneliness that overwhelms him. He is with his family, yet none of them are a comfort. The flames of Syrax engulf his brother’s corpse and Daemon is lost, longing for the softness of his wife’s hand in his, and the words he has spent half a year growing so fond of. I love you.

The ashes of Viserys are not yet cold when a meeting of the Small Council is called. Tthe collective mood around the table is sour.

“My father named me heir. There is little to discuss,” Rhaenyra tells those gathered. Her tone is cool, though her discomfort is more than apparent.

“Viserys asked for Aegon to be crowned before he passed,” comes Alicent’s soft rebuttal.

“Lying cunt!” Daemon spits across the table at her, white hot rage causing him to clench his fists as he glares at her. The ceaseless politicking is a waste of his time - he could cut through half the room with Dark Sister using little to no effort.

“Regardless of what has been said, the fact of the matter is that the people of the Seven Kingdoms will never accept a woman as their ruler. I urge you to see reason,” Otto says matter-of-factly, his attention focused solely on Rhaenyra.

“Then we shall let the people decide,” she shrugs, sitting back and crossing her arms. “Put it to a vote, as it was for Father and Rhaenys.”

“Rhaenyra, no!” Daemon urges from across the table. “You cannot put the claim of your birthright into the hands of fucking halfwits!”

Daemon is no fool, he knows that Otto is right. The people would sooner see his drunken, useless idiot of a nephew sit the Iron Throne than allow a woman to take it. She is sure to lose this.

“I am the Realm’s Delight, am I not?” she retorts. “Put it to a vote.”

“Very well,” Otto concedes, a look of smug satisfaction settling across his features. “A vote it is.”

Standing so abruptly it causes his chair to clatter backwards onto the flagstone floor, Daemon storms from the Council chambers, his fist wrapped tightly around the pommel of his sword. He has heard enough.

He seeks out Melessa, hoping the sight of his pretty little wife will calm him, and finds her in the gardens reclining on a bench, her face turned up towards the sun with her eyes closed. She is wearing the backless gown she had on the day he met her. This is the first time he has seen her in it since then. Watching her like this, basking in the warmth of the afternoon with such a genuine smile upon her lips, is a stark contrast to the way she shivers and wraps herself in furs on Dragonstone. Daemon wonders if the happiness he felt between them is entirely one-sided. She looks so… carefree. He decides not to disturb her, walking away with the uneasy sense that he has spent half a year making this poor woman miserable.

The days that follow pass miserably for Daemon as the votes are gathered by raven throughout Westeros on the matter of the succession to the Iron Throne. The waiting is insufferable. Daemon feels as though he is grieving his closeness with Melessa as well as the death of the brother he’d hardly seen for over a decade.

Every time he seeks her out, she is laughing with ladies of the court, walking in the gardens or otherwise occupied, girlish exuberance radiating from her. He wonders if he has ever made her that happy - if he ever will. He isn’t worthy of her purity, her goodness, and being here is a constant reminder of that. She seems so at ease, and he despises it. He feels like a stranger stalking the halls.

She still snuggles tightly against his chest each night and he clings selfishly to her, eager to hang on to what little remains of their isolation on Dragonstone. When he fucks her, her cries echo throughout the Keep, tears of overstimulation rolling down her cheeks. He is rougher with her than usual, and he is all too aware of the fact he is taking his jealousy and frustration out on her, but he cannot help himself. There is a part of him that longs to hurt her for daring to be content in the capital when he is not.

After a week, all of the necessary votes have been collected and counted and the Royal Court gathers in the Great Hall. Rhaenyra stands to the right of the Iron Throne, flanked by Laenor. Jacaerys, Lucerys and Joffrey gaze up at her with hopeful, expectant eyes from the front of the gathered crowd, watched over by the mindful presence of Ser Harwin Strong.

Aegon stands to the left, his slouched posture making it seem as though he’d rather be anywhere else. Helaena is next to him, though no trace of warmth or affection passes between the two. Her floppy demeanour and dreamy expression are indicative that while she is physically present, her mind is somewhere else entirely.

Daemon scoffs in disgust. Gods help them all if the vote goes as he expects it to.

Alicent and Otto are directly opposite, at the head of the gathered audience. Otto appears haughty and smug, while Alicent’s brows are pinched together in anxiety, her fingers picking her nails bloody. A tall, slim brunette girl stands beside Aemond, who appears rakish as ever. It seems no time had been wasted in replacing Melessa.

He feels his wife’s small hand reach out and give his own a reassuring squeeze as the chest that will reveal the outcome of the realm’s act of democracy is carried forth. Looking down at her, a wave of shame washes over him. Her bright eyes are filled with adoration as she gazes up at him. He has spent a week resenting her when all she has done is support him. He turns his attention back to the chest that is now being placed before the throne, unable to stand what he feels when he meets her eye.

He bows his head as it’s opened. He cannot bear to see Rhaenyra’s face when Aegon’s name is read.

Rhaenyra Targaryen.

What? 

Daemon is a difficult man to shock, and yet his jaw drops as he hears his niece’s name called out. She beams proudly as her children whoop and cheer in celebration. Melessa joins in, clapping happily with a wide smile upon her face.

Daemon smirks as he looks across to see the shocked look on Otto’s face. He will take great delight in unburdening the old cunt’s shoulders of his head. Alicent looks as though she will burst into tears, while Aemond’s jaw tenses in displeasure. Aegon, on the other hand, appears relieved at the announcement; his shoulders visibly relax for the first time since he entered the Great Hall. His moonstruck sister-wife applauds next to him, apparently unaware of what this news means for her immediate family.

Though Daemon is pleased for his niece, his disposition darkens further as the days press on and he learns of her plans to allow Alicent and her children to remain in residence at the Red Keep.

“I have not forgotten the love I have for Alicent,” she tells him. “The Targaryen family is stronger united than it is divided.”

At the tearful pleas of Alicent, Otto’s life is spared and he is exiled from King’s Landing, returning to Oldtown. Daemon is enraged at being denied the opportunity to execute him. He has barely begun his duties as Hand of the Queen and already he feels powerless. Worse still, Rhaenyra’s reasoning for sparing his life makes perfect sense - there is no hope of a peaceful alliance between her and the former Queen if she has her father killed. He hates that she is right.

The atmosphere at Rhaenyra’s coronation is jubilant. He knows he should play the part of proud uncle as she is crowned. However, when he is passed the golden Hand brooch, he feels as though he is being fettered and chained to a city he hates. The weight of it pinned to his breast is like an albatross around his neck. 

Melessa is as adoring as ever and he finds himself bristling at her gentle touches and loving looks. He does not deserve her admiration or her love, and now that he no longer has her all to himself, he knows it won’t be long until she realises the same thing. He has everything he’s ever wanted; the perfect wife, the position his brother had always denied him, and yet none of it feels remotely satisfying. Nothing has gone the way he wants it to.

He glowers over his wine cup at the celebration feast. The only people still seated are him and Melessa, as well as Aemond and the woman he has since learned is Aemond’s wife, Floris Baratheon, the result of a hasty marriage arranged by Borros and Otto in order to get Storm’s End on side when it was still intended for Aegon to take the throne. A wasted endeavour. Daemon wonders if they are as unhappy together as they look.

“Dance with me?” Melessa asks hopefully, the brush of her fingertips against his forearm snapping him from his darkened reverie.

He softens as he looks at her, guilt washing over him. She must be bored stiff, but he is in no mood for festivities. “Not now, petal.” He offers as kindly as he can muster, not missing her downcast, disappointed expression.

“Uncle, might I trouble your wife for a dance?”

He looks over as Rhaenyra’s eldest son, Jacaerys, hovers by Melessa expectantly.

“If my lady wife has no objections, then I suppose you may.” He waves his hand dismissively as she rises from her seat, walking arm-in-arm with his nephew towards the centre of the room.

He watches them intently as they move. He doesn’t miss the way they smile at each other, the sound of her laughter carries, and once more he finds himself wondering if he has ever made her that happy. Acrid jealousy begins in his chest and rises in his throat as he watches the way their hands linger on each other.

He knows it is just dancing, knows that he agreed to this, and yet he cannot help the angry scowl that pinches at his brow. They are much more appropriate in age for each other - would Melessa be better suited to someone like him? Perhaps it is his lot to stand powerless as Rhaenyra’s hand and watch his wife slip away from him, into the arms of another.

Desperate for distraction, he leaves the table, grabbing the nearest serving girl as he storms from the hall.

“With me,” he commands lowly, his intentions more than apparent.

She nods and follows as he drags her to the nearest alcove, well away from the celebrations. He makes quick work of unlacing his breeches and pushing her skirts up, not bothering to take the time to properly look at her face or commit to memory what she looks like. It doesn’t matter; she doesn’t matter. He just needs the thoughts to stop.

As he leans in, inhaling, the smell of the kitchens and stale wine fills his nostrils. He has grown so used to the scent of almond oil and rosewater, the difference is jarring and the sharp comprehension of what he’s doing, who he’s doing it with, hits him. His cock softens before he’s even had a chance to press inside of the girl he has pinned against him. He slams his hand angrily against the wall beside her head.

Foolish. Foolish. Foolish.

He should not be doing this. Melessa does not deserve this. He pulls away, unable to look at the poor girl he has inflicted himself upon.

A gasp causes him to turn as he moves to tuck himself away. He feels like his heart stops. He has spent the last couple of weeks wondering if he has ever made his wife happy, but knows at this moment he has never made her look this hurt.

Her blue eyes stare at him, shocked and filled with tears. The plushness of her bottom lip trembles. The sight of it is too much. He reaches for her, and she hiccups a sob, turning and running from him.

He stands rooted to the spot, wanting to go after her but unable to as the realisation dawns too late.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

[utopicwork]

Cracked the daemon, logging* and precise memory and cpu usage logging of PierMesh, an empty node utilizes ~350 KB** of memory and less then 1% of a 2 core vCPU backed by a last last gen mid tier xeon processor

* By the way importing logging and turning on debug logging will expose a lot of details you wouldn't get otherwise about what various libraries are up to

** I think this means with some pruning and strict memory rules it would be possible to run PierMesh directly off the LoRa node with no secondary board/pc/etc

[unusual-raccoon]

Because it’s Mother’s Day, I’m using this holiday as an excuse to gift you a prompt 🌚 So stay with me…but what about a modern switched at birth jaceluke au?

Jace always imagined he’d be a fantastic older brother, he read stories about the legendary sibling relationships in his family’s history, but somehow he’s never clicked with his younger brother Vaegon. He thought it so strange considering Jace’s first memory ever was holding his brother in his arms and thinking everything right with the world. But it would seem their relationship would not blossom further than that moment. At first he thought the problem was with him but Joffrey’s birth erased those insecurities. It was cruel to think the fault of a nonexistent relationship rested solely with Vaegon, but Jace accepted that. And besides, it seemed that Vaegon preferred it that way, never having an interest in their younger brothers or Daemon’s daughters. But it would seem that everything would change when his younger brother was assigned a school project pertaining to DNA history.

In another part of the world, Luke always felt that something was missing from his life. His family was nice, but they were just that. He always burned too brightly for them, felt too deeply. Luke was like a different species next to their normality. He was haunted by the feeling that the space beside him should be occupied. Again, everything would change when hospital staff and lawyers started calling the house.

If you are up to it, maybe write the first JaceLuke interaction when Luke meets the fam?? Or maybe some sexxy angst once they actually get to know each other? Also, In this au Rhaenyra took one look at the switched baby and decided Lucerys was too pretty, so I chose to use the name of the lamest Targ in history (other than Aemond oc). Luke lucked out namewise in this one, but once the truth comes out he can’t help but start to use Lucerys. This au is so tasty because can you imagine both of them not trying to go feral and scare the other off? Jace not knowing how Luke will react to the history of their family while Luke doesn’t know the family secret and feels like a freak because his attraction? Also bc I can’t help myself: Corlys never made Vaegon heir cuz he’s a total loser; besides he’s been too busy to choose one ever since he’s been teaching a certain new intern the ropes. Even if you can’t write anything for this, you’re a gem 🌚

My darling 🌚 anon, you have no clue how with you I am. I’m so sorry for not being able to address all of your amazing asks with the consideration they deserve, my masters thesis is kicking my ass right now.

A treat for you, and for me (ficlet under the cut):

It had started with an assignment, a history project. It had seemed an innocent enough task. Typing the name Targaryen into one any run of the mill search engine would lead to results in the millions, chock full of tabloid articles and nonsense all bound up in the family name. If Vaegon really wanted to pull out the stops, he’d submit a sample to one of those ancestry sites, BOOM, goldmine.

Of course, Vaegon hadn’t seemed particularly thrilled by the prospect. Admittedly, Jace was a little more excited by the prospect of seeing their family’s historical tree span back generations.

So, when his brother waved the notion aside, claiming he’d just ask their mother for anything important enough to warrant including in his report, as if the whole of Targaryen history wasn’t worth it. Jace took matters into his own hands.

It had changed with results…and a little fork in their family tree. A pruned branch, as it were. In the place where Vaegon belonged, beside Jace, was something else. Someone else.

Name: Luke R.

Suggested relationship: full siblings

Known Relationship: Brother

Ancestral Surnames: Targaryen, Velaryon (Freehold, Valyria)

And there it was…his missing piece.

Jace stared at the website’s message function, at it’s washed out green interface. This was insane.

His cursor blinked in the empty text box. Mocking.

There was no photo attached to the profile. It could be a fluke. It could be nothing.

Jace pressed his thumb to the name on his phone screen, watched as his brother’s name was automatically highlighted. Copied it, and pasted it into Google. He scrolled mindlessly, possessed for what felt like hours.

Stumbled on a dating profile on a hookup app that Bells had downloaded for him. His mouth was dry.

The profile wasn’t under the name Luke, but Lucy.

He tapped on a profile picture, saw delicate features, dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin. He’d seen enough photos of his mom when she was younger to know the young man in the phots was her carbon copy.

Fuck.

His thumb slipped without meaning to. He liked the profile. Jace hissed, flooded with horror, mortification, panic-

It’s a Match!

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

Luke, or Lucy, rather messaged first.

L: Heyy

Jace stared at the message and felt longing pull in his gut, worse than anything he’d ever known.

His reply is quick, hungry for more. His brain wired on a feedback loop at the chime of a notification.

J: Hi

The reply is quick.

L: chatty huh

J: sorry, lol. Wasn’t expecting to match w you.

L: really? Why’s that

J: you’re hot

L: LOL that’s pretty forward. And unless ur using someone else’s photo in ur profile pic, so are you.

His cock twitched.

J: just stating facts. And Thx lol.

J: are the tats in your gallery yours?

L: yea. r the abs in your gallery yours?

J: yeah.

L: 🥵

J: you’re funny.

L: and ur strangely humble for a guy that’s as good looking as ur pictures make you seem.

J: that a bad thing?

L: no, just trying to figure out where you came from lol

J: same place as you probably

L: I doubt it, lol.

J: I could be

L: ??

J: in the same place as you

J : if you wanted that

Jace wanted that, he wanted this his entire life.

L: oh yea? What would we do in the same place together?

J: whatever you want, Lucy

L: what if I wanted to do boring stuff? Like talk about history or sumthing?

J: joke’s on you, I love history. Kinda into the idea of you talking about history.

L: yea?

J: yeah

L: Hot and ur into history, def made in a lab.

J: LOL. Maybe I was made for you?

Maybe we were made for each other, he thinks. He thinks back to the results of his test - full siblings. Jace had always felt like oil and water with Vaegon, like they’d been cut from a different cloth.

Lucy had gone silent for a few minutes. Jace felt panic dig it’s roots into him. Desperate for a scrap of attention, affection, anything.

The chime of the next message hits like a narcotic.

L: I can multitask btw. We could talk about History AND do other stuff.

Jace’s hands are shaking as he replies.

J: anything in particular?

L: yea, in about six diff positions.

Jace ducked his head with a smile, cheeks throbbing with a blush.

J: is that so? Well, please educate me.

A stock photo of two men at a cafe rolled in, coffee cups that looked suspiciously empty situated before each of them. Jace couldn’t quite hide his smitten giggle.

L: it’s not the Kama sutra but I think we could pull it off

J: I might need to stretch first, but yeah, I’m down.

L: 🥰

J: lick a spot and we can try it for ourselves

J: *pick

L: didn’t mind the 1st one, LOL

L: but, yea, I’d like that.

He masturbates like a madman that night, frantic to the sight of tattooed, lily-white thighs in Lucy’s gallery. Imagines those pretty legs locked around his waist.

His guilt the following day isn’t enough to quash the quick flush of excitement that surges to his fingers (and cock) at the unique chime of a message on the app.

L: morning 😊

J: Good morning

L: it’s definitely better now

J: ☺️

J: rough night?

L: I had a dream about u…

J: I think I like where this is going

L: it was pretty morbid actually 😓. There was a fire, I don’t remember much, but I remember that. And u were there.

L: not like in the house btw. U were just there, next to me.

Jace sucked in a sharp breath. Harrenhal…Harwin’s lake house had burned down when they were young. Blood frothed hot in his veins.

L: … i’m sorry that was like the most unsexy dream to have abt a hot guy 😩.

L: omg wait I didn’t mean to make a pun 😨

L: …Jace?

J: do I have to burn something to be next to you now?

L: OMG, no!

L: I mean, did you still wanna be next to me after I had some weird ass dream with u in it?

J: YES

L: I’m free this weekend. Saturday. There’s a coffee shop near by, I’ve never been to it. No burning required.

J: it’ll be a first time for both of us then.

L: 🫣

L: it’s insane how bad I wanna kiss you

J: 😚😚

Fifteen minutes later, he’s sent an address.

They exchange flirty messages throughout the week leading up to the day they’re supposed to meet.

He gets to the coffee shop early. It’s cozy, warm, the air is fragrant. There’s a gentle buzz of conversation and hiss of coffee machines and milk frothers.

His phone pings and he nearly spills piping hot decaf all over his hand.

L: are u here yet?

J: yeah

L: lift up ur shirt so I know it’s u

J: lol! Sitting by the bookshelf

His heart stops when he sees him round the corner, like something out of a dream. Lily-white legs in microscopic cut-off shorts. Delicate fingers with chipped polish wrapped around a phone.

His eyes are dark, darker in person. Brown with a touch of amethyst. His eyes are Jace’s eyes. His heart is pounding fast.

“Lucy?” Jace calls, voice shaking. A timid smile parts on pink lips as he draws nearer. He’s stood before the intimate little corner booth Jace had picked out.

He’s tiny.

“Luke,” he corrects, “Lucy is…an online thing. Most people call me Luke.”

“Luke,” Jace repeats, and there it was. Easier than breathing. His missing piece.

[infinitestalia]

Re: Daemon being related to the Velaryons... he is! Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya's mother was a Velaryon and since the whole Targaryen line descends from Aenys Targaryen and Alyssa Velaryon, Daemon and Vaemond are cousins several times removed, plus the ties created by Laena and Daemon's marriage. The Valyrian family tree is really a self-pruning one, isn't it?

So Vaemond's another Daemon relative... Exactly how many of his kin has this motherfucker slayed???

[allyriadayne]

That's a good point I wonder if Rhaenys would give Viserys and Daemon titles and lands in the Crownlands to appease them or maybe even start a cadet branch of house Targaryen? But Dragonstone it too big of a symbol of Targaryen legitimacy to be given to a rival claimant? These are all interesting questions, George usually just kills all the siblings and cousins off or sends them away so he doesn't have to deal with stuff like this lol.

no, i don't think she would give even more power, lands and armies to either daemon or viserys. in this scenario she won fair and square and when the situation was in reverse, viserys didn't give rhaenys any more rights than she already had as a pity gift. besides, daemon already "has" rhea's lands and inheritance while viserys would stay at KL just as he was before when jaehaerys was alive.

yeah! that's the thing: grrm will kill any sibling or cousin left hanging. it's no wonder by the time of the great council there was virtually no more claimants besides viserys and rhaenys/laenor. even if saera and vaegon were still alive. one thing he's going to do is prune the branches!

[thecharliechickenshow]

[queenoffishingandcookies]

My back has been a bitch for the last several days, which makes for Noctis angst, I guess.

Long story short for several of my headcanons that I am Too Lazy to write out at the moment, Noctis got starscourge when the Marilith attacked and Sylva, while healing him, essentially burned the scourge away with her powers.

(I have a whole thing about Oracle’s powers being able to heal wounds, while generally non-Oracle Fleuret’ simply bolster the body’s healing, not to mention male Fleuret having magic predisposed to combat and being known as Templars, and a whole things on male Oracles despite canon -)

Thing is, the starscourge sort of merges with magic. We see it in Ardyn, he’s not like others who outright become daemons and he can still use his magic (at least, the Armiger, if not elemancy and healing). Similarly, in DOTF, Lunafreya mentions something about the power of the Oracle holding the effect of the ‘scourge back (which Ravus, as a man, doesn’t have-).

SO.

The starscourge literally merging with his magic, his body trying to adapt and push it back and the strain, on top of injuries he’s already had, is killing him and -

On top of burning out the scourge, Sylva is frying parts of Noctis’ magic. Pruning it away, almost, like dead or moldy branches of rose bush in order to save the whole. And it’s agony in a way that healing of the Oracle isn’t meant to be (at least, not for anyone but the Oracle-)

I once read a really interesting post on the effects of starscourge on Noctis’s magic, and how it compares to how members of the kingsglaive and even Regis use magic (example being you don’t see many people using the flasks seen on Noctis in-game).

But, I was thinking, what if Noctis could use magic as he should normally be capable off, but at a cost.

When you’re a Lucis Caelum, everything comes at a cost.

It’s excruciating, it’s difficult, just like re-learning to warp after he’d been able to do so by years by simply sneezing was. Frustrating, even humiliating (if one paid attention to the private scorn of nobles and others behind closed doors or in corners of rooms -)

He was once able to light his fingertips aflame like candle wicks, building palaces of snow and ice, and craft miniature storms without so much as an idle thought - but doing so after the Marilith, after Tenebrae -

It’s a raw, searing pain that cuts straight through muscle tissue and bone. It feels as though his blood is boiling, bubbling, the ceaseless flow of molten rock scorching everything in it’s path, his back tearing open beneath the sharpened steel of a blade’s edge over and over again.

It’s not the pull of his life force being pulled away to make what is dead more tangible to the living, like swinging the royal arms - imprints of his ancestor’s souls - around. It’s not like the total exhaustion and feverish state that follows summoning an Astral (or an astral using him as a tether to the land in moment’s of peril).

It’s energy, so much of it, a physical weight on his shoulders and under his skin, and there’s still traces of the late Oracle-Queen’s touch and the starscourge’s corruption and it burns.

(As magic does, as it has always done-)

Then there’s the lack of control over his powers following the attack, how much a ‘magic fit’ hurts when he does lose control, how he has to bottle it up and probably still does in the future because of how badly it hurts, and what little control he does regain (i.e weaving Magic and elements and storing it in flasks).

Just. Noctis not being able to utilize his powers to the full extent, like the Kingsglaive, like his father. It’s not because it’s gone, or because he hadn’t recovered from the scourge (as much as recovery was possible-)

It’s agonizing, it’s damn near uncontrollable past what he was able to relearn and grasp. And when he does use it, does lose control- it’s even worse.

His flasks, which detonate on impact with a target, while not controllable once cast - they are predictable. Those with him, once outside the radish of the blast, are safe.

With his magic, if he lets his control slip in the pain, there’s not an estimated radius, a safe space to retreat to - and losing control of it is arguably more dangerous than losing control of a flask. It’s not a blast, but a wave that encroaches on everyone and everything around if allowed to.

And I already have a general post on Lucis Caelum Magic. Noctis is in a shitty situation, basically. Damned if you do (use magic) and damned if you don’t.

TLDR:

Noctis is able to use magic outside of the flasks, outside of the warping and phasing he utilizes on. He is able to use the raw elements and heal like the Kingsglaive, like his father - but it’s excruciatingly painful for him because of lasting Starscourge/Oracle damage, think of scar tissue, and easy to lose control of.

While recovering, before and after Tenebrae, he did lose control on occasion and the additional pain he was in afterwards was…not pretty. Neither was the zone of destruction. So Noctis has to also hold it in, keep tabs on it, and the build-up of magical energy is equally bad for him.

[theforgottenmcrmy]

Growing Strong Chapter 13 Update and Preview

Hi guys! I hope you guys are having/had an awesome weekend.🖤 I just wanted to hop on here really quickly to apologize for the amount of time it’s taking me to get the next chapter of Growing Strong put together. I promise I am working on it though, and as proof, I’ve put two scene excerpts from it below. I’m a little under 2/3 the way done with it (with 90% of that being written over the past 2 days), and it’s already over 12,000k words, so it’s gonna be a doozy. It’ll be divided into 3 parts, but I wanted to make sure that all of it was written and edited before I start posting any of it, so that proper connections between chapters can be made and that there aren’t any major delays for those reading it.

Thank you all for your patience, and an extra thank you to those who have continued to follow and read this story.🖤🖤🖤

“I tried to convince her to see reason once before,” Queen Alicent confessed quietly, staring blankly into the flames of the roaring fire across the room. “But I fear I was too… brazen, then. Such an oversight cost me dearly. I will not make that mistake again. There may yet be another chance to sway her to see the truth. She is a mother now, and no mother desires her children to live through times of war.”

Ah, yes. The children. Two of which had almost become collateral damage in Larys’s unyielding quest to appease his Queen. They were safe, for now, but there was no telling what would need to be done. All three of the children might still become pawns in the larger scheme of the game that he and their parents played. But what Queen Alicent did not know would not always hurt her.

Larys would protect her. He would protect her interest by ensuring that his brother and Good Sister were none the wiser about the tragic fire at Harrenhal. And, if there were any lingering suspicions, well…

Larys was no gardener. But he thought himself more than capable of pruning a few roses.

“You look well, Lord Beesbury.”

“You flatter me, my dear. I turned six and seventy earlier this year, did you know?”

“Forgive my failed memory, My Lord. If it is any consolation, you do not look it.”

Lord Lyman gasped. “My goodness, Lady Y/N. You have a dark sense of humor, I shall grant you that. I suppose the gods would prefer it if I ‘book it’, wouldn’t they?”

Time had granted you leave to forget how hard of hearing Lord Lyman truly was. Louder and more clearly, you corrected, “No, My Lord. You do not look to be six and seventy. Look.”

“’Crook’?” Lord Lyman inquired bewilderedly. He looked about the room with a disapproving look upon his face. “... Yes, I am inclined to agree. These are the proceedings of a ‘crook’.”

In front of you, you could have sworn you heard Prince Jacaerys snicker as though he had overheard your conversation. But there was no doubt Prince Daemon had overheard, and found the conversation rather amusing- his shoulders bobbing with his silent laughter gave him away.

***scenes subject to change with final edits***

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[elains]

terror and silence (and between them, a flame)

❧ Summary: In the hour of the owl, when the Red Keep was so quiet one could hear the rhythmic breathing of its sleeping inhabitants and the furtive steps of those who reveled in the shadows of night echoing in the halls, Viserys Targaryen dreamed. Or: A dream comes to Viserys the night Rhaenyra and Daemon slip into Flea Bottom — and history changes as a result.

✾ chapter 1  — dream deliver us to dream

Read on Ao3!

In the hour of the owl, when the Red Keep was so quiet one could hear the rhythmic breathing of its sleeping inhabitants and the furtive steps of those who reveled in the shadows of night echoing in the halls, Viserys Targaryen dreamed.

He'd always been a dreamer, more so than he'd been a dragon. His interest laid not in the great beasts that were the wonder and terror of Old Valyria, but rather in the weathered, yellowed, and crumbling tomes of his family's fallen homeland. He loved the higher mysteries, the arcane; the intricate web of alliances, sorcery, and cutthroat politics that decided who lived and died by fire and blood.

Dragons were weapons of conquest, instruments of the dragonlords' will and power. Viserys admired and respected them too, just as one admired the sea amidst a storm or a volcanic eruption spewing lava and ashes from a safe distance. He wasn't like Daemon or his mother or even his own daughter, whose blood ignited and rejoiced as they weaved intricate patterns through the clouds.

Viserys never did need a dragon's leathery wings for his mind to reach the skies.

Rider of Balerion he might have been, but he was drawn to the dragon not because of his destructive might, nor for his fearsome reputation. Viserys claimed Balerion because he was the last remnant of Old Valyria; because long before he had been the Conqueror's, he had been Daenys the Dreamer's mount.

Daenys's dream had saved them from the Doom; Aegon's dream had given them a greater calling, a newfound purpose in their perpetual exile. Viserys's own dream had at first seemed like a confirmation of the right path ahead, one he had watered and pruned and cared for and watched bloom into a beautiful tree. Yet, for all his dedication and with one sole, cherished exception, the tree bore only rotten, bitter fruits. Termites found their way inside and made a home inside the tree's bark.

His beloved wife's death and Daemon's betrayal taught Viserys a bitter truth: one could not dwell in dreams, lest they forget the living. Dreams, for all their importance and burden, weren't absolute — how many tales were there of seers and prophets who had led people not to their promised salvation, but to their doom? Thus, he'd named Rhaenyra his heir and even when Aegon was born and his faith shaken, Viserys remained.

Silently, he held onto the hope that the gods would send him a new dream, one that would assuage his innermost fears. Most nights, Viserys slept to find himself immersed in peaceful darkness or in dreams that had no rhyme or reason and were forgotten as soon as he opened his eyes in the morning.

Not that night. That night, for the first time in years, Viserys dreamed.

───※ ·♛· ※───

The night was alive and filled with colors. There was music in the air, the bawdy, raucous tones favored by Flea Bottom's bards. Deft fingers plucked on the strings in the back of his mind, pulling Viserys to the past, to a time before Aemma, when he was but a Prince.

He closed his eyelids, feeling the music thrumming through his body, soothing every tired, broken crevice. His feet started to move — if by his own will or by that of another, he could not tell — and he swept through the crowd of indistinguishable faces and brightly dyed clothes in time to the beat of the drums.

A piece of new music started then: a softer, sweeter sound, fresh as a lemon cake on a hot summer evening. The colors of night brightened and danced as the melodies entwined, building on each other in perfect harmony. Slowly, the two melodies shifted, giving way to laughter — familiar laughter.

Viserys' eyes snapped open, and he turned sharply to his right. It couldn't be, he told himself, it couldn't be.

Oh, but it was. There, standing at the end of the alley and haloed in fire, were Daemon and Rhaenyra. Daemon and Rhaenyra with their hands entwined, blending into the crowd with their dull, inconspicuous disguises and covered silver-gold tresses. Daemon and Rhaenyra, drowning in each other's eyes and with smiles of quiet joy and pure delight.

Viserys's chest tightened, providing little room for air to fill his lungs. When was the last time he'd seen Rhaenyra so happy? Not for years — not since Aemma died and he married Alicent. When was the last time he'd seen Daemon so open? He could no longer recall.

"Wait," Viserys called out, reaching out for them. He took a step forward. "Wait!" They walked on, laughing, drinking from the same wineskin. "Daemon, Rhaenyra, wait—"

But they weren't listening.

Viserys pushed through the crowd, screaming their names, but with each step his brother and daughter grew more distant, their contours blurry, intermingling with the flame until they’d become flame themselves. The music halted; the colors faded. The once indistinguishable faces of the crowd crystallized into that of his mother and father and grandfather and grandmother and all those he’d lost, their sapphire stares following his every movement.

They reached out to him, wrapping around his wrists, his ankles, his throat. Viserys had never been strong to begin with and his illness had done him no favors, but he would not let the dead hold him down and drag him into their cold, lifeless hell. He had a duty, a burden, a purpose: the fire, the fire. He had to reach the fire.  Daemon and Rhaenyra .

Viserys screamed into the cold dark. He struggled, kicked, punched, and at last,  roared  against the cold dark.

“You will not have me! By the gods, you will not have me!”

“There are no gods when the snows fall and the white winds blow, Viserys Targaryen,” a voice whispered in his ear, frozen fire to match a world without light, “but there may yet be dragons.”

And just like in his dream, the dream that killed Aemma, the flame still burning in the distance erupted and all dragons roared as one. The white shadows released him, screeching, melting away into pools of black that disappeared into the darkness. Viserys fell to his knees, trembling hands fisting the snow on the ground, gasping for air as the fire in his veins tried to expel the frost from his lungs.

The deep shadows gave way to a pale half-light, to a day that wasn’t a day. Around him, the snow fell quietly, unhurried. Silence reigned, undisturbed even by his labored breathing.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, shaken to his bones, kept warm only by the memory of a flame. Maybe it was the ephemeral moment a butterfly flapped its wings, over before it began, or maybe it was the undisclosed length of all eons of history. It didn’t matter - time was meaningless in a dream.

“Blood of two, joined, as one,” the voice of frozen fire echoed all around him, chanting to the melody set before the darkness, before  death .

Viserys’ breath hitched and he raised his head.

He was in the Red Keep. Not the Red Keep where he’d heard petitioners that morning, but a decrepit mirror of it, one he barely recognized. The ceiling had collapsed, exposing a gray, melancholic sky; blood and ash coated the snow, painting it red and black. There was no Targaryen heraldry in this throne room, only crumbling icons of the Faith of the Seven and Seven-Pointed Stars.  

“Ghostly flame, and song of shadows,” the woman – for it was a woman – continued her chant, undaunted. Her voice was a dragonglass blade, sharp and polished, cool to the touch, carrying an underlying warmth from its birth amidst flame and smoke.

It stirred in him feelings of nostalgia and loss, the familiarity of sweet dreams gone come the light of morn. Slowly, so afraid he was to  hope , Viserys turned towards the Iron Throne — but there was no Iron Throne anymore.

In its place, there was only an amorphous, incandescent mound of metal, the fused iron trickling down the surface in rivulets and evaporating as it met the snow on the floor.

The woman chanting sat on the half-crumbling steps leading up to the molten throne, a maiden no older than his daughter. She was a pale, wisp of a thing, with tresses of spinned-silver as fair as her skin, tied in an elaborate braid. A headdress of dragonglass and rubies in traditional valyrian style rested atop her head, matching ceremonial black and red robes embroidered with dragon scales she wore.

A dragon lay beside her, eyes closed, curled into itself save for its head, which rested on the maiden’s lap.

"Two hearts as embers, forged in the fourteen flames,” she sang, caressing the dragon’s jet-black scales. Blood dripped along her elongated fingers, coating some of the beast’s scales in frighteningly familiar patterns.

“Balerion,” Viserys whispered, his bloodless lips parted. This was Balerion long before he was the Black Dread, the terror of all Westeros. This was Balerion at his infancy, a few years after he’d hatched from an egg picked by a young-  gods have mercy . “Daenys the Dreamer.”

“A future promised in glass, the stars stand witness –” Daenys halted, hand freezing mid-air. Balerion’s eyes snapped open, pools of blood swirling with hunger and rage. She did not look up as she said, “Do you know, Viserys Targaryen, why I named him Balerion?”

“God of Flame and Bloodshed,” he replied, the answer carved into his memory since boyhood, “greatest of the Fourteen Flames.”

“God of Flame and Bloodshed, pride of the Valyrian Freehold.” She caressed Balerion lovingly, a small, sad smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Our glory, our power, and our great tragedy. Our beginning and our end. It suited me. It suited the Conqueror. It suited you, too.”

Viserys balled his hands into fists.

“The Houses of the Dragon will not end with me. I have a daughter and two more children besides, a realm thriving and in peace. I have a brother, rogue as he is. We will endure."

Daenys chuckled. “Look around you, Viserys. Does that remind you of endurance? Of strength?”

He had no answer for her, no time to think of one.

Daenys rose, gathering her hands behind her back. Rhaenyra — she looked so much like his Rhaenyra.

“To nurture the fire, blood must have blood, Viserys Targaryen. They need each other. It keeps them alive, thriving, and controlled. The mages of Valyria understood that.” She stared at him down, pale lilac eyes almost colorless under the faint light. “You do not.”

Balerion stirred, unfurled, spread his wings. He grew larger by the moment until the Red Keep shook; the ceiling, already fragile, began to collapse. Viserys couldn’t move, an invisible chain binding him to Daenys.

“Blood must have blood,” she decreed, opening her arms wide. “The vow spoken through time, of darkness and light. Blood must have blood, Viserys Targaryen. Only then will the fire of the House of Dragon survive the night.”

───※ ·♛· ※───

Viserys jumped awake, a scream caught in his throat. He clutched at the soft linen of his sleeping garments, feeling the thunderous heartbeat trapped beneath the confines of his chest, lashing at his ribcage as the gods of sea and wind did to the walls of Storm's End long, long ago.  

Besides him, Alicent stirred awake, propping herself up with a hand.

"Viserys?" She called, rubbing her eyes with her free hand. "Is everything alright?"

Was everything alright? He couldn't say. Buttery sunlight streamed into the chambers through latticed windows, creating a peaceful, cozy ambiance, but it did little to chase away the cold.

"Viserys?" Alicent called again, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"It's alright," he whispered, covering her dainty hand with his. Inclining his head towards her, Viserys offered his wife a reassuring smile. "A bad dream, is all. Nothing you need to concern yourself with, my dear."

Alicent's brow creased and she pressed her lips together, but no words left them. They remained like that for a while, immersed in the tranquil, melancholic quietness of early morning.

Someone knocked on the door and a twin look of confusion passed between them.

"Who could it be at this hour?" She inquired, pulling her hand away from his. He shook his head.

"All I know is that no good news ever comes this early in the day." The knock came again — this time louder, more insistent. Viserys cast a sideway glance at Alicent and motioned to the YiTish folding screen near the window. "Go. This shan't take long, I gather."

With a perfunctory nod, his wife slipped out of the bed, gathering her silk robe about her as she did. Viserys rose and once Alicent had safely absconded behind the screen and disappeared, he said, “Come.”

The door opened and Otto strode in, already dressed in his impeccable court attired, the Hand of the King pinned to his chest. There was a hesitancy to his walk, an agitation to his features at odds with what Viserys’ had come to expect from his trusted Hand.

“What is it?” Viserys asked, coming to meet Otto close at main the gates of his model of Old Valyria, close to the chair where years ago he’d talked to Rhaenyra upon her return from her impromptu visit to Dragonstone.

“I apologize for the early hour, your grace,” Otto started, clenching and unclenching his hands. “I have ah –” He paused. Blinked, quickly reassessing his words. “– discomforting news. I thought it best shared discreetly before the council convenes.”

Viserys looked away, his mind racing at the possibilities. “The Sea Snake.”

Otto shook his head. “I’m afraid it concerns the princess, my king.”

Fear gripped at Visery’s heart, held firmly onto the back of the chair closest to him, purple eyes locked on Otto’s. The image of Daenys, singing softly on the foot of the destroyed Iron Throne flashed into his mind.

“Has something happened to Rhaenyra? Has she been harmed? Is she ill?”

The Hand didn’t respond immediately, exhaling sharply and averting his gaze, unable to look Viserys in the eye.

“It’s no easy thing to tell a father of his daughter’s exploits. I had considered saying nothing but –”

“Look at me, Otto,” Viserys demanded. His nails dug into the wood. “What has she done?”

Otto acquiesced, and the disquiet he spotted in the man’s countenance was genuine.

“The princess was spied last evening beyond the walls of the keep… in a pleasure house.” He looked away again but, this time, Viserys did not push.

“What of it?”

“She was carrying on with her uncle. They were engaged in behaviors unbecoming of a maiden – of a princess.”

Rhaenyra and Daemon, walking hand in hand through the streets of Flea Bottom, looking happy and free and  content . Had it not been a dream, then? Had it happened?

But there had been nothing untoward in his vision, nothing unbecoming. There had been only light-hearted joy.

Unless-

Blood must have blood, Viserys Targaryen.

Otto continued talking about trusted sources of information, offers of apologies, how they may yet smother the inklings of scandal if just –

Viserys closed his eyes, taking in deep, shaky breaths. He knew they’d been out last night, he had seen it. And Otto… Otto wouldn’t be here if he didn’t trust the source of information. If he didn’t think of this as an opportunity.

“Get out,” Viserys said through gritted teeth, interrupting Otto mid-rant. “Leave me, Otto.”

Otto immediately recanted. “Your grace, if I gave you any offense –”

“Offense? You had my daughter stalked, spied upon, and for what? Awaiting your best chance to destroy her reputation? To further your own selfish ambition?”

“Your grace, I had no such intent –”

“You did!” the King seethed, coming alive with the memory of Balerion. “Your designs are obvious. You so wish to see your blood on the Iron Throne that you would destroy mine own.”

“Your grace –”

“Get out,” Viserys repeated, slamming his hands on the wood. “Get out, Otto, and order Daemon brought to me. If he truly ruined my daughter, I’ll hear it from his mouth. Not from yours.”

Otto opened his mouth to argue, to say something, but seemed to think better of it and merely nodded, bowing to the waist.

“As you wish, your grace.”

Once the door closed behind him, Alicent stepped out of her hiding spot, glancing between the door and Viserys himself. The skin around her nails was red and freshly bloodied.

───※ ·♛· ※───

It had been a long, long time since Daemon had drunk himself into oblivion.

He'd overindulged plenty of times before, usually for freedom and for pleasure, for the heady, exhilarating feeling of the liquor burning down his throat. He'd even drink to ward off his dark moods, particularly after a fight with Viserys, though never to this extent.

The last time Daemon had drunk himself into a stupor simply to drown out all the unwelcome, heavy feelings twisting their way around his heart was the night his father died. He'd woken up in a rundown alley with bruised knuckles, a black eye, the grandmother of all headaches, and no recollection of how he'd gotten there.

He had no black eye, this time. No bloodied fists either, and the place he had woken to was much nicer than the last one. Courtesy of Mysaria.

Yet just like that horrible night many years before, the liquor hadn't burnt away the memories. It had given him a reprieve, an isle of numbness amidst the sea of confusion, gone as soon as dawn broke across the sky.

When he'd won the war in the Stepstones and a crown for his efforts, there was little he thought of if not returning to King's Landing and setting the crown on his brother's feet, thus forcing Viserys to recognize him. He meant to take this recognition and crush it in his hands. Daemon would draw his brother into an illusion of safety and peace and then blow it to pieces. Let him feel the same anger, the same betrayal, as Daemon had when he was exiled and abandoned, only to have an offer of rescue arrive out of misplaced, unwanted pity.

He hadn't known how to go about it, only that he would. Daemon was no Otto Hightower, patiently playing his game of cyvasse and planning five, six steps ahead. He'd rather flip the entire board as his plans went haywire and  improvise  from there, keeping his enemies on their toes, wondering what he was up to. If they thought of him as some kind of master schemer, all the better for his reputation.

Rhaenyra wasn't part of his initial plans of getting back at his brother. For all Daemon knew then she was still gallivanting around Westeros with Sir Crispin Couve following her like a lost puppy, listening to sheep trying to convince a dragon how they could ever satisfy her. That had changed the moment he'd spotted her weaving her way through the gathered crowd at his impromptu reception, purple eyes full of hunger.

Viserys had taken everything from him. Taken, taken, and refused to give it back in equal measure. Why shouldn't Daemon do the same, then?

He wasn't blind to Rhaenyra's interest in him. It was only natural — they were Targaryens, dragonlords of old, after all. Daemon wasn't so much of a hypocrite to deny he enjoyed her undisputed adoration, nor that he had fueled it over the years with his many gifts. Neither was he going to deny the primal, unabashed satisfaction at seeing her proudly wearing the valyrian steel necklace around her throat at the Godswood. He wondered if she'd worn it to meet her suitors, too.

So he had lured her out of the Keep, taken her hand, and led her into Flea Bottom with the promise of a night of freedom and adventure. As they threaded the streets, his gaze wandered to her, taking in her joy at the men crossing a tightrope above the alley, the bards and their filthy shanties, the vendors and entertainers performing illusions and tricks.

His niece was radiant, blindingly, devastatingly so. She pulled him in with her enthusiastic grin, her merry laughter. Her delight softened the sharp edges of his resentment and he couldn't help but share in her joy. Daemon held on to her hand, laughed with her at some bawdy joke, shouted over the crowd, and twirled Rhaenyra around as they hit up a tavern where a group of performers played a particularly riveting song.

She'd looked up at him then, flushed and sweaty and a little high, with his name on her pink lips. Daemon's heart twisted, the reason why he brought her here pushing its way to the forefront of his mind. He had a mission: ruin Rhaenyra and get back at Viserys. The path ahead was clear.

Daemon led her down to the Street of Silk to one of his old haunting places. He removed her cap, leaving all to see the silvery sheen of her hair; how it framed her lovely face. Hands together, Daemon led her down the path of damnation.

Hers or his own, he could not say any longer.

He remembered Rhaenyra's forehead pressed against his own, their lips melding together as she pulled him down, closer,  closer.  Her mouth was sweeter than honey, her fingers leaving scorch marks down the nape of his neck. Yes, Daemon realized, yes he could get addicted to her, to this exquisite taste of pleasure that was unmistakably, uniquely Rhaenyra's.

He pinned her against a wall, untying her clothes, her back to him. But Rhaenyra was voracious and unapologetic, a dragon just as he was, and she'd not be a quiet, passive subject of her own ruin. She'd turned to face him, eyes brimming with  trust  — and his resolve broke.

It was the Dragonstone bridge all over again: just as he couldn't bring himself to kill Rhaenyra there, Daemon couldn't bring himself to cross the line here either, not when she looked at him with those damned eyes. She deserved better than to lose her maidenhead in the bowels of a brothel, in sight of others, over Daemon's grudge.

So he'd left her there, walked away even as she called him, a whirlwind of fury and frustration and confusion. He walked into the nearest tavern, downing his cups faster than his body could process the alcohol. Her memory haunted Daemon's every step: her laughter, her body, her lips.

In trying to lay waste to her reputation, he'd inadvertently laid waste to himself. In exposing her in such a public manner, he'd exposed parts of himself he'd buried and avoided for too long.

He was cursed, damned, forever leashed to the memory of what he almost had within his grasp.

Daemon turned around on the cot, turmoil brewing in his heart. He supposed he ought to return to the Red Keep and see what his efforts had wrought.

No sooner had he stumbled past the gates of the Red Keep, Westerling and two others Kingsguards whose names he couldn't bother to remember came down on him.

His brother, it seemed, wanted an audience.

[beatleswings]

[incorrectlwlandpiquotes]

Daemona: Nothing will stand in my way!

Navarro: *pulls up in his car during the mission* Hey Daemona! Wanna go out for a mint?

Daemona: Okay!

*moments later*

Daemona: Ooh, I gotta say, that was one fine mint.

Navarro: Sure was. Oh, by the way, you're needed over at that hostage thing the rest of the gang are dealing with.

Daemona: ...that's RIGHT! Duty calls! Hello, duty! I'm coming! *runs off making whooshing noises*

[thessaliah]

oofimbisexual said: Man if our Sherlock do turn out to be a bad guy it’s just going to absolutely wreck Gudao/Gudako because like Romani and OG Da Vinci is gone and they had to witness it both then they’ll learn that this guy that they’ve trusted for YEARS was just playing the longest con? That might be the breaking point.

Spoilers.

I think he could be a side boss too, not necessarily the “mastermind” which I am pretttyy convinced to be the Cyber Daemon Laplace along with all Chaldea equipment with the wishes/curses of pruned humanity and self destruction as the source/cause in the background, and Animusphere family as the catalyst unless Marisbury is the conscious mastermind (also possible) rather than the unwilling instigator of Doom like the Einzberns and Solomon were. It all depends on what Sherlock Holmes is mixed with as Pretender. If it is Chaldea-related or something like a sideplot resolved in a .5 chapter. Either way his role as misleading mentor is set on stone as a Pretender.

His playable version might just change/remain as normal Sherlock Holmes separate from his story hybrid Pretender version, if this happens. When Romani said this in Extra Vlad’s interlude which also included Fuyuki subplot that will come out again:

It’s highly contrasting to how everyone has been behaving in the Lostbelts. FGO was called a game about Romani’s philosophy/way of life and this was empathized after his death with the reference of Guda becoming the torch-carrier of that, thus we’ve been doing it wrong like choosing to kill in Undertale to level up perhaps. Does this mean is tied up with the potential “delete our game/saved data and start over” as Undertale-like thing to get a Pacifist ending (the somehow dreaded “retcon/rayshift memories to the past” theory)? Absolutely possible. Double possible if “Daybit” is revealed to be David Bluebook who rayshifted his memories, perhaps.