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bookofbonbon · 5 months

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ours is the hunt - daemon targaryen.

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Reader.

Warnings: 18+ Cheating. Hunting. Death/Killing. Mentions of pregnancy/ending a pregnancy. This is kinda fucked up, read the summary. Probably major spelling and grammar mistakes. Tense/POV mix ups.

Summary: Based on a request from the lovely @holy-minseok. like how westerosi kings warn the people of the consequences if they move out of line, reader presents daemons mistress to him on a spike with her swollen belly as a final warning for his betrayals.

Word Count: 2.8k+

A/N: This took on a life of its own and didn't play out exactly as the request but, hopefully it's still enjoyable (well... as enjoyable as it can be). Italics section is a flashback.

The Kingswood is eerily silent in the minutes before sunrise. The party, like many of the woodland creatures, still slept, peaceful in their oblivion as servants moved quietly around the camp to prepare for the rush that daybreak would bring. You take a deep breath, the crisp forest air a welcome change from that of the stench of King’s Landing; the smell of the previous afternoon’s rain also lingers but it would dry with the promise of good weather and a bright sun.

“My Lady,” Ser Eadric Qyle calls, your most loyal, your sworn sword. “Everything is prepared to your instruction.”

“How many?”

“Three total. Two in the woods as we had hoped now, one. We will release the last one on your instruction.”

The snap of a twig, a slight breeze, the distant wail of a wounded animal and the flutter of wings as the early morning bird sings its song as it flies across the waking sky. The forest whispers your name and you answer its call.

“Let the hunt begin.”

Your horse slows to a trot and eventually, to a stop as you approach the camp; an accompanying stablehand taking hold of the reins as a stool is brought to aid your dismount.

“I had wondered where my wife had gone,” Daemon’s voice comes from beside you with a hand held out. “I should have known to check the woods.”

Your smile is wide, eyes lighting up at his presence as you take his hand and dismount. He is still dressed in his sleeping robes, the Targaryen Prince having obviously just woken not long ago. The thought that he immediately came to seek you out upon waking endears you.

Steadying yourself with a hand on Daemon’s shoulder, you find your balance and firmly plant your feet on the stool; with the added height you find yourself at eye-level with him and greet him with a kiss to the side of his head.

“Good morrow, my love.”

Daemon returns the greeting by leaning into you with a groan, head dropping into the juncture between your neck and shoulder, his arms wrapping around you.

“Remind me again why we must be here at this bloody thing?”

You wrap an arm around his shoulder, hand soothing his back.

“You cannot get out of this, Daemon,” you tell him with a small laugh.

Daemon groans again, his breath hot against your neck as he attempts to burrow his face deeper, grumbling all the while. He doesn’t get far however, when you thread your fingers through his unruly hair and pull.

“What was that, my love?”

“When you said you arranged a hunt for my name day, I thought it would be just us. Not a whole fucking camp for a Royal Hunt.”

While Daemon was content to revel in celebrations of his victory, a Royal Hunt and a Royal Tourney were two entirely different things. Besides, he could think of much better things to do on his name day and he makes it known, allowing you to hold his head in place, a familiar glint in his eyes that you force yourself to ignore.

“Did you really think your Lord-King brother would allow that? You have him to thank for-” you release his hair to gesture at the several tents. “-this.”

“Hm. How generous of him.”

You hum in agreement, adjusting the top of his robes.

“Very but, worry not, my love. Despite reports of only one stag, Ser Eadric and I managed to gain the trail of one other.”

A grin pulls at the corner of Daemon’s lips.

“The Royal Hunt will track one stag and we will hunt the other,” you finish. Using your grip on his robes to pull him closer, you brush your nose against his, before pressing your lips to his for a brief moment. He tries to deepen the kiss but you don’t allow him.

“Now, come,” you step down from the stool, taking his hand in yours. “Let's get you ready for the day.”

“Very well,” Daemon agrees, pressing a kiss to your hand with a charming smile.

You return the smile before turning and leading him back to the centre of the camp with a tight jaw.

Daemon’s mood lightens considerably thereafter. The Rogue Prince noticeably happier after you broke the news that the two of you would separate from the Royal Hunt because while Daemon loved to hunt, he hated not being the one to actually do it. He didn’t need someone else to track down the game just for him to land the final blow in some false display of strength and authority. He could do it himself. He wanted to do it himself. He liked to do it himself. And though his mood had lightened, you noted that it didn’t stop his eyes from wandering around in search of someone else.

By mid-morning, the camp is teeming with life, the several Lords and Ladies of Westeros who gathered in celebration of Daemon’s name day dotted all over the grounds and inside tents. You yourself enter the main tent with Ser Eadric, the grand structure larger than that of most of the homes of the smallfolk.

You don’t have to look far to find Daemon, Viserys’ great laugh leading you right to him; the two brother’s seated beside one another at a long table surrounded by other lords.

Turning to Eadric, you place a cloth in his hand. “Release the last stag and give this to the bloodhound,” you instruct. He nods, taking it in hand and departing.

Taking a deep breath, you roll your shoulders back to loosen them, a delightful smile gracing your lips as you approach Daemon and Viserys. Daemon immediately reaches out for you out of habit once you're seated, and you cradle his strong hand between your own.

“Ah my Lady,” Viserys greets you and you, him, with a bow of your head.

“Your Grace.”

“I have been meaning to offer you both my condolences following the death of your brother and my congratulations, I hear you have been named heir of Blood's End.”

You tighten your grip around Daemon’s hand then loosen it, both hands releasing his as you begin instead to fidget with your own fingers. Daemon notices immediately, taking hold of one of your hands in his, his grip firm in silent comfort as he sends you a reassuring look.

“A regrettable hunting accident,” you pull at the collar of your riding jacket. “But, please, accept my thanks for your congratulations, Your Grace. It is an honour and I can only hope to be half the ruler my Lord-father is of Blood's End.”

“Well, I cannot say what type of ruler you will be but, from what I heard you are double the hunter of that of what your brothers were and rival even that of your father-”

“Better,” Daemon interrupts proudly with a squeeze of your hand.

“Better?” Viserys’ repeats in amusement.

You breathe a laugh at Daemon’s antics, “I am able to hold my own somewhat.”

Daemon scoffs at your downplay of your skill, “my wife is humble, brother but, I am not. She is the better between her and her father. Perhaps one of the best in all the land.”

You make a show of balking at the declaration, forcing a meek laugh “I- that is not-”

But, Viserys’ cuts you off, holding one hand up in surrender, “if Daemon says you are one of the best then I believe him. I mean what good is it if House Chase’ words are ‘Ours is the Hunt’ if they cannot do exactly that?”

Viserys’ laughs heartily at his own joke and you spare a glance at Daemon who grins at you playfully.

The conversation teeters off soon after that as Daemon and Viserys’ listen to the report sent by the Royal Huntsman. You in turn, turn your attention to one of your Ladies-in-waiting, Lady Millicent. While the custom of having Ladies-in-waiting was unusual outside of the Great Houses, the custom was needed within your own House as it was in fact greater than even that of your liege lords, House Baratheon. House Chase commanded both a larger army and fertile lands that weren’t felled by the terrible weather that surrounded Storm’s End. House Chase was second to Baratheon in rank only.

“My Lady, I’ve been meaning to ask but, where is Lady Gwendolyn? I’ve not seen her around the camp all morning, I fear-”

“Yes,” Daemon interrupts abruptly. “Where is Lady Gwendolyn?”

You delight at the question, ears burning as you turn your attention to Daemon about your newest Lady-of-waiting of six, maybe seven months.

“I did not know you had such a keen interest in my ladies of waiting. Husband.”

“My only interest is that she attends to my grooming every morning and yet, when I needed her this morning, she was nowhere to be found.”

Daemon shrugs the question off with a practiced ease while your lips almost pull dangerously downwards, mask hanging by a thread and nearly slipping completely at the brazen statement. Instead you fix your smile, reaching across to smooth the neck of his hunting attire.

“I have given Lady Gwendolyn leave while we are here, she is likely with her kin in the woods.”

A dull light permeates from the lantern in your hand, bathing its immediate surroundings - including yourself - in a warm glow as you carefully navigate the unfamiliar bed chambers that your husband had come to frequent as of late. Shadows bouncing off of the walls, the silhouettes of the two figures in the bed become clearer the closer you get.

See, you weren’t naive to the ways of men and their crude sexual appetites; the way they would seek out other women when their wives could not sate them.

‘It is the way of men, he will have his whores and his playthings but you are his wife and no whore can take away from you.’ is what your mother had told you but, you would not heed her words. You would not lay down while your husband took mistresses and whores alike and you had told him so, warning him once of the consequences.

Placing the lantern down on the bedside table, you peer down at the Baratheon beauty laid in the bed with your husband; a few drops of milk of the poppy in their goblets and it was keeping both husband and whore sedated.

The mattress dips slightly under your weight as you settle yourself beside her sleeping figure, hip to hip as you take a closer look at your Lady-in-waiting, who had also taken up position as Daemon’s mistress, stealing both his time and attention from you.

Lady Gwendolyn of House Baratheon, the niece of a cousin of a second son nobody; a distant relative carrying the Great name of the Great Stags of the Stormlands.

“Ser Eadric,” you call on your sworn sword; fingers ghosting over her abdomen. The swell is slight but it is there. “Our Prince’s name day is fast approaching. Ensure arrangements have begun at first light. We will celebrate like none before.”

The sun sits at its peak in the sky, streams of its light filtering through the tops of the forest's trees. The crossbow is heavy in Daemon’s hands as he sits astride his horse, sweat gathering on his forehead as he watches his surroundings; the reins of your own horse in his other hand. He had led the first few hours, and now you had taken over.

As planned, the two of you went out with the Royal Hunt and eventually broke off under the guise of returning to the camp.

Daemon’s ears perk at the sound of a nearby wail and the flutter of several wings as a group of birds seem to scatter. Dismounting, Daemon joins you on the ground, coming to stand behind you as he scans the woods for any signs of danger. There is no danger however, just your blood hound.

Daemon moves past you and calls the hound to heel at his side.

“We’re close,” you toss the hours old droppings back onto the ground and pick up your own crossbow. “These droppings are fresh.”

“Very close.” Daemon calls you over to where the bloodhound sits obediently by his feet. There is blood around its jowl. A thrill goes down your spine at the sight, knowing that the two of you were close now.

“We go on foot from here,” he declares, trying the reins of your horses to a nearby tree and you agree.

Moving silently ahead through the Kingswood, what was once vibrating with life, has now come to standstill with your approach. All the woodland creatures recognising the two predators hunting in their territory.

Your eyes flitter from the ground to up ahead as you follow the Stag’s tracks, Daemon trailing behind you and then- the sudden trample of hooves to the left of you and a blur of brown and then silence.

“Daemon,” you whisper and nod up ahead.

There in the distance stands the Great Stag the two of you had been hunting for the better part of four hours, its mammoth antlers moving frantically as it turned its head over and over.

Daemon places a hand on the small of your back and you turn your head toward him.

“From here?” you ask and he nods, stepping carefully in front of you.

The Stag stumbles around clumsily, which Daemon can only assume is from when the bloodhound must’ve sunk its teeth into it but it otherwise remains in the same area, believing itself to be safe.

“Let us test out the might of these crossbows from here,” Daemon croons quietly. The armourer had declared it the single most powerful crossbow, capable of bringing down the greatest creatures from an even greater distance.

Positioning himself, Daemon presses his body against yours, your hand touching his collar before you slide it down and place it on his waist. The only thing that could be heard was the sound of both of your breaths as you watched over his shoulder. He lines up the shot, finger on the trigger, your breaths in harmonious sync, his back against your chest as your hearts beat as one. You slide a hand underneath his arm, steadying his hold and with a kiss to his shoulder blade, he pulls.

Thwack!

The recoil is slight as the sound reverberates with a sickening crunch. The Stag cries out but, before it can make a move to run, you’re passing Daemon your own crossbow and he sends another arrow straight through its neck with perfect precision.

There’s a beat of silence as the entire woods including yourselves come to a halt, your breaths the only sound that could be heard. It’s soon broken however, by your laughter, the sound building into something hysterical as you step away from Daemon. Catching Daemon’s attention, he turns to you, initially in concern, it doesn’t take long however for him to join you when he sees how delighted you are. Catching you by the back of your neck, Daemon pulls you into him, his mouth covering yours in a searing kiss which you happily return.

“Shall we claim our prize?” you break the kiss, foreheads pressed together.

Daemon nods, taking your hand into his and eagerly leading the way.

You hum happily beneath your breath, keeping a keen eye on him as the two of you get closer, watching and waiting, watching and waiting until finally- there’s a catch in his breath, footsteps faltering as his head tilts, bemused. You feel the way his hand twitches in your hold, grip loosening as he glances back at you, confused until- a sharp intake of breath and the realisation of not, what he has killed but, who.

You slip your hand from his hold as he chokes on a gasp at the sight of his mistress, his whore, the Lady Gwendolyn. She is covered in a layer of mud, her usual gown replaced with a dirty and ripped tunic and pants, a strip of cloth tied around her mouth and gagging her. One arrow shot through her chest, nailing her to the tree behind her and the second through her neck; on the floor beside her lies the head of a stag.

Three total. Two in the woods as we had hoped now, one. We will release the last one on your instruction.

“What is this?” Daemon speaks in abject horror.

“The last one,” you tell him grimly.

Daemon continues to stare at Gwendolyn, dazed and not understanding what was happening as he watches blood drip from her wounds and onto her swelling belly.

“What have you done?”

“What have I done? What have you done?” you tut, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Do not fret, I granted her this small mercy, my last mercy,” you inform him, hand adjusting his collar. “A quick and clean death.”

Your words seems to bring him back to himself, horror and confusion short lived and replaced with a fury you had never seen before. It does naught to frighten you though.

“She was with child,” he turns on you, jaw impossibly tight as he spits the words at you; crowding you against a tree. “My child.”

“I know,” you tell him softly with a nod.

Your placidness unsettles him. You can see it in his eyes and the way he flinches at your touch when you brush his hair back from either side of his face.

“So heed this as my final warning for your betrayals. I won’t be so nice if there’s another one.”

Steadying yourself with a hand on his arm, you reach up and press a kiss to the side of his head, “happy name day, Daemon.”

All fics are my own work - I have not posted my work anywhere else.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters/places mentioned above.

Do not copy. Do not translate. Do not repost.

#daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x you #daemon targaryen x female reader #hotd fanfic #matt smith x reader #matt smith fanfiction

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quincytatas · 2 years

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when i get my apartment what bug should i raise.....

#i wanna raise death head hawk moths but i also really want to raise a big beetle like a stag or goliath beetle #maybe a giant millipede would be cute

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novaursa · 22 days

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The Veil of Fire (1/3)

- Summary: Your twin sister, Helaena, had her dreams, but you were gifted with something else. Something akin to a terrible purpose.

- Paring: aunt!reader/Jacaerys Velaryon

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is Helaena's twin sister, is bonded with Cannibal (whom she named Morgoth after she claimed him). This is a request made by @witch-of-letters. Enjoy! ❤️

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 6 000+

- Next part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

You awaken with a start, the remnants of the dream clinging to your senses like the lingering taste of copper in your mouth. It is dark in your chamber, the only light coming from the embers in the hearth, glowing faintly. But the darkness does nothing to dispel the vivid images seared into your mind. The dream—it had been more than just a dream. You had felt it in your bones, deep in your very marrow. The wind tearing at your scales as you soared through the sky, the scent of earth and sweat and blood sharp in your nostrils. The primal rush as you descended upon the stag, powerful legs pumping beneath you, muscles rippling as you gave chase.

The terror of the creature, so swift and yet so hopeless in the face of your overwhelming might, fed the fire in your belly. You could almost feel the earth quake beneath you as you landed, talons digging into the soft flesh of your prey, the crack of bones as they gave way under your weight. You remember the feel of the stag's fur against your tongue, the rich, metallic taste of blood flooding your senses as your teeth sunk deep into its flesh. It was alive in your mouth, a creature of warmth and life, and you were devouring it, piece by piece, savoring every ounce of its struggle, every pulse of its weakening heart.

The taste of victory, of dominance, of absolute power was intoxicating. As the last breath of the stag left its body, you were filled with a sense of completion, a satisfaction that was both yours and not yours, a feeling of wholeness that was almost too much to bear. It wasn’t just a dream—it was real. You had been there, felt what Morgoth—no, Cannibal, as you still sometimes thought of him—had felt. His hunger, his pleasure, his savage satisfaction as he fed. And now, even awake, you can still taste the blood in your mouth, feel the last echoes of the stag’s death rattle through you.

You shudder, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream as you sit up in bed. Your hand instinctively moves to your lips, as if to wipe away the lingering blood, though you know there is nothing there. The room is cold, and you pull the blankets tighter around yourself, your mind still reeling from the intensity of the vision.

Your twin sister, Helaena, is already awake, sitting up in her own bed, her pale eyes fixed on you. There is an odd stillness to her, a knowingness that unnerves you, even after all these years.

"I had a nightmare," you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep, and something else—something darker, more primal.

Helaena tilts her head slightly, her gaze never leaving yours. "It was not a nightmare," she says softly, her voice almost a whisper. "It was a transfer. You were not here with me."

Her words send a chill down your spine, colder than the night air. "A transfer?" you repeat, confused. "I don’t understand, Helaena. I was dreaming, nothing more. Perhaps you had your own troubles sleeping?"

Helaena’s eyes narrow slightly, her lips curving into a faint, enigmatic smile. "You were not here," she insists, her voice taking on a strange, faraway quality. "You were flying, far away, with Morgoth."

You shake your head, trying to dispel the unease that her words are stirring within you. "It was just a dream, Helaena," you say, though even as the words leave your mouth, they feel like a lie. You’ve always known your twin to be different, but this—this feels like something more. "You must have had a vision of your own."

She doesn’t respond, just continues to look at you with those unsettling eyes, as if she’s peering into the very depths of your soul. Finally, she lies back down, turning away from you, but her words linger in the air like a specter. "You were not here," she repeats, her voice a mere whisper now. "You were with him."

You lie back down as well, but sleep doesn’t come easily. Your mind is too full of the dream, of Helaena’s words, of the feeling that something has shifted, that a line has been crossed that cannot be uncrossed. You close your eyes, trying to will yourself to rest, but your thoughts keep drifting back to Jacaerys.

Jace, with his warm smile and kind eyes, always so patient with you, so different from the court’s intrigues and serpentine whispers. You’ve missed him terribly since he left with Rhaenyra, Laenor, and the boys. The court has been quieter without them, yet the air is heavier, thick with rumors and distrust. The question of Jace’s parentage has always loomed like a dark cloud, and now it has become a storm, too dangerous for him and his family to weather here.

You think of the last time you saw him, his eyes lingering on yours as they said their farewells. The way his hand lingered a moment too long on yours, the way he looked back at you just before he left, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. You had always been close, closer even than you were with your own brothers at times, and now, with him gone, there is an emptiness in your heart that nothing seems to fill.

You turn onto your side, curling into the warmth of your blankets, trying to hold onto the memory of his touch, his scent, the sound of his laughter. But it’s not enough. The dream still lingers at the edges of your mind, dark and unsettling, reminding you that something has changed, and there is no going back.

As sleep finally begins to claim you once more, your last thoughts are of Jacaerys, of the feel of his hand in yours, and of the unsettling certainty that you will see him again, sooner than you think.

The morning sun bathes the corridors of the Red Keep in a golden light as you walk beside your grandsire, Otto Hightower. The stone walls are cool to the touch, yet the warmth of the day is beginning to creep in, making the air heavy with the scent of the sea and blooming flowers from the gardens below. Your steps echo in the hall, the only sound that accompanies you and your grandsire in this moment of relative peace.

Otto’s face is a mask of calm, but you can sense the sharp mind working behind his serene expression. You know this walk well; it is not merely a stroll for him. This is his opportunity to nudge, to guide, to mold. He has always tried to draw you into the labyrinth of court politics, eager to make use of your sharp mind and keen understanding of people. But you have learned to navigate these conversations with him, dancing on the edge of engagement without ever fully stepping into the web he so carefully weaves.

"My dear," Otto begins, his voice smooth and measured, "you have a gift, one that could be put to great use in the service of the realm. You see things others do not, understand the currents beneath the surface. The court could benefit greatly from your wisdom, if only you would take a more active role."

You smile at him, the kind of smile that is both warm and guarded. "Grandsire, I am flattered by your confidence in me. But you know well that my talents are better suited to other pursuits. The court is a place where serpents nest, and I find I have no desire to dance with them."

Otto chuckles softly, though you catch the slight tightening around his eyes. "You underestimate your ability to navigate those waters, my dear. You could influence so much, bring about changes that would secure the future of our house."

"And yet," you say with a lightness that belies the weight of the conversation, "I prefer to leave the dancing to others. I fulfill my duties, attend the necessary events, but beyond that, I find little joy in the games played at court. I would rather debate philosophy with Aemond than trade barbs with courtiers."

Otto regards you for a moment, his eyes searching yours for any sign of wavering. But you meet his gaze steadily, unwavering in your resolve. He knows this is not a battle he can win today, and so he shifts tactics, as you knew he would.

"Very well," he concedes with a graceful nod, "but remember, the tides of power are ever-changing. One must be ready to act when the moment calls for it."

"Of course, grandsire," you reply with another smile, "and I shall be ready, should that moment come. But until then, I am content with the life I lead."

With that, you part ways, Otto heading off to attend to his duties, and you, seeking out a quieter corner of the Keep where the air is less thick with the weight of expectations. Your feet carry you towards the gardens, the place where you often find solace amidst the chaos of court life. As you turn a corner, you spot Aegon lounging lazily on a stone bench beneath the shade of a flowering tree, his usual air of indifference more pronounced today.

"Aegon," you call out lightly, drawing his attention. "Enjoying the morning sun, or simply avoiding whatever task you’ve been assigned?"

He looks up at you with a lazy grin, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "A bit of both, I suppose. Though I’m more inclined to say it’s the latter."

You chuckle, making your way over to him. "If Mother knew you were hiding away here, she’d have you by the ear and back to your duties in no time."

"She already did," Aegon replies with a huff, his grin fading as he turns his gaze to the ground. "And now I’m banished to the gardens, like some sulking child."

You take a seat beside him, the cool stone of the bench pressing against your legs through the fabric of your dress. "What did you do this time?"

He shrugs, the motion casual, but there’s a heaviness to it that you don’t miss. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Just being me, I suppose. That’s enough to earn her wrath these days."

You study him for a moment, the way his shoulders slump slightly, the way he avoids meeting your eyes. There’s a sadness there, one that he tries to hide behind his usual carefree facade. "Aegon," you say gently, "Mother’s harshness comes from a place of worry, not disdain. She sees the weight of the crown on Father’s head, and she fears for all of us. But she does love you, in her own way."

He scoffs, though it lacks real bite. "Love. If that’s what it is, it’s a cruel kind. Always pointing out my flaws, my failures. It’s never enough."

"It’s because she knows you’re capable of more," you counter, your tone soft but firm. "You’re not as lost as you think, Aegon. You’re intelligent, resourceful. You just have to find your own path, not the one others lay out for you."

Aegon finally looks at you, his expression softening as he lets out a long breath. "It’s hard, you know? Everyone expects so much. And I…I just want to live my life, without all the expectations and responsibilities."

You reach out and place a hand on his arm, squeezing gently. "I understand, truly. But there’s strength in you, even if you don’t see it yet. You don’t have to be what they want you to be, but you can be something even greater, something that’s truly yours."

He seems to mull over your words, his gaze drifting to the horizon. After a long silence, he nods slowly. "Maybe you’re right," he says quietly. "I don’t know what that is yet, but…I’ll try to find it."

You smile, a genuine warmth in it that you hope reaches him. "That’s all anyone can ask, Aegon. And when you do find it, I’ll be here to support you."

He offers a small smile in return, the first real one you’ve seen from him today. "Thank you," he murmurs, the words carrying more weight than usual. "It means a lot."

You sit together in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the rustling of leaves in the breeze and the distant hum of the Keep. In this moment, it feels as though the weight of the world has lessened, if only a little, and you’re glad to have been the one to ease it for him.

The heavy gown slips from your shoulders with a soft whisper of fabric, pooling at your feet like a dark river. The rich, embroidered silks and velvets, so carefully chosen to display your status, now lie forgotten as your maids bustle around you, their hands quick and efficient as they assist in your transformation.

You step out of the pile of fabric and lift your arms as one of your maids, a young woman with deft fingers and a quiet disposition, helps you into your dragon riding attire. Unlike the gowns you wear at court, this garb is practical, made for both protection and ease of movement. The underlayer is a tightly fitted tunic of black leather, reinforced at the shoulders and elbows, molded to your form to allow freedom of movement while still offering protection. The leather is soft, well-worn from many flights, and carries the faint scent of smoke and salt.

Over the tunic, you wear a jerkin of thicker, darker leather, fastened with a series of silver clasps shaped like small dragon heads. The jerkin is adorned with subtle stitching along the edges, a nod to your Targaryen heritage without being ostentatious. It is practical, yet elegant, a reflection of the dual roles you play as both a princess and a dragonrider. Your legs are encased in fitted breeches, made of the same durable leather, allowing you to move with agility. Your boots, worn and scuffed from years of riding, reach up to your knees, their soles thick and sturdy, perfect for gripping the saddle as Morgoth soars through the skies.

The final piece is a cloak of deep, midnight blue, clasped at your throat with a small, intricate pin in the shape of a dragon. The cloak is lined with fur to guard against the biting wind at high altitudes, and it flares out behind you as you move, a dark shadow that mirrors the wings of your dragon.

As your maids finish securing your attire, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Gone is the elegant lady of the court, replaced by the fierce dragonrider you truly are. There is a spark of excitement in your eyes, a fire that matches the one that burns in Morgoth's belly. You can feel the pull of the sky, the need to be aloft, to leave behind the walls of the Red Keep and the stifling confines of court life.

"Is there anything else, my lady?" one of the maids asks, her voice pulling you from your thoughts.

You shake your head, offering her a small smile. "No, that will be all. Thank you."

The maids curtsy and quickly leave the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Your hand drifts to the small, secret pocket sewn into the lining of your cloak, where the letter from Jace is hidden. You had read it only once, the words burning themselves into your memory, but you still find comfort in its presence. The letters you exchange are a lifeline, a connection that spans the distance between you. Each one is a reminder of the bond you share, a bond that goes beyond mere affection.

Tonight, you will see him again, on that small, isolated island halfway between Dragonstone and the Red Keep. It’s a risky endeavor, but one you would undertake a thousand times over just to be near him. The thought of it sends a thrill through you, a heady mix of excitement and nervous anticipation. The world fades away when you're with Jace, and in those stolen moments, nothing else matters.

A knock on the door pulls you from your reverie. "My lady, the escort is ready," a voice calls from the other side.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself, and stride to the door. The servant outside bows as you step into the hallway, and you nod in acknowledgment. The corridors of the Red Keep are quieter now, with the court winding down for the evening. Only a few guards and servants move about, most paying little attention to you as you make your way towards the exit. You’ve done this before, taking lone flights on Morgoth to clear your mind, so it raises no suspicion.

As you exit the Keep and step into the crisp evening air, you are met by a small escort of guards, their armor gleaming in the fading light. They bow respectfully as you approach. Ser Arryk, a knight who has always been loyal to your house, steps forward.

"Princess, the city is quiet tonight," he reports, his voice steady. "We should reach the gate without incident."

"Thank you, Ser Arryk," you reply, your tone composed. "Let us be on our way."

The streets of King’s Landing are already beginning to empty as the last rays of sunlight give way to dusk. The city is alive with the sounds and smells of the evening—vendors packing up their wares, the distant laughter of tavern-goers, the occasional cry of a child being called home. The guards flank you as you move through the city, their presence deterring any who might think to approach. You walk with purpose, the letter in your pocket a constant reminder of where you are headed.

Morgoth, too wild and too large to be kept within the confines of the Dragonpit, dwells outside the city walls, beyond where the common folk dare to tread. He is a creature of the wilds, as much a part of the untamed lands as the mountains and the sea. His presence near the Red Keep has always been a subject of whispered fear, his black wings casting long shadows over the city whenever he takes to the skies. But to you, he is a part of your soul, a living extension of your own fierce spirit.

As you near the city gates, the guards step aside, allowing you passage into the wild lands beyond. The air grows cooler, crisper, as you leave the city behind. The path to Morgoth's lair is one you know well, the ground beneath your feet familiar with every step. The distant roar of the sea fills your ears, the wind tugging at your cloak as you make your way to the clearing where Morgoth waits.

The last light of day fades as you approach, the sky deepening to a dark indigo, dotted with the first stars of the evening. The clearing comes into view, and there, amidst the ancient stones and gnarled trees, lies Morgoth. His massive form is a dark silhouette against the twilight sky, his eyes glowing like green embers as he senses your approach.

He is truly a beast of legend, larger and more fearsome than any other dragon, his scales the color of a moonless night, his wings vast enough to blot out the stars when fully spread. The ground trembles slightly as he shifts, his long neck arching as he watches you, a low, rumbling growl vibrating through the earth.

You step forward, your heart pounding with anticipation, the thrill of the night’s secret mission pulsing through your veins. "Morgoth," you call softly, your voice steady despite the excitement thrumming in your chest.

The dragon's head lowers, his massive eyes locking onto yours, and you feel the bond between you flare to life. It is a connection deeper than words, a shared understanding that transcends the physical. Morgoth is wild, untamed, but with you, he is something more—a partner, a companion, an extension of your very being.

With practiced ease, you approach him, your hand reaching out to touch the warm, rough scales of his snout. His breath is hot against your skin, smelling of smoke and ash, a reminder of the power he holds. You climb onto his back, settling into the saddle that you alone are permitted to fasten, your hands gripping the reins made from his own shed scales, as strong as they are rare.

The world around you falls away, the concerns of the court and the whispers of the city fading into nothingness. There is only the sky, the wind, and the thrill of the flight that awaits.

Morgoth shifts beneath you, his muscles bunching as he prepares to take to the air. You grip the saddle, your heart pounding with anticipation as you give the command. With a powerful leap, Morgoth surges forward, his wings unfurling as he takes flight, the ground dropping away beneath you.

The Red Keep, the city, all of it becomes a blur as you ascend higher and higher, the cool air rushing past you as Morgoth climbs. The exhilaration of flight fills you, and a smile breaks across your face as the stars begin to twinkle above.

Ahead of you lies the sea, vast and endless, and beyond it, the small island where Jace waits. The excitement in your chest grows, and you lean forward, urging Morgoth to fly faster, to close the distance between you and the one who holds your heart.

As Morgoth soars through the night sky, the wind whipping past you, your thoughts drift back to the dream that haunted your sleep not long ago. The memory of it is still so vivid, so real, that it feels as if it only just happened. You can still feel the weight of the stag beneath Morgoth's talons, the warm gush of blood filling your mouth as you tore into its flesh. The primal satisfaction of the hunt, the raw power, the unrestrained hunger—it had all felt too real to be merely a dream.

You tighten your grip on the reins, leaning forward slightly as you speak to Morgoth, though you know he cannot answer. "Was it real?" you murmur, your voice barely audible above the wind. "Did I truly see through your eyes? Did I feel what you felt?"

Morgoth’s only response is a deep, rumbling growl, a sound that resonates through your very bones. His wings beat powerfully against the cool night air, carrying you both further away from the Red Keep, further from the world of politics and courtly intrigue, and closer to the freedom that you both crave.

You gaze down at the world below, the dark expanse of the sea stretching out like a vast, endless void. The moonlight reflects off the water, casting silver trails across its surface, guiding you toward the small island where you know Jace is waiting. The thrill of the flight, the rush of anticipation in your veins, mingles with the lingering unease from the dream. Was it merely a manifestation of your bond with Morgoth, or was it something more? Some deeper connection that you had only begun to glimpse?

"Do you see me in your dreams, Morgoth?" you ask softly, your words carried away by the wind. "Do you dream of me as I dream of you?"

There is no answer, only the steady rhythm of Morgoth’s wings and the distant sound of the waves crashing against the shore. But you can feel his presence, strong and unyielding, as if he understands you on some level beyond speech, beyond even thought. The bond you share is ancient, primal, and it is moments like these that remind you of the power and mystery of the Targaryen blood that runs through your veins.

As the island comes into view, you spot Vermax, Jace's dragon, already perched on the rocky shore. His bronze and green scales glint in the moonlight, his eyes glowing with an inner fire. And there, standing beside him, is Jace. Even from a distance, you can see the way he searches the skies, his gaze sharp and eager as he waits for you.

Your heart swells at the sight of him, and you urge Morgoth to descend, your excitement growing with each passing second. Morgoth dips his wings, angling downward in a graceful arc as he begins his descent. The wind rushes past you, carrying with it the scent of salt and seaweed, the coolness of the night air mingling with the warmth of the dragon beneath you.

As you near the ground, Morgoth lands with a heavy thud, his powerful legs absorbing the impact with ease. The ground trembles beneath you as he settles, his wings folding against his massive body. You waste no time in dismounting, your feet barely touching the ground before you are running toward Jace.

"Jace!" you call out, your voice filled with the joy of seeing him again.

He turns at the sound of your voice, his face lighting up with a smile that warms you to your core. "You’re here," he breathes, his voice thick with emotion as he strides forward to meet you.

The moment you reach him, you throw yourself into his arms, and he catches you effortlessly, pulling you close against him. The feel of his body, warm and solid beneath your hands, sends a wave of relief and happiness coursing through you. It has been too long since you last held him, too long since you felt the safety and comfort of his embrace.

"Gods, I’ve missed you," Jace murmurs into your hair, his voice rough with longing. He holds you tightly, as if afraid that you might slip away if he lets go.

"I’ve missed you too," you reply, your voice muffled against his chest. You can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek, a reassuring rhythm that calms the storm of emotions inside you.

He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his dark eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. "Are you all right? You seem…troubled."

You hesitate, the memory of the dream flickering at the edges of your mind. But in this moment, with Jace holding you, with the warmth of his gaze and the solidity of his presence, the fear seems distant, almost insignificant. "I’m all right now," you tell him softly, reaching up to cup his face in your hands. "Now that I’m with you."

Jace leans into your touch, closing his eyes for a brief moment as if savoring the feel of your skin against his. Then he opens them again, and you can see the resolve in his expression, the determination to protect you, to keep you safe.

"I worried about you," he admits, his voice low and earnest. "The court, the whispers, everything happening back at King’s Landing… It’s dangerous for you there."

You shake your head, smiling up at him with a tenderness that only he can bring out in you. "I’m safe, Jace. I know how to navigate the court. And besides," you add with a playful glint in your eye, "I have Morgoth to keep me safe. No one would dare cross me with him by my side."

Jace chuckles at that, his grip on you tightening slightly as he pulls you closer. "That’s true enough. I just wish you didn’t have to be in that vipers' nest at all."

You sigh softly, resting your head against his shoulder as you let yourself relax in his arms. "We all have our roles to play, Jace. But right now, none of that matters. Right now, we’re here, together."

He leans down, pressing a tender kiss to the top of your head, then your forehead, and finally, your lips. The kiss is soft at first, a gentle caress that speaks of all the longing and love you’ve both held inside for so long. But as the kiss deepens, it becomes more intense, more urgent, as if you are both trying to make up for all the time you’ve spent apart.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as you lose yourself in the feel of him, the taste of him. He responds in kind, his hands roaming your back, holding you as if he can’t bear to let you go. The world around you falls away, leaving only the two of you, locked in this moment, in this kiss, in this shared need for one another.

When you finally pull back, both of you are breathless, your foreheads resting together as you catch your breath. Jace’s eyes are dark with desire, his gaze roaming over your face as if committing every detail to memory.

"Come," he whispers, his voice husky with emotion. "Let’s not waste any more time."

You nod, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you take his hand, allowing him to lead you away from the dragons and toward the secluded spot he has prepared for you. The night is yours, and in the quiet stillness of the island, away from prying eyes and the weight of duty, you find a peace and happiness that you can only share with Jace.

The secluded spot Jace leads you to is a small, hidden grove, shielded from the wind by a cluster of tall, ancient trees. The moonlight filters through the leaves, casting dappled patterns of silver on the ground. The soft rustle of the leaves in the breeze is the only sound, a gentle backdrop to the intimacy of the moment.

Jace pulls you close again, his hands warm on your waist as he gazes down at you, his eyes filled with a mix of affection and longing. "It feels like a dream," he murmurs, his voice soft as if afraid to break the spell of the night. "Every time I see you again, I wonder if it’s real or if I’ll wake up and find you gone."

"It’s real," you assure him, reaching up to brush your fingers along his cheek. His skin is warm beneath your touch, the faintest hint of stubble rough against your fingertips. "And I’m here, with you. That’s all that matters."

He leans down, capturing your lips in another kiss, this one slower, more tender. It’s a kiss that speaks of promises, of the love that binds you both together despite the distance and the dangers that surround you. You lose yourself in it, in the feel of his lips against yours, in the way his hands hold you as if you’re the most precious thing in the world.

Time seems to stretch, the moment lasting an eternity, yet passing too quickly. When the kiss finally ends, you rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Jace’s arms wrap around you, holding you close, his chin resting on the top of your head.

"I wish we could stay like this," he whispers, his voice filled with a wistful longing. "I wish the world could just disappear, and it could be just us, here, now."

You smile softly, the sentiment echoing in your own heart. "Me too," you admit. "But we have our duties, our roles to play. As much as I’d like to, we can’t escape that."

Jace sighs, his breath warm against your hair. "I know. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it."

You chuckle softly, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. "Neither do I. But we’ll see each other again. We always do."

He nods, though the reluctance to let you go is clear in the way he holds you just a bit tighter. You stay like that for a while longer, savoring the warmth of his embrace, the peace of the moment.

Eventually, you pull back slightly, your gaze drifting to a small patch of moonlit grass where something catches your eye. A tiny insect, its wings shimmering with iridescent colors, flutters by. Your instincts kick in, the familiar habit born of your bond with your twin sister, Helaena. You reach out quickly, your fingers deftly capturing the insect before it can fly away.

Jace watches you curiously, a smile tugging at his lips as you carefully place the insect into a small wooden box you carry with you. "What are you doing?" he asks, amusement lacing his tone. "Collecting insects now, are we?"

You grin up at him, closing the box gently to keep the creature safe. "It’s for Helaena," you explain. "She loves them, you know. This one’s new, I think—she doesn’t have one like it yet."

Jace raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "You brought a box just for that?"

"Of course," you reply with a playful glint in your eye. "You never know when you’ll find something she doesn’t have. It’s like a game between us. I find them, and she studies them."

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. "You really are the perfect sister, aren’t you?"

You shrug, a smile still playing on your lips. "She’s my twin. We’ve always been close. It’s a small thing, but it makes her happy."

Jace’s expression softens, and he reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "You’re a good person, you know that?"

You roll your eyes, though his words warm you. "I try," you say lightly, though you know he sees the sincerity behind your words.

But as the moment stretches, you both become acutely aware that your time together is slipping away. The reality of your separate lives looms ever closer, and the weight of the impending farewell presses down on you.

"I hate saying goodbye," Jace admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "Every time, it feels harder."

You nod, feeling the same ache in your chest. "I know. But we’ll see each other again, Jace. We always do. Until then, we have our letters, and our memories."

He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing your cheeks. "I’ll write to you as soon as I can," he promises. "And the next time we meet, I won’t let anything keep us apart for so long."

You smile, though it’s tinged with sadness. "I’ll hold you to that."

For a moment, you just stand there, your foreheads pressed together, breathing in the same air, holding on to the last remnants of your time together. The world around you is silent, as if it too knows the gravity of the moment.

Then, with a quiet resolve, Jace pulls you into one last, passionate kiss. It’s a kiss that sears itself into your memory, filled with all the love, longing, and unspoken words between you. His arms wrap around you, holding you as close as he can, as if trying to fuse you together so that you’ll never have to part again.

When the kiss finally breaks, you’re both breathless, your hearts pounding in unison. You rest your forehead against his, your eyes closed as you try to hold on to the feeling of his lips on yours, the warmth of his body against you.

"I’ll see you soon," you whisper, your voice trembling slightly with the effort to keep the tears at bay.

He nods, though you can see the same struggle in his eyes. "Soon," he agrees, his voice thick with emotion.

With great reluctance, you finally step back, your fingers lingering on his for just a moment longer before you let go. The distance between you feels like a chasm, but you know it’s only temporary. Even so, the ache in your chest remains as you turn and make your way back to Morgoth.

Jace watches you go, his eyes never leaving you until you’re back at your dragon’s side. As you mount Morgoth, you take one last look at him, committing his face, his expression, to memory.

With a final nod, you signal Morgoth to take flight. The powerful dragon launches into the sky, his wings beating against the air as he carries you away from the island, away from Jace.

The night sky stretches out before you, the stars shining brightly above, but your thoughts remain with the boy you left behind. You clutch the small wooden box in your hand, a token of your love for your sister, but also a reminder of the love you share with Jace, a love that will bring you back to him, no matter the distance or the dangers that lie ahead.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd x female reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #jace velaryon #jace x reader #jace x you #jace x y/n #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys x reader #jacerys x reader #jacaerys x you #jacaerys x y/n

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my-castles-crumbling · 1 month

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terrify - august 12 - jegulus - @stag-microfic - word count: 285

"Pa! I have a question!"

Harry's little voice echoes down the hall as he toddles into the kitchen, and Regulus grins as he turns to greet his son, stooping down to his level. "What is it, Haz?" he asks, pressing a kiss into the mop of curls on the three-year-old's head.

"We're out of biscuits," Harry says seriously, like it's a life-ir-death problem, wide eyes making Regulus want to buy him several pounds of biscuits. "The chocolate ones. Can we get some more, please?"

"Of course, chéri, we-" but he pauses as he stands, pondering. Because Harry doesn't like chocolate biscuits. "Harry," he says sternly, again stooping to his son's eye level. "Did you ask for biscuits?"

"I..." Harry seems genuinely confused, and thinks a moment before he shakes his head in the negative. "No. Da did."

"Hmmm. And why couldn't he ask me himself, I wonder?" Regulus asks himself more than Harry, picking the toddler up and heading toward the sitting room where he suspects James is waiting eagerly.

But Harry answers quickly. "Because he eated them all in one day and he says you'd be mad, so I had to ask!"

Regulus lets out a laugh of surprise. "Oh? Do I terrify Da that much?"

"Yep!" Harry giggles hugging his neck. "He said I'm the weak spot!"

"Awww, Haaaaaz!" James yells from down the hall. "Way to rat me out! Now I'll never get more biscuits!"

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iconsumethesoulsofthedamned · 6 months

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#it’s 7:05 in baltimore marylin baby #Hannibal poll #which of these didn’t happen #Hannibal #hannibal fandom #hannibal lecter #hannigram #will Graham #Hannibal memes #Hannibal nbc

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pretty-little-mind33 · 3 months

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James Potter x half-blood fem!reader

Summary: You comfort your darling boyfriend after an overwhelming sight at your muggle grandparents' house.

Genre: hurt and comfort, fluffy, blurb

Warnings: mentions of death, mentions of hunting, taxidermy animal head, crying, Jamie is sensitive <3

JAMES POTTER MASTERLIST

You were beyond pissed at your parents.

You had told your mom, hoping she'd understand considering she was also raised in a sheltered pure-blood family, that James was sensitive and that he didn't have many experiences with muggles or muggle culture.

It hadn't crossed your mind to mention that your boyfriend was an animagus, or that he could turn into a stag, because why would you? You hadn't seen your muggle grandparents in a while, and you would have never imagined the new decor in their living room to be a taxidermy stag head in their living room!

Your grandparents don't even hunt!

"What's up his ass?" your oldest cousin asks smugly. He's standing next to you as he blows smoke from the corner of his mouth and he holds up his cigarette to his lips.

Your family had watched with pure confusion as your poor boyfriend sprinted outside, his complexion pale and his eyes watery.

You cover your mouth, coughing from the smoke as you swat the air and your cheeks burn from embarrassment and anger.

Without answering your cousin, you run to the entrance and shrug on your coat, grabbing James's as well. It's early October and it's chilly outside, you don't want James to catch a cold.

You slip on your boots and leap into the backyard, calling out for your boyfriend. "James!? Where are you?" you sound distraught as you look around for him frantically.

You sprint into the woods behind the house, wondering if perhaps he'd disappeared there. When you see a shadow sitting in the grass not far into the trees, your heart breaks.

"Oh, Jamie," you whisper and walk up to him.

You kneel and drape his coat over his shoulders. Carefully, you sit next to him, holding him. "I'm so sorry. If I had known then I would have never—" you start, soothing a hand up and down his arms but your sentence quickly dies when James leans his head into your lap and you see tears roll down his reddened cheeks.

"His eyes were so lifeless," he mutters, his voice broken.

"I know, baby. I'm so sorry," you try and soothe, chewing on your lip. James moves his arms around you and sniffs a little. He sounds so weirdly vulnerable in your arms and it's so different from the James you usually see.

Always so sure of himself. Always so brave.

This reminds you of the few times you'd seen your boyfriend cry, but somehow this was still different. This time his tears made your chest hurt because you are partially to blame.

"I knew muggles have those in their houses sometimes. I mean, wizards and witches do too I think—I just didn't think I would see one," James continues and squeezes his eyes shut, "It just looked so dead."

You smooth a hand in James's curls and press a kiss to his forehead. "I'm so sorry," you say, "I told them not to ruin this for me. I told them and they didn't listen. They don't even hunt, James. I don't know why they had that—"

James sniffs, sitting up, and wipes his hand under his nose. "It's okay, I'm being a baby. It isn't your fault and I don't think any less of your family."

You shake your head and cup his cheeks. "No, no, you're not a baby. You're a sweet, sensitive boy, and that's one of the reasons I love you so so much."

James chuckles and pushes some hair behind your ear, "So, you don't only love me for all my manly rugged charm?" he jokes, leaning his forehead on yours.

You laugh. "Not only, no," you tease and look into his eyes.

"Can I kiss you?" you ask.

James's smile finally widens and he nods, letting you kiss his lips. It's sweet and calming and the only sounds around you are your lips on his and the birds in the trees.

He pulls away and licks his lips, tasting the remnants of your cherry lip gloss. "Can we stay here for a moment longer before I do the inevitable walk of shame back to your house?"

You caress his cheek. "We can stay here as long as you'd like. I don't wanna go back in there and face them all either."

And so, you and James stay outside until the sky turns pink and dim and you hear your parents concerned shouts of your name in the distance.

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sunnami · 3 months

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the marauders as. . . whatever love languages these are (iii).

“hey, pay attention to me.”

𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓 𝐏𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 thinks he might wilt if your eyes are not on him, for even a fraction of a second. to deprive him of your voice and laughter is like denying a starving man at death’s door of food and water. look away from him and his soul will howl in search of its other half. the others can stare all they want, but it’s him who gets to drink up the words from your lips—the giggles and the breathy murmurs like it’s honey dripping from your tongue. his animagus form might be a stag, but he hoards you desirously as a dragon would with its acquired treasures.

james is the epitome of confidence. he is born from magic and he had taken to a quidditch broom like an osprey soaring the skies without fear. but the crowd chanting his name means nothing, the thrill of the game—wind in his hair as he chases after the golden snitch. it’s for naught if you aren’t there to watch. the adrenaline is nothing compared to the spike in his heartbeat when he sees you in the stands; wearing his colors, cheering for him—his name falling from your pretty lips.

the gryffindor tower is pervaded by a celebration in james’s honor—teeming with students from various houses, neckties of yellow, green, and blue loosely dangling around their shirt collar; gillywater and pumpkin juice in their hands, muggle pop music blasting through the charmed radios. but james wholly prefers to be with you in your room, far away from the festivities; intoxicated by your whimpers and murmured praises as he situates himself between your thighs, indents of his hands on your skin. he’s desperate. james is on his knees like you’re a celestial being meant to be worshiped—and, he’ll happily do so. you could send him to his demise and james will still find himself at the altar.

but, james potter is only human, and even arrogant flames can be extinguished. he clings to you in the mornings, burying his nose in your scent. you’re well-loved from the night prior. he hopes you understand that you’ve ruined him for anyone else. so please, he begs in the quietude of dawn, don’t look at anyone else. he’s afraid of losing you to another—to someone calmer, more steadfast and predictable.

but another day passes, and you still look at him with that pretty smile of yours. holding him with such tenderness that calms the whirlwind of his thoughts.

a week slips by, then a month, followed by a year—until it’s ‘for the rest of our lives.’

“thank you,” he’ll say, lowering his head on your lap, nearly trembling as he grasps for your hands; tears threatening to fall from his eyes. vow after vow, he offers everything that he is, everything that he has. his wealth and his fame. his soul—all for you. (please take care of it well, he’s easily hurt.)

“for choosing me,” he lays the words bare. for when it comes to you, james potter is nothing but sincere and devout.

a/n: the world yearns for james potter to be real...

#sunny's hp fics #sunny's barbe-queue!#james potter x reader #james potter x you #james potter x y/n #james potter fluff #james potter drabble #james potter imagine #marauders x reader #marauders x y/n #marauders x you #hp fluff #hp drabbles #marauders imagine #marauders drabble #marauders fanfiction

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author-morgan · 7 months

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Title: A Dove and a Hound Rating: T Pairing: Sandor Clegane x fem!Reader Summary: A little dove with broken wings must save her wounded Hound. Or in which Sandor Clegane finds something sweeter than killing. Word count: ~3.7k Warnings: Injury/blood and typical Westerosi shenanigans.

ARYA STARK LOOKS at the bleak landscape around where they had made camp for the night in the northern Riverlands—almost in the Vale. It’s all craggy with sharp boulders and high patches of land, and hardly any trees. The names roll off her tongue as they do every night. The Mountain, The Hound, Cersei, Illyn Payne, Meryn Trant...she doesn’t make it to the next name after hearing the scraping of boots on rock nearby. Quiet as a shadow. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Syrio Forel’s words are burnt into her memory.

"What’re you going on about now, girl?" The rasp of the Hound's voice makes her jump, and she curses him, looking up at the night sky, watching for shadows when she hears the soft noise again.

“We’re being watched,” she tells him, turning on her bedroll to face the Hound, her hand resting on the hilt of Needle.

His laugh cuts through the air—a rough sound that hurts her ears in a strange way. A man like the Hound should never laugh. "Here, in the middle of fucking nowhere?" His scarred face looks all the more hideous with the light of the fire licking at his skin. "Finish your little list, girl, then go the fuck to sleep." Arya frowns and looks around again at the land but sees nothing but boulders and empty plains, but she knows someone is out there.

Sandor Clegane won’t admit it, but the Stark girl’s warning is the reason he stays up for over half the night. Then, when he’s certain Arya is asleep, he rises from his bedroll and unsheathes his sword, setting off to search between boulders and in the shadows cast by their dwindling campfire. But there’s nothing there. The Hound moves to return to his bedroll, but that’s when he hears quiet cursing and soft crying. And then he finds a woman huddled between two rocks, trying to nurse an injured leg.

You see the hulking shadow approach too late to muffle your grunts and groans of pain. “Come any closer and I’ll put a fucking arrow through your eye!” You shout. But Sandor Clegane can see the bow in your hand is broken, even if you try to hold the two wooden pieces together to make it seem whole. Then he sees the broken arrow shaft sticking out of your swollen calf, too—the reason for your caterwauling.

“With a broken bow and the only arrow you got stuck in your leg?” The Hound asks, laughing. “Pay a couple of hundred silver stags to see that done.” Sandor drives his sword into the dirt and awkwardly kneels near you, looking over the wound. He can feel your eyes on him, gaze nigh burning. But the soft white light of the moon softens the sight of his half-burned face. He looks familiar. Like you’ve seen him in passing somewhere—or maybe on the parchments nailed outside taverns noting bounties and the enemies of the Crown.

You swallow the knot in your throat and look up at him—you might not be able to place who he is, but you know he’s dangerous, a killer. “Well, go on,” you snap, tears stinging in your eyes. “Kill me and get it over with.”

The Hound recoils as though stung by the words—he knows he’s put a lot of people in the ground, but for some damn reason, he can’t stomach the thought of landing the mercy blow now. You close your eyes and wait—no longer fearing death or pain. But the cold bite of steel never comes. Instead, Sandor Clegane lifts you into his burly arms and heads back toward the dying campfire.

Arya’s surprised when the Hound returns and lets you down to rest against the boulder nearest the fire. The girl’s quick on her feet, bringing a half-filled skin of water, and you greedily drink. "Think I'll end up losing it?" You ask the girl—wiping your mouth with a torn sleeve—a glint of humor shining through as you pat your thigh, ignoring the sharp jolt of pain that shoots down to your calf and makes your toes curl.

“If you’ve gone this long” —Sandor crouches down and looks closer at your injury— “it’ll take more than an arrow to kill you,” he says. It earns him a dry and humorless laugh with a surprising grimness. Given enough time, he thinks he could come to enjoy the company, but right now, he and Arya Stark are already pressed for time, luck, and coin. Neither of them needs the liability of an injured woman—another mouth to feed—on the path to the Eyrie. Be best to leave her come the morning, he thinks, but now that he’s brought you back here, he knows the Stark girl won’t let that happen.

“May I have your name, good ser?” You finally ask—it only seemed proper to know the name of your white knight.

Sandor Clegane looks at you, and the firelight paints the tangled and twisted mass of scars on his face red—pocking the flesh with craters and cracks. “Not a fucking knight,” he bites back.

And then you can piece everything together—his brute size, the burned half of his face, the posters scattered around the Riverlands. The rumors people whispered are true then, you think. Joffrey’s dog tucked tail and ran while the Blackwater burned. “You’re The Hound.” He grunts. You glance at the girl staring down at you with wide ice-grey eyes. If he’s the Hound then... “You’re Arya Stark.” The girl nods.

The silence that grows between the three of you is heavy and tense. You shift and grimace again. Then your gaze flits back over to the Hound. “Well, are you going to help me get this arrow out my fucking leg or not?” You ask, not understanding why he hauled you back here if he didn’t mean to do something about your current state. “'Cause if you aren’t, I’d sooner you cut the damn thing off or put me out of my misery.”

Sandor moves to you after that and cuts away the fabric of your britches from the arrow, then calls Arya over to set his dagger in the flames—unwilling to go closer. She does as he says, pushing the blade into the hot coals, but then Arya Stark leaps to her feet when she sees Sandor’s hand grip the shaft of the arrow—like he means to tear it from flesh. She knocks his hand away then pushes back on his shoulder, almost hard enough to knock him off balance from where he sits on his haunches.

“We can’t just pull it out!” She tells the Hound like it should be obvious. But he’s not the one who grew up with a maester in Winterfell or spent time reading any books.

“Then how you gone get it out, girl?” He asks, gruff and impatient. You glance between the odd pair, wondering how they haven’t killed one another by now. Arya crouches down and prods the swollen and bloody flesh, then without warning, she grips the arrow shaft and breaks off the fletching. Seven hells, you think, biting down on the inside of your cheek to keep a wail of pain at bay, I am going to lose my leg.

“Push it through,” Arya says, remembering the time she watched Maester Luwin remove an arrow from a hunter's shoulder. The Hound grunts and draws a second, smaller dagger, starting to whittle away at the splintered end of the broken arrow shaft.

Arya goes to fetch more water and brings back a cloth with her before settling down to watch with wide, curious eyes. Blood starts to seep down your calf around the entry and exit of the arrow shaft from being handled so roughly. Satisfied with his woodwork, the Hound steadies your leg against his trunk and starts to pull on the iron-forged arrowhead.

You grit your teeth together, fingers digging into the soft earth below, as he begins to ease the wooden shaft through gently and quickly as he can. Arya watches your face twist in pain, but somehow, you don’t cry out. It feels like an eternity. Sandor sets the arrow aside and takes the waterskin from the Stark girl, dumping the cool water over your leg to wash away the blood—there’s a cool but welcome sting.

Sandor tosses the empty skin back to Arya. "More water, girl,” he rasps.

“Bring wine too,” you insist, and the Hound howls with laughter.

“Seven hells,” Arya remarks. You’re just like him. The girl heads off, then comes back with more water and looks at the open wound on your leg with a scrunched-up nose.

“Needs to be sealed with fire,” Sandor says, sitting back on his haunches, that’s why he already had Arya put a dagger into the flames. They don’t have salves and ointments and teas and brews to keep infection at bay, and despite his fear and hatred of the fire, he knows it’s the best way to clean and seal a wound like this.

“I’ll do it,” Arya offers. Her hands are steady, and the fire and heat don’t bother her like it does the Hound. He nods, and the girl goes to fetch the hot knife. They give you a strip of leather to bite down on, and then the Hound looks away when the girl presses the flat of the blade against your flesh—you do scream then. He knows that pain—that scream—and the putrid scent of burning flesh that jumps into the air. Black dots and white stars dance around in your vision. It hurts worse the second time. But you fight through it.

Your gaze settles on Arya after a while, struggling to stay awake. “Where are you taking her?” You ask, eyes flitting to Sandor Clegane. The two are an odd traveling party that much is certain—a Hound and a wolf—made even stranger by your sudden arrival.

“The Vale,” he tells you, “she has an aunt there.” You hadn’t expected a man with his reputation to do something so kind, not even if heavy coin purses were offered as rewards. A hush falls over you, but then the Hound rises and picks up a threadbare blanket from his bedroll. He drapes it over your shoulders, not ungently. “Best get some rest,” he says. “It’ll hurt worse tomorrow.”

THE DAYS ARE both quick and slow to pass, and soon, you’ve lost track of the time since meeting Arya Stark and the Hound—it could have been a few weeks or maybe months. But since that fateful night, your wounds have healed cleanly, and the only reminders of them are a fading scar and the limp in your stride after long days or over strenuous terrain. You remember the first time you insisted on walking instead of riding Stranger—a great black, unruly destrier. When you slowed, Sandor Clegane slung you over his shoulder like a sack of flour before depositing you back on the horse and complaining about the slow pace. Arya Stark was particularly amused by it all.

Disappointment is all that awaits you all at the Bloody Gate of the Vale. Lysa Arryn is dead, and her young son and named protector, Petyr Baelish, will not accept visitors—not even one of Lysa’s own kin. So at the point of arrowheads and tips of steel blades, the Hound turns back, and you and Arya follow, trekking through the Vale and back to the Riverlands, unsure of what to do and where to go. Arya says they should go north, to the Wall—she has a brother in the Night’s Watch—or across the Narrow Sea.

There’s a small village not far, and you take a handful of silver stags and copper stars in hopes of replenishing your stock of ointments and bandages—especially with the now festering wound on Sandor’s neck, a nasty bite from a rogue—and maybe a decent bottle of wine or ale too. But by the time the sun is beginning to set and you return to Sandor and Arya, they’re not to be found.

The campsite is empty. The fire still burning. The bedrolls laid out for the coming evening. You look around the craggy landscape, feeling panic seize your heart and stomach—mind racing. “Arya!” You shout, but there is no response from the girl. “Sandor!” And again, there is nothing but silence.

If not for the fading evening sun glinting off tarnished pieces of silver armor, you think you might not have found him. You stumble over to him, kneeling at his side, fearing the worst. But his chest still rises and falls, and he starts when you touch his cheek, hand wrapping around your wrist, leaving a thick smearing of blood.

There’s something in your eyes, not pity, but he’s not seen that look before —almost doesn’t want to think of what it could be, could mean. Sandor’s grip goes slack, and he grimaces, each breath a ragged rasp. You look over his mangled shoulder, the bruises and scrapes on his face, the muscle-deep cuts on his palm, and his lame leg. These wounds are beyond your skills, and there are not like to be any travelers on this path for days.

The Hound tugs free a dagger from his belt and places it in your hand. "Go on,” he rasps, nodding toward the knife, resigned to his new fate. “Get on with it." The Stark girl wouldn’t put him out of his misery for the hatred she still bore toward him, but maybe you would.

Your fingers curl around the hilt of the blade, grip tightening, but frozen in place—unwilling and unable to move. "I can't," you breathe, fervidly shaking your head. I won’t. He curses you when you drive the blade into the hard earth and not his heart. Sandor Clegane saved you from certain death, and now you’ve a chance to return the favor.

You wet a strip of cloth and dab it over his bloodied face until he turns his head to look at you. "If you think I'm some wounded pup you can redeem, you're stupider than I thought, woman,” he snarls like an aggrieved dog.

But you don’t pay any mind to his hateful words. “Be still,” you chide, gently, going to collect the pack of supplies from Stranger’s saddle. The Dornish strongwine eases the pain, and he lets you clean the rest of the cuts and bruises to the best of your abilities —his broken leg, though. You aren’t sure what to do, but you know if something isn’t done soon, Sandor Clegane won’t be using that leg again in this lifetime. You lose track of how many times you have to wander down to the nearby stream. All you know is the limp in your step has come back. By nightfall, the wine and pain claim him, and you’ve said your prayers to the Seven, asking them to spare your poor wounded Hound.

There’s a dim lantern on the dark horizon, steadily drawing nearer and brighter, and then you can hear the rattling of a cart and the braying of a mule. You rise from your post and go to intercept the rickety cart thumping along the winding trail. The mule comes to a halt—the path forward blocked.

The driver has a kind face, rounded from smiles and wrinkled with wisdom, and eyes that are deep and thoughtful but speak of the horrors of the world. “A lady and her knight,” he muses, sparing a glance at the makeshift medicinal supplies illuminated by faint firelight and the state of the brutish man sleeping—half-dead more like.

“Can you help us?” You ask. “Please.” And the broken plea strikes something deep down in the man’s heart.

He thinks on it for a moment. “Aye,” the man says, “I can try.” If he couldn’t, the others on the Quiet Isle could—especially the Elder Brother. His dusty brown robes dust across the rocky ground as he goes to the Hound’s side. It takes all your strength combined to lift Sandor Clegane into the cart—even with the weight of his armor gone. Then you clamber to the front of the cart next to Sandor, letting his head rest in your lap, and with a snap of the reins, the mule walks on again, heading south along the bumpy road—it would be a long night.

Weary and exhausted, you look between the Hound and the driver. “Who are you?”

“You can call me Ray,” the kindly man says. “I’ll take you both to the Quiet Isle. The Elder Brother can help.” You’ve heard tales of the isle—where men go to atone for their sins and take vows of silence. Some even say those who reside in the Bay of Crabs live in a world unlike the one ravished by war and pain. Brother Ray can see the growing trepidation on your expression. It’s nigh common knowledge women are not allowed to dwell on the Quiet Isle. “Won’t force you and your knight to be parted,” he tells you.

“He’s not a knight,” you murmur, eyes trailing from the road ahead to Sandor, knowing he doesn’t like being called a knight—and for good reason.

“No, but it seems he’s your knight,” Ray says with a chuckle, sparing a wayward glance back at you and the Hound. You flush at the thought and turn your gaze to Sandor, his head resting on your thigh.

A FEW MONTHS pass and Sandor is as well as he’ll ever be. The damage done to his leg makes him limp after long distances or strenuous tasks, but no one would be able to say such injuries made the Hound a feeble man. Even now, you’ve never seen a man split firewood with so much power and anger. Sometimes, you wonder if he hates you for not ending it when he pleaded for the blade’s mercy. But on the day when the brothers let you see him again, he wore a fleeting smile, soft and weak—the first time you’d seen such a sight.

Storms roll in for the night, and lightning flashes through the window—thunder rattling your featherbed. You pull the covers tighter, squeezing your eyes shut, praying for sleep to come. It feels childish to be afeared of a storm, but it’s a reminder of the night the Lannister men destroyed your home and family and put an arrow in your leg. Rousing from the uneasy rest, you pull on your dressing robe and wrap the wool and linen blanket around your shoulders before setting off in search of company.

His bed is empty, and you frown. Disheartened, you turn back only to bump into a solid wall of flesh and muscle. No man his size had a right to move around so quietly. “What are you doing awake, little dove?” Sandor asks, and you’re unable to meet his gaze with your flushed cheeks as you search for a valid answer. “Can’t sleep?” He surmises, and grateful he spake first, you nod sheepishly. The hand that wraps around your wrist is warm and calloused, yet his touch is light—as though you’re some bird with a broken wing. But wordless, you climb onto the bed next to Sandor, still huddled under your blanket, but not alone, and even with the storm raging outside, within these walls with him, you’re safe.

The morning light breaks through the small window—only glowing embers remain in the hearth, not enough to chase away the chill in the air. You wake to find yourself alone, and it sends a strange pang of sadness through your heart. Making your way back to your chambers, you change into a plane shift and stride from the cottage to find him—the wet grass tickling the soles of your feet as you head down a winding path toward the water’s edge.

Sandor is sitting down on the rocky shore of the island, his dusty brown cloak fluttering in the wind. You go to him and sit on the weathered rock next to him. The morning is cool, and the spray of waves breaking against rocks in the bay kisses your cheeks. Wordlessly, the Hound pulls his cloak free and drapes it around your shoulders. In comfortable silence, you pull the coarse material tight and rest your head against his arm, looking out over the water and the clear blue sky—as though the Old Gods had not unleashed their wrath upon the land last night.

After a long while, Sandor rises, knowing it’ll be time to head to the Sept and see what tasks the Brothers need help with today. You’re quick to follow after him, but before he can start up the rocky path again, you brush your hand against his with all the timidness of a mouse, daring to have a lingering touch as you gather the nerve to ask something that’s been festering in the pit of your stomach, in the darkest parts of your mind and the deepest parts of your heart. You take both his hands—rough and twice the size of your own—and look up at the Hound. "Sandor,” you breathe, his name like a birdsong in your voice, “will you kiss me?"

He laughs—thinking you are playing him for a fool. No sane woman would ever wish to have his touch or his kiss. “With this ruined mouth?” He mocks. But the next jape dies on the tip of his tongue when you fist your hand into his woolen tunic, hauling him down with all your strength to just the right height where if you stand on the tips of your toes, you can kiss him. And you do. Sandor is surprised at first, but his hard exterior fades, and then a strong arm curls around your middle, hoisting you up and then off the ground entirely. You pull back for only a quick second and smile for him.

“Little dove,” he rasps when you move your hands to hold his face, thumbs stroking over his cheeks—one marred by the flame—and down into his thick, wiry beard. He half expects to find a shred of fear or disgust in your eyes, but there isn’t any. There never had been. You kiss him again, softer and sweeter this time, and he returns it in full.

Reluctant to part, he places you back on the ground but is quick to pull you into his side and hold you close in the golden hour of the morning. And for the first time since he can remember, Sandor Clegane has a handful of happy memories, and perhaps, in the end, he's found something even sweeter than killing.

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#Sandor Clegane #The Hound #Sandor Clegane x Reader #Sandor x Reader #The Hound x Reader #Sandor Clegane Imagine #Sandor Fanfiction #Sandor Clegane Fanfiction #Game of Thrones #Game of Thrones Fanfiction #ASOIAF #ASOIAF Fanfiction #my writing #i really wanted to rework this previous one-shot (posted to AO3 and Wattpad) I had with my current writing style #and thus we have Sandor being a big hard man but also soft and squishy on the inside

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