#dragon form is power and security

[incendiorum-arch]

I really enjoy writing things that give away io's trust in a person. how much lu likes a person or acts with them is a direct link to how much io trusts them. i.e. lu is most affectionate (besides with io) with latona, who is someone io trusts the most they themself possibly can.

[radiance1]

Danny is the eternal prince of the ghost zone, able to turn into a massive eastern dragon and his raw power is unmatched, only surpassed by those like the Ghost King.

He... needs a favor.

From Vlad.

They're relationship is... testy, at best. They aren't trying to kill each other, and Vlad stopped all of his attempts to get with his mom and make him his son when he got together with some warlock, but it also doesn't take much for them to go into an all out brawl.

The Prince and the Duke doesn't have the best relationship, but the prince needs a favor, and the duke is the only one who could probably pull it off.

So, he goes over to Vlad, not in dragon form (still a dragonish human form though) to nonverbally say he's not looking for a fight. Vlad's domain isn't exactly the most comfortable, intense heat and whatnot, but he'll live.

All he asks of Vlad, is that he lets him access his little warlock for a while.

Vlad, understandably, is not exactly keen on this.

===

There was an eastern dragon in the meeting room.

Somehow managing to bypass all of their security, who knows how long it's been squatting in the meeting room. But the Justice League was only aware of this now.

The eastern dragon was patiently waiting for one of them to step in the room, which only happened because they had to debrief a mission. It didn't seem to be looking for a fight, because if it was it was, it probably wouldn't be sitting around to plainly.

Then, it greeted them, shifting its form from that of a dragon to a more humanish form, still with some draconic features. He introduced himself as Phantom, Prince of the Infinite Realms.

Told them that he was looking for one of their members, for a request that only one such as him could take.

Who did he ask for?

John Constantine.

[yanderecookierunkingdom]

Maybe Red Velvet, Licorice, Macha, and Pure Vanilla (all separate) with a dragon S/O? Thx

He loves you deeply, and the fact that you're willing to fight by him for Dark Enchantress Cookie's cause makes him feel secure.

Oftentimes, he'll be riding you while you're in your dragon form, a privilege only he gets to enjoy. You only take the other Cookies of Darkness when told to by Dark Enchantress Cookie.

You're as protective of him as he is of you. You're ride-or-die for each other, and that will never change.

Somehow, this failure (affectionate) of a Cookie caught your attention, and now you've decided to stay by his side. Good for the CoD, yet also bad because you don't tolerate anyone being rude to him.

Licorice Cookie feels very safe and secure with you around. He enjoys the small rush of power he gets from being beside you, as he knows that no one will just rush in and try to fight a dragon.

Battling beside you is also a lot of fun, because hey! There's a good chance he'll win for once!

She's definitely surprised that you decided to fall in love with her, but also overjoyed. Now the others will have to listen to her!

She most definitely fills you in on her plans. If anyone deserves to know, it's you! After all, you're always quick to defend her.

She enjoys sitting on you. It makes her feel tall.

You probably helped him out in the first battle against Dark Enchantress Cookie. You both were more than likely searching for the other before reuniting.

The image of a healer/mage having a dragon lover is so cool, but Pure Vanilla Cookie merely enjoys being with you.

Treats you more like a puppy sometimes. Not that you really mind.

[heartfullofleeches]

Can u like the post or hashtag for the casino group??? Ik that clover the bunny rabbit dude is there but my memory is a lil foggy

Yeye. Links to the main tags and the existing individual ones + some brief descriptions on everyone we have so far-

Clover [he/him] - Pathetic meow meow Rabbit demon man. Was a devoted Christian before his demise. Timid, somewhat cowardly. A magician who messes up a good percentage of his acts - also a hopeless romantic search for the other half to his heart and act. The dagger that took his live is still embedded in his chest - the wound bleeds profusely when removed

Hearts [they/them] - Acrobat Clown. The new head of security after Spade stepped down. Unlike their coworker who abandoned the role due to their violence when taking care of unwanted guests, Hearts is a trigger happy mess looking for any reason to strangle someone with their ribbons. Limbs are doll pairs - the ribbons they use for their performances are woven throughout their entire body flesh and not. Does not like to talk about what happened to their limbs.

Diamond [they/them] - Disgruntled bartender. Wears a gas mask they refuse to take off due to the effects their eyes have on mortals and lesser demons. Their saliva is a powerful toxic that in micro doses can give folks a nice buzz/act as an aphrodisiac. Grumpy asshole. Hates their job, hates the casino. Really wants to kiss someone, but at the same time they don't due to the whole poison thing.

Spade [any pronouns] - Head of maid staff. Invisible without their face makeup and clothing. Stoic, a person of few words. Secretly has a love for cute things which is once reason why they were glad to hand over their role as head of security to Hearts as it meant they could wear the maid outfits. On friendly/sibling terms with the Aces

The Aces [they/them] - A group of four assistances assigned to the other four. Pretty much hive-mind with some minor individuality between them. Still, they are connected mentally and almost never act alone.

Queen [he/him] - A signer at the casino. Siren Demon. Has a on land form, but rarely leaves his tank as the lack of water dries out his skin. Flirty, uses his voice to lure wandering mortals to his tank. Whether he eats/drowns them or befriends them depends on the humans actions.

King [She/her] - Big ass dragon lady. Another entertainer at the casino - the undefeated champ at the knight tournaments held. Loud, thickskulled. So many scars it looks like she got tossed in a blender.

Mr. Devil: Owner of the casino. Dealer. Only knows how to play blackjack. Seriously, what are they doing here? Tries to make the casino a safe space for humans, demons and everything else in between and not - but is nowhere to be seen when things go wrong.

[guinevere-if]

Demo: TBA

Guinevere is a text-based interactive fiction that draws inspiration from the rich tapestry of Arthurian Legends.

You will play as Guinevere and witness the journey toward gaining power and the struggles to keep your reign secure in a kingdom filled with political intrigue and external threats.

In the future, I plan to make Guinevere gender-selectable, and also make Arthur the opposite gender of the MC. However, for the time being, I would like to keep the story as it is until I can better determine the direction in which the narrative is heading.

For many years, people believed that dragons were untamable creatures until one man proved them all wrong. Armed with a mighty sword and a formidable dragon by his side, Arthur set out with his army to conquer all of Britain and bring it under his rule. Unfortunately, your kingdom has found itself standing in the way of Arthur's quest for a united Britain.

Choose Guinevere's gender (Soon!)

Customize your MC’s physical appearance.

Make tough and important decisions that affect you and everyone around you.

Four romances that the story heavily focuses on.

Have a dragon by your side and fight Arthur in the skies!

Form a family.

The fate of the realm rests on a knife's edge - it can either flourish under your leadership or crumble to its ultimate demise.

"To achieve the greater good, one must first attain the power to make it a reality."

Arthur Pendragon: King of Camelot and the founder of the Round Table Order.

He is a man of few words, with a cold and aloof demeanor that can make him seem unapproachable. He prefers to keep to himself and often retreats into his own world. Despite his reserved nature, he is a strong leader who inspires loyalty and devotion in those around him.

His golden blonde hair and piercing grey eyes add to his air of regal authority and make him a striking figure. Though he may seem distant at times, he has a deep sense of honor and duty, and will stop at nothing to protect his people and his kingdom.

Will you be able to crack his armor and discover what hides beneath?

"Your ignorance is truly awe-inspiring. I can only hope to one day reach your level of blissful unawareness."

Morgana Le Fay: She is a mysterious and intriguing woman, known for her use of sarcasm to keep others at bay. Her sharp wit and biting comments often serve as a shield, protecting her from anyone getting too close.

Despite her sarcastic demeanor, Morgana is an intelligent and perceptive individual. She has a keen sense of observation and is quick to pick up on the nuances of the people around her. Her green eyes are piercing and seem to see right through anyone who tries to deceive her.

Morgana's inky black hair is often styled in loose waves that frame her pale skin. She has an ethereal beauty that can be both captivating and intimidating. Her presence commands attention, and it's clear that she is not someone to be trifled with.

She's been hurt in the past and is hesitant to let anyone get too close to her. But for those who are willing to take the time to get to know her, Morgana can be a true and loyal friend or even something more.

"When the going gets tough, the tough get going. I don't know what that means, but I, Sir Lancelot du Lac, never back down from a challenge."

Sir Lancelot du Lac: A knight is known for his charm, boldness, and impulsive nature. He has a reputation for being a ladies' man, with many admirers who swoon at his feet. Standing tall with a strong build and chiseled jaw, he is a man who commands attention wherever he goes. His dark brown hair and deep blue eyes add to his allure, making him a true heartthrob among the ladies.

Sir Lancelot is a skilled and dedicated knight who takes his duties seriously. He is fiercely loyal to his king and the Round Table and will stop at nothing to protect the people he cares about. His impulsive nature can sometimes get him into trouble, but his quick thinking and bravery always manage to save the day. His bravery and courage have earned him respect among many.

Before meeting you, he never found duty to be burdensome. Now he feels it weight more pressing every day.

"I hate you with every fiber of my being, but I can't seem to shake the strange pull you have on me."

Hey, just so you know, you could totally have a poly thing with both her and Arthur. Just throwing it out there. 🙈

Argante: Merlin's daughter and Arthur's childhood friend.

Argante is a complex and intriguing woman, born of the union between a fae and a half-human, she possesses unique abilities that she often uses to aid Arthur on his various journeys and battles. Her loyalty to Arthur is unwavering, and she is always ready to lend her formidable powers to his cause.

Despite her fierce loyalty, Argante can be possessive and quick to anger. Her emotions often run high, and she is not one to back down from a challenge. The complete opposite of her father, Merlin.

Argante's appearance is just as striking as her personality. Her snowy white hair and purple eyes create an otherworldly picture, the very air shimmering around her presence adding to the mirage. It's no wonder that many are drawn to her, be it out of fear or admiration.

Argante despises you with a fiery passion that burns deep through her every time she catches a glimpse of your face. In her eyes, you are the thief who stole the man of her dreams - the one she had loved for years.

And yet… there is another side to her that sometimes emerges whenever she catches glimpses of you. This side of her seems to yearn for your attention and affection, creating a peculiar dichotomy that is difficult to comprehend.

If you could somehow break through the wall of anger and resentment that Argante has built, and show her that you are not the enemy, there might be a chance to win her over. You might even be able to establish a relationship with both her and Arthur.

[pavosnoctua]

Please please please! Can I ask for yan!Neuvillette with dragoness!darling?? 🥺🥺

I like yandere!xYandere! Darling (I don't know why? I loved your Diluc x delusional reader)

Hello! Thank you for the wait!

Thank you!

cw: obsessive behaviors, possessive behaviors, general yandere warnings, abuse of power, afab reader, dub-con, fade to black, mentions of breeding, slight ooc, stockholm syndrome(?). the writer does not condone these actions, minors dni, mdni, yandere content, slight dead dove. if i am missing a tag, let me know!

Neuvilette is a...kind lover. In the sense he doesn't keep his darling trapped away in a luxurious home, and he allows you to go out and about, so long as you have some security detail with you. You are, after all, his lover and he wants to take the utmost care so you don't get hurt or get lost. You're just like him, in a sense, so of course he wants to keep you safe.

You tell yourself this every time - it's for your own good, for your own safety as you are like him. A dragon, a dragonness really, in human form but your eyes give you away and this makes you a target of nefarious people. Fontaine is full of crime, after all. Neuvilette is unafraid of using his status against you, spies everywhere. You can't escape unless you leave Fontaine, and you can't leave Fontaine because the world outside of the gilded cage of your home is dangerous and terrifying.

At least, that's what he told you. Look at how Fontaine is. Do you believe Sumeru, Natlan, or Mondstadt would be any better? You have me.

A dragon species is a rare species, hardly ever born - the details of it are lost to you and nobody explains it to you and Neuvilette seems to want to keep you from it. So, all you can do is rely on him.

He kisses you, softly, kindly, bringing you something he knows you'd love - his fingers running over your hips. He is a perfect lover, tender with you as he leads to your marital bed. Something happened in court today, something that set off his protective instincts.

Hunger is in his blue eyes as he kisses your lips until they're puffy from being licked and bit. Wet kisses press along your neck, hands rubbing at your thighs as he leaves red marks everywhere.

"You'll make a good mother," he groans as he grinds himself against you. If there's one thing that puts you both apart from the humans, it's how reproduction works. There's two penises and you're not sure you can take both or even just one, with how big he seems. "Gonna - make sure you never leave. I'll keep you and our child safe."

All you can do is lift your lips to help him remove your skirt - made up of highest and best quality.

"My beautiful mate." he groans as he pushes one dick inside of you, and you cry out. Neuvilette presses desperate kisses against your lips. "It's okay, my beloved." Your cunt clenches around him. "You were made for this."

You nod, weakly.

You are, you tell yourself. Neuvilette is a wonderful lover, he leaves you wanting for nothing. You are free to wandering Fontaine's streets so long as there is someone with you. You, one of the few rare dragons left in this world, just need the extra detail. And Neuvilette is making sure you're safe, you're happy, and the two of you are perfect mates. And the best you can do to repay this kindness is give him what he wants.

[writeforfandoms]

Captain John Price

One shots

The Shape of You - John Price x f!reader - you're having awful cramps and can't get comfortable at all. Fortunately, John knows a way to help. SMUT. On AO3 only.

Glitter and Gold - John Price x f!reader - As the princess, you always knew you'd marry for power and politics. What you did not expect was to be married to the dragon.

Bartender - John Price x f!reader - You work as a bartender. The one night the 141 is in your bar happens to be the one night some jerk causes trouble. Price steps in to help.

Fear Not This Night - 141 x f!reader poly - Being part of the 141 pack meant you watched out for your boys, always. As their medic, it meant you sometimes flew into danger for them. When someone uses that knowledge against you to separate you from your pack, you pay the price.

Call Me Little Sunshine - John Price x f!reader - established relationship. You've had a bad day, but even from a different country, your husband knows how to make it better.

Let It Snow - John Price x f!reader - John Price is your neighbor. Just your friendly neighbor. Nothing more. At least, until the heat in your flat dies.

Series

Puppy Love - John Price x f!reader - Gaz decides to get a puppy, and drags Price along for the ride. Also, the breeder is cute. And single.

Fall Into Me - Fem!OC x various - After the betrayals and the lies, TF141 and certain members of Los Vaqueros start up a private security business and settle down. There’s a lovely coffee shop on the ground floor of the office building they’re in, and it doesn’t take long for bonds to start forming between them and the owner, Rose. 

Waking Lions - eventual John Price x f!reader - You’ve been working as an independent intelligence agent for a long time. You like your life - you choose your own hours, you have your own clients, and you get to go wherever you want, whenever you want. Very little pins you down. You never expected this to change, least of all because of one man. 

Born for Greatness - John Price x f!reader - As a liaison, your job is often interesting. Your newest job is to help a PMC pack, the 141, to prevent any further Incidents. But there's something about this pack that is different from others you've worked with...

Shadows - part one, two, three - John Price x f!reader - Zombie AU. About a year and a half after the end of the world, you're unexpectedly rescued by a group of four men. Time to find out what you can make of life now.

Blurbs

Price reassures you

[dragonagecompanions]

How do you think the Dragon Age Inquisition advisors and companions would react to Child Inquisitor being the child of the Champion of Kirkwall? Also could you make Fenris the child Inquisitor's father?

Cassandra: This is...problematic.

Varric had told her enough of the Champion's husband to know that Fenris will already be desperately hunting for his child, and the Champion...so much of their family is lost, it is unthinkable that Hawke will not be in the same state. Trying to convince them both that the inquisition has not kidnapped their offspring for political reasons will require all the tact she does not have.

And will rely on the very little goodwill she can wring from Varric, who she technically did kidnap for political reasons. She will need to keep Josephine close by at all times.

Solas: For so young a child, the dalen is already a political firestorm waiting to happen. The guilt he carries from having his magic stitched into their very flesh (and the pain this child is feeling from it) was already enough to convince him to stay, but being so close to the power center of both Inquisition and the Champion of Kirkwall is an unexpected boon. He will keep his finger on the pulse of all things anchor related, and keep himself close to the actions that are working to restore Thedas to order.

And by helping this child now, keep himself on the right side of a very angry elf who might be a problem before the Dread Wolf has his power returned.

Varric: Okay so, here’s the most important thing: he should have known.

Logically there is no way that Varric Tethras-Kirkwall’s author in residence and nominally a captive of the Right Hand of the Divine- could have known that the child of his best friend in the entire world had somehow snuck away from home AND traveled halfway across the blessed world AND infiltrated a highly secure theo-political conclave designed to reign in a burgeoning civil war to enact some sort of temporary peace. He has contacts and resources and keeps an ear to the ground, but that doesn’t mean the Merchant’s Guild can tell him everything the minute it happens.

And yet the fact that a child exists in the world who is half Fenris (impulsive and quick to defend what is his) Hawke (and carries the legacy of that family) really does mean that there wasn’t anywhere else they’d end up. It’s not a comfort to Varric when the Seeker and his best friend’s kid crest the hill toward them, but it certainly changes his standing with the Inquisition. So long as the kid is there Varric’s not leaving-- he owes Hawke at least that much and more. One way or another things are going to have to be put to rights.

Blackwall: Once, as another man in another life, his actions had led to the death of four children. Even then, in the height of his arrogance and conceit, Thom Rainier had stood over those small shrouded forms and would have given his own life a hundred times over to spare them. Nothing could have brought them back, of course, and no matter how many times he had knelt before Andraste's statues and begged for Her forgiveness it was not a burden he could lay down himself.

This child, Andraste's herald or not, is not a replacement for Collier's children. Defending their life will not wipe out the debt he owes to that slaughtered family. But as he shoulders his shield and sword in their defense, it just might be a start to that forgiveness.

That will be enough.

Vivienne: Children are not in a Circle mage's destiny, no matter how high her star may climb. The dreams of children with her perfect bone structure and Bastien's eyes will forever be only that. Madame de Fer has come to accept this, has spent her entire life accepting this. If she is softer with the new apprentices newly torn from their families, more patient with the young mages still struggling with a life behind walls, that is no one business but her own.

The Herald of Andraste is a child. No matter their illustrious parentage or the fame carried by those parents, they are too young to be bandied about as some sort of divine tool to rescue the world. The Game has no minimum age, of course, and Vivienne is not naive enough to think that Hawke's offspring will not have to play it in time, but she will be taking special care to to keep both eyes on the child to whom they will ask so much of.

And a sharper eye on those who would use them. Fenris is not the only one who can glow, when needed.

Sera: Little people need looking out for, and not much littler than a sprog. From the first jump their tiny Herald has an ever devoted guardian, one who ensures there is as much fun as serious herald business, and cookies for all.

When the parents do eventually arrive, her general distrust of all things magic and ardent desire to preserve their childhood will endear her to Fenris like none other in the Inquisition. Someone must look out for the little people, and while their methods are not the same each can respect the other.

Dorian: Vishente Kaffas, this is a child. In the light of that discovery a great many of his opinions on Alexius's plans (mostly on how his mentor is simply desperate to save Felix and not thinking clearly) and brutally altered. This man who wants to murder someone hardly old enough to see over the table is not the man he once knew, and there are no excuses he can make that will make it less barbaric.

By the time they are escaped from that terrible Not-Future Dorian has formed a trauma bond with this young person as profound as any he has known, and their safety is now absolutely his priority. Despite his disinclination for their creation Dorian is not opposed to children, and along with others is very content to take over their education in all things both mundane and magical.

Fenris's arrival is still loud and bright and involves quite a few angry comments between former slave and not yet magister, but in the end Dorian's unshirking resolve toward the young Herald will carry the day. When Fenris eventually finds out that his child is set to inherit Dorian's seat in the Magisterium as the heir to the current Pavus heir, that argument will be even louder.

Iron Bull: The Qun is very clear on the care and feeding of children in their charge, and it has never been in his destiny to be a Tamassran. Nor is the Iron Bull ignorant of the identity of the Inquisitors parents. But seeing how small the Herald is, something deep and protective in the mercenary captain surprises even himself.

(His Tama is both surprised and not to get a letter from her former charge, and if her memories of the little boy hold true he will read her meaning in the otherwise clinical advise on the care and keeping of young children.)

Watching the Chargers adopt the little Herald as one of their own has another lasting effect. There is no decision on the Storm Coast, not with this true understanding o family, and in truth Bull was lost to the Qun long before Gatt came south with an unbeatable test.

Cole: "So young, so bright, wanted to come south to find Uncle Varric, never meant to hurt anyone. You just wanted to help, to heal the hurt and make it whole. I want that too!"

The innocent and ardent desire of children to do good, and the boundless compassion that comes with youth, makes the Herald and Cole perfect companions. This friendship is strained by the arrival of Fenris's Anders driven loathing of abominations, but a more patient Hawke might ease the way there.

Josephine: She has younger siblings, and is currently responsible for the fate of House Montiliyet. The care and feeding of one small child is...well, child's play. If only Cassandra would not keep pulling her aside like some talisman against the Champion of Kirkwall.

If it were less entertaining, their ambassador might have informed the Seeker that her letters to Aveline Vallen have already abated much suspicion...

Leliana: There are one or two amongst her agents who have some experience with children, and she assigns them watch over their Herald. Beyond that, the spymaster keeps a distance. A child need not know all the brutal things done to keep the world turning. That is sacrifice enough.

If, every once in a while, the young herald is soothed after a nightmare with Ferelden lullabyes in an Orlesian accent, few are brave enough to share it.

Cullen: Maker's breathe, he'd thought he left Kirkwall behind him. Like Leliana he assigns soldiers who either are parents or who are good with children to keep a weather eye on the child, and adopts Cassandra's strategy of using Josephine as a shield against Champion and/or Lyrium Ghost rage.

Once was enough.

Mod Fereldone

[raxistaicho]

Is Edelgard a fascist?

So as I mentioned in a recent post, I'd like to dig in detail into the notion that Edelgard is a fascist. And also debunk said notion.

Now then, I'm going to look into the actual indicators of fascism, and not the "that character is in power and I don't like them" version we see thrown carelessly around the internet today.

It's broadly accepted today that the fourteen key signs of a fascist society are as follows:

While the exact wording can vary, these are the most common traits.

We'll start with the easiest ones first:

Corporations and labor movements don't exist in Fodlan, nor is there such a thing as private mass media, nor does Fodlan have elections (no, not even in post Azure Moon), so those can four can't be analyzed. However, given that corporations are modern-day fiefdoms and CEOs and the rich are modern-day aristocrats, it's not hard at all to imagine that Edelgard would align her interests more with the working class than the wealthy if she existed in a different kind of society.

And rampant sexism is the most obvious, "no", given Edelgard cares more about talent than what a person has between their legs.

Moving on next to the things that can be addressed with a little more detail.

Supremacy of the military: So obviously Edelgard starts a war, which makes things a bit weird here, but there's no indication the Adrestian military is given disproportionate focus in terms of funding or cultural emphasis aside from what could be reasonably expected from a country at war. Additionally, Edelgard favors diplomacy as a solution to Fodlan's relations with Almyra and Brigid, and Edelgard demonstrates a wide range of areas of focus for her future reforms between research (Linhardt, Constance), education (Ferdinand), faith (Manuela), and the arts (Dorothea), making it clear the military is just one of many tools in her reformist arsenal. 4 is a strong strong no.

Obsession with national security: This trait is more or less an obsession with external forces attempting to ruin you. Edelgard's detractors would immediately leap to her designating the Church of Seiros as a target while forgetting that the CoS is her only target. With fascism, there is always An Enemy looking to tear down society, but that isn't the case with Edelgard. She targets the CoS for very specific and demonstrable reasons, and once they're defanged she sets out making peace with former enemies abroad and at home. Her detractors would point out Hubert continuing to observe Fodlan for internal threats, but given how fragile Fodlan's internal peace would be for years following the war (rebellions would be a common issue, whether or not the Agarthans are involved), this is more of a justified concern than an obsessive rooting out of imagined agitators. 7 is another no.

Disdain for intellectuals and the arts: Several characters Edelgard forms very close support attachments with (Bernadetta, Dorothea, Manuela, Linhardt, Hanneman) are artistic types or intellectuals, and, despite what her detractors would have you believe, so 11 is another no.

Obsession with crime and punishment: Edelgard treats Varley and Aegir, people who tormented her, her loved ones, and countless others with a very even hand. While Rhea's confinement appears to be under severe circumstances (underground and likely in isolation for five years), this isn't done because Edelgard felt like being extra mean: you simply can't confine a woman who can transform into a dragon in an ordinary cell. Compare this to the Knight of Seiros's obsession with summary executions and Edelgard comes off looking very merciful. 12 is another very likely no.

Rampant cronyism and corruption: Firstly, she actively fights against corruption.

Cronyism is where her detractors will point out her giving positions of power to close friends, but the issue there is a key aspect of cronyism is that the person committing it ignores it does so without regard for the beneficiaries' qualifications.

The two characters most likely to ruffle feathers are Caspar and Bernadetta, but none of their endings imply they were incompetent at their respective positions. It's simply the nature of Fire Emblem ending cards to assume the character was highly succesfull during the war - aside from a few joke characters or poor Ilios.

That's a few more knocked out, leaving only a few left.

Powerful and continuing nationalism: Nationalism is the focus on the advancement of one's own country above all others. Three Houses doesn't treat Adrestia, Faerghus, and Leicester as countries, but as regions or powers, but I'll ignore that for sake of argument. Edelgard detractors claim Edelgard is focused on the advancement of specifically Adrestia, but that's certainly not true. The common anti-Edelgard claim is she's trying to regain the lands of Faerghus and Leicester for its own sake, but she isn't, she's trying to unite Fodlan so she can bring her reforms to all the continent at once.

Additionally, she's very concerned for Brigid's well-being, see her support conversations with Petra in both games, and she expresses an interest in forging better diplomatic ties with Almyra. Ultranationalism of the fascistic sort usually involves a major withdrawal of foreign relations. This is another no.

Disdain for human rights: You could argue with some justification that this is a fairly weak spot for Edelgard through her alliance with the Agarthans, and there's some merit to that. It is, however, a bit jarring to argue that the woman who wants to usher in new human rights has disdain for them.

As I mentioned previously, her treatment of Rhea during her imprisonment in Enbarr is often a sore spot with Edelgard's detractors, and it definitely seems to be the case that Rhea was imprisoned underground and largely in isolation... but again, how does one humanely secure a woman who can transform into a 30-foot flying dragon? It's just one of those things of the issues of trying to secure such an individual.

Also, as I mentioned previously, Edelgard avoids cruel and unusual punishment wherever possible, even for those who've seriously wronged her, such as Aegir. Another no, though perhaps a bit weaker than some past ones.

Identification of enemies/scapegoats:

The scapegoats part is important. As I mentioned previously, in fascist societies, there always has to be An Enemy to fight against, as fascism is obsessed with action for actions' sake and unity against some Other, all to keep the people at home from paying attention to their rights being stripped away.

So while Edelgard certainly identifies the Church of Seiros and Nabateans as a problem for Fodlan as a whole, she does this for the very clear reason of stripping their ability to interfere in the peoples' self-interests, and not just to give Fodlan an enemy to fight. Noticeably, once the church and the Nabateans are defeated in Crimson Flower, Edelgard focuses the rest of her life on social reforms. There's no indication she continues launching wars, whatever Fantasy Invader tries to say. Another no.

Religion and government intertwined:

This would seem to be Edelgard's weakest point, since she appoints one of her own ministers as head of the southern church in Scarlet Blaze. In Crimson Flower proper we have too little information on church life in Adrestia under her to know this one either way.

It's worth remembering that Edelgard's reformed system generally acknowledges the first generations of people in power will more or less be people who would have already had that power, since they're generally the most apt recipients due to their initial advantage. In that regard, the head of Adrestia's religion doubling as a government official is a problem she inherited, not one she created: Count Varley was already minister of Religious Affairs. It would be a lot more suspicious if she named Hubert the southern bishop.

Furthermore, given the nature of Edelgard's merit-based reforms, once Varley dies there's a much better chance of the next southern bishop not being tied to Adrestia's government.

Lastly, Religion and government being "merely" intertwined is an improvement from SS and VW, in which Fodlan becomes a full-on theocracy, and AM, in which religion has permanent influence over the government.

And there we go! Of the fourteen warning signs of Fascism, only one of them could be honestly tied to Edelgard, and mostly only because of her loathed alliance with the Agarthans - which she ditches in Scarlet Blaze, leaving her entirely free of human rights abuses.

So yeah, Edelgard doesn't actually look very much like a fascist when your standards are actual fascism and not, "this lady accrues power and I don't like her for it".

That's why you never take an Edelgard detractor at their word, folks.

[theresattrpgforthat]

Got anything that lets you play as monsters (vampires/monsters/etc) in the modern world in the vein of VTM? Ideally something in the PBTA/FITD area of system, but open to others for sure (: Thanks as always for your recs!!

THEME: Urban Monsters

Friend, the difficulty with this post isn’t that I don’t have recommendations for it - it’s that I’m trying to find recommendations that I haven’t talked about ad nauseam to this point. So I hope you don’t mind a fairly extensive “Past Recommendations” at the bottom of this post, because most of the PbtA games I know of are going to be there. I have limited experience with Vampire: the Masquerade, but I’m a big fan of Changeling: the Lost and other World of Darkness games, so I’m going off of general knowledge rather than specifics.

Bubblegum Vampires / Bubblegum Wizards 2, by Gormengeist.

You're a vampire in an infinite urban cauldron of muck and rot, of psionics and wizards, of danger and shadows. Though you are surely terrible, great, horrifying, (etc.), half the day is an enemy to your people; so set forth through the night to make your coin, secure your dwellings, and vanquish your infinite enemies.

You're a wizard who chews bubblegum and collects trading cards. That is to say, cards with the trapped souls of items and enemies within, obviously. An insignificant wizard in an infinite city has lots to prove and you've got to get help somehow. Break heads, steal money, drive stupid, chew gum, trap souls. Simple as.

Neon-Bright art and d6-based rolls, that’s what’s common across both of these games. This is the same world, but you’re living in two different spheres of it, depending on which game you play. As wizards, you collect spell cards that hold the souls of creatures you’ve vanquished, and use them to get yourself out of sticky situations. As vampires, you accrue vampiric powers through blood sacrifice, and your opponents are usually folks with especially tantalizing veins. Both games have various factions that have different goals than you, so if what you like about Vampire: the Masquerade is the amount of different ideologies that have the ability to fuck you up, you might like this game. Thematically, it looks a little more upbeat and pulpy than your typical V:tM game, but if you like one, you have another game in the same system ready to go.

The Hidden, by Dragons Are Real.

As children our parents read us fairy tales, ghost stories and recounted local myths. We’ve always assumed these stories are told to entertain or scare….what if these aren't just stories….everything you have been told is true. 

The creatures from fairy tales, mythology and folklore all exist.  Have you ever thought you saw something strange out of the corner of your eye but when you look again all looks normal. These creatures live in plain sight, unseen by the majority of people, only those who know they exist see them in their true form. Every culture has a name for these creatures but we know them simply as The Hidden.

The Hidden is a modern urban fantasy game powered by the Breathless RPG. It is inspired by such media as Buffy The Vampire Slayer, Constantine and The Dresden Files.

Another pulpy sort of game, the Breathless system that powers The Hidden is great for replicating diminishing resources, putting your characters in more and more difficult situations every time they pause to take a breath. This makes this game great for horror-style stories, and World of Darkness games firmly find a home in the horror genre. If you want something that’s fast-paced and can cover a lot of ground in a short session, The Hidden might be for you.

Tween Wolf, by Ibi Deficit Orbis.

Tween Wolf is a micro-RPG about middle schoolers experiencing both the fantasy of being exceptional, and the fear of being humiliated. As these kids come to terms with their awkwardly developing human bodies, they will also be faced with lycanthropy. And in the process they will experience supernatural heroism and intense shame—and learn to manage both.

It is designed to be played with a bent towards exploring the unforgiving social cruelty of middle school, self-image, and dysphoria. It requires one Game Master, 1 to 4 additional players, a few hours, one six sided die for each player, and two additional six sided dice for the table to share.

This is a very short game, with very few rules and a big focus on trying to keep your wild side under wraps. If what you like about WoD games is the struggle between the monstrous and the human, this might be the game for you. There’s not nearly as many big moral quandaries as there are in typical WoD games - you’re middle schoolers, not eons-old bloodsuckers - but to a middle-schooler, your problems are massive. I feel like the movie Seeing Red might be a good touchstone for this game.

Glamour of Our Youth, by Yuri Runnel.

Glamour of Our Youth is a roleplaying game based on the Forged in the Dark system. Drawing inspiration from media like Riverdale, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Chilling Adventures of Sabrina among others, it works to tell stories of supernatural teenage adventures.

Building on the FitD framework, Glamour serves to tell exciting stories with high stakes, putting the youths through their paces as they try to make their way through a strange and hostile world, struggling with conflicts both internal and external, arcane and mundane. 

This game doesn’t cast your characters as specific supernatural beings, but the character options certainly make it possible. You cobble your character together from two different halves: Archetypes and Arcana. Your Archetype hails from classic high school cliques, such as Rebel, Outcast, Socialite and Athlete, while your Arcana details your supernatural ability, including Shapeshifter (which might translate to werewolf), Oceancaller (which you could turn into a selkie) or Shadow (which feels rather ghost-like to me). There’s also plenty of ways to play a teenage mage.

This game is in playtest, but it’s considerably far a long, with recent updates that indicate that the crew is hard at work refining the final product.

Protect the Child, by MintRabbit (that’s me!)

Humans have always been protective of their young, sometimes overly so. Humans have also always feared that which might make their young strange or different, and so insist that only humans can raise their own young. Monsters cannot raise human young. This is known. You have a human baby. You cannot find its parents. What is even worse, is that this child has powers, powers that others covet, and so everyone wants it. If you want to prove that you’re not the heartless monster that everyone says you are, that means you’ll have to raise it, at least until you find someone who is better suited to it than you.  You are creatures of fur, scales and fangs. You have claws that can rend flesh, faces that can crack mirrors, howls that can cause ears to bleed.  And your charge wants a blankie.

Protect the Child is a Forged in the Dark game about monsters caring for a young human, a human who contains strange and mystical powers that make them a valuable asset in any monster crew. The setting and factions present in this game are flexible: you might be aliens in a far-flung future galaxy, fantasy monsters from rival kingdoms, or even everyday wild animals that fear human society. 

So I’ve only just started play testing this game, which means that it’s very much in barely-playable mode. This game is also setting-agnostic, meaning that you can decide exactly when and where your game takes place - including as modern-day monsters trying to take care of a human baby with magical powers. The game is very specific in the themes of the story you’ll be telling - that is, themes about monstrosity, parenthood and responsibility, but if you all want to play different kinds of vampires, you can absolutely do that!

BloodLite, by ruan8000.

BloodLite is a role-playing game (RPG) designed to be played solo, but can be played in a group. In this game, you will create a Vampire following the rules and you will also create the world that this vampire interacts with, as well as the conflicts and obstacles that he will face. The world in BloodLite is like ours, but a little darker and more dangerous, full of supernatural creatures.

This game has no ties to PbtA or FitD, but it cites Vampire: the Masquerade as a direct inspiration, and you can see it in the Bloodline options available at character creation. You have a supernatural gift that give you advantages and also trigger your Hunger, which is your character’s thirst for blood. The goals of the game are represented through an Oath track, which fills when you fight enemies, overcome obstacles, and solve problems. This a fairly stripped-down game, but if you’re familiar with V:tM, then you probably won’t have a problem filling the world with factions, back-alley deals, and political wars.

Hearts of Yokai, by Lowell Francis.

So, this game isn’t out yet. But I can’t stop myself from talking about it a little bit. It’s the product of a Changeling:The Lost PbtA hack that Lowell has been working on for a very long time. I’ve been a bit fan of Changeling: the Lost and I also love PbtA games so I’m really excited to see more of this.

The link in the title leads to the current google spreadsheets that detail the current content of the game and the associated playbooks. The link for Lowell is to a blog post he wrote about the game, talking about the history, the changes he’s made, and the ideas behind what the current iteration is. What really intrigues me is how it incorporates "the actions of the Gentry through the lens of colonialism.” I’m really eager to follow the progress of this game.

Games I’ve Recommended in the Past

Urban Shadows 1e, by Magpie Games.

Bite Marks, by Black Armada Games.

Monsterhearts 2e, by Buried Without Ceremony.

Strays, by kumada1.

Eldritch Investigative Drama Rec Post

[radiance1]

Let's combine your most common AUs

Instead of a teddy bear, 5 year old Danny has a plushy eastern dragon when he has his portal accident

Alternately, teen Danny gains the power to turn into a bear. Maybe an Ursa from MLP:FiM. Aragon probably still wants him for being a magic star bear in that case

Forgive me for the late response.

Hm, a two in one that I'm not sure which to do, so why not both!

Danny's favorite mythical creature was the eastern dragon, so much so that he begged his parents for a plushy of one for his birthday, they ordered one, and then he got one.

He's only ever been so happy when he found out about the wonders of space.

Despite his parents multiple attempts at trying to get him involved in Ghosts, he's just been spending his time playing around with his plush imagining both of them flying through space on super dangerous missions or exploring.

Of course, the one time he was interested in one of his parents inventions was because they said that the place they were trying to get too was basically like space.

As in, they meant the vastness of it and the unexplored territory.

But Danny took it as that it actually was space, and got extremely excited over it, much to his parents glee because he was finally showing interest in their work.

None of them could have guessed the fate that would befall such an interest, however.

An amount of time later, when his parents and sister were dead asleep, Danny sneaked his way down into the lab. Bypassing the security systems by using the methods he watched his parents do, not that they were sneaky with it, but they probably didn't expect him to remember them either.

So, in the dark of the lab, flashlight in hand, dragon plush in the other. He approached the portal. His parents said it was incomplete, but looking at it he didn't really see anything wrong with it, something about a power source and a few kinks they had to iron out that he booted from his mind. So, Dany stepped inside, just to look around, then he saw a random hole (where a button is supposed to be) and then, with his brilliant 5-year-old mind and under zero adult supervision, stuck his flashlight inside it to look around.

Such was the case of it somehow turning on, zapping Danny, his plush, and his flashlight all at once and remaking him into the body of a plush dragon boyo.

He was ecstatic at first when he found himself his plush toy because its cool, confused the next because he was glowing, even more so confused when he looked around and saw green and floating islands.

This wasn't space.

He didn't know how to get home, so he went exploring to try and find one.

===

Never has Danny so hated yet loved an ability of his.

Turning into a bear was never on his list of things he thought would ever happen to him, despite having fought an alternate him from a different timeline. Danny just, never thought that far about things like this.

Of course, an instant plus for him was that there were literal stars floating around inside his body and, if he concentrated enough, he would be able to form any constellation he wanted to!

The size was another plus, along with the physical strength that came with it. He could literally look down on anyone he wanted to, which is always good in his opinion.

Of course, the part he hated came in the form of an enemy previously forgotten and discarded, coming back for round 2, 3, 4, 5, etc. Trying to force him into a marriage.

Recently, he's just been slapping the guy around for a bit because leaving. But Prince Aragon was many things, surprisingly persistent was one of them, even if Danny could always be sure of his victory, it was annoying to the farthest reaches of space and back how many times he keeps coming back.

Of course, Danny had to vamoosh as soon as Prince Aragon came close to beating him even once, which is way too many times in his opinion. Hell, he even got Vlad of all people to help him cover for him when he went on the escape (how Jazz managed to do it, he would never know).

He eventually ended up in some random mountain, that's surprisingly furnished as if someone lived here, yet also extremely dusty and rundown as if it was abandoned. Then he decided, hey, why not just live here?

He just needed to fix it up a bit, which was require him to be human-ish (same as Dragon Danny, except this time with the bear paws, ears, tail and that) to get at the places that need a smaller and more dexterous hand.

Eventually, he did manage to clean up the place to relatively working order! Maybe replace some things, like that TV, but all in all he's happy with what he did!

What he wasn't happy with however, is these random people pulling up to his place and calling it their base.

[sleepyorchidmonster]

Twst event where NRC's magic goes haywire and the dorms swap themes. Like, it's still Savanaclaw, but everything is flooded, or there is a gothic castle in the middle of scarabia (the architecture is a mix between diasomnia and Scalding Sands, though).

In an effort to solve the crisis, the students must find the artifacts responsible for keeping the magic at the school. There are three different items, one in Pomefiore (the oldest dorm), Diasomnia (the dorm known for its magical prowess) and Ignihyde (they installed the system).

Crowley organized three groups:

- The dormheads for Diasomnia, the most dangerous of the three;

- The vice-housewardens for Pomefiore;

- The freshmen plus Cater, Floyd and Silver for Ignihyde.

Starting with Diasomnia, the dorm swapped with Heartslabyul, with plenty of hedgehogs and flamingos running around, as well as the regular gravity defying architecture.

As soon as the housewardens passed though the mirror, everyone but Riddle became as tiny as a mouse, which is okay, since at least they won't get separated and lost in the maze of corridors. Riddle is getting a headache from all the bickering, though.

However, Diasomnia's influence is still present, so this version of Heartslabyul is a bit creepier. Card and chess soldiers dripping with blot stalk the hallways, beautiful roses with a metallic scent bloom among the thorns, painted by headless knights. There is also the Jabberwocky wandering about.

After a near death experience (Riddle was thrown at, at least, five walls by the Jabberwocky and was almost beheaded, only to be saved by the twst version of the Bandersnatch), they decided to go to the kitchens, looking for a way to return the others to normal (or at least Malleus, whose dragon form is no bigger than Grim at the moment).

Unfortunately, there was nothing of use in the kitchens, though they did find (and fight) one of Lillia's cooking attempts, brought to life and in excruciating pain for existing.

They manage to power though by using Idia's "Riddle on-field DPS Strat", where they let Riddle fight while providing him with shields, healing and buffs. He used Zettaflare thrice.

After securing the artifact, the dorm returned to normal. Which is great, since Riddle was five seconds away from passing out.

Bonus:

Idia: This'll be Ez! It's not like the Queendom is KNOWN for having dragons, right?

Riddle: *walking faster*

Idia: Riddle!?

*Roars in the distance*

Riddle: Malleus, I need a shield RIGHT NOW- *gets thrown into a wall*

Kalim, later: Are you okay?

Riddle: Just a concussion and a few broken ribs, no problem.

Idia: Bruh

Leona: What do you think, Malleus? Missing the tines when you used to loom over all of us?

Malleus: I'm still taller than you, Kingscholar.

Malleus: Rosehearts, why are the gargoyles wearing party hats?

Gargoyles: Because it's our unbirthday party!! *Spits out confetti*

Idia: are we running in circles?

Leona: Riddle, we've been here before...

Vil: I remember that weird painting.

Riddle, whispering: SHUT UPPPP!

Bandersnatch, after we finish everything: WHY WERE YOU ATTACKING THE STUDENTS !!!????

Jabberwocky: Wait, there were no intruders?

Bandersnatch: NO, YOU FOOL!!!!!

Housewardens, minus Riddle: Are you KIDDING ME-

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 80

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 80: The Bloody Hand of Dread

AO3 - Masterlist

TW: Self-harming tendencies/suicidal ideation.

The day was bathed in a pleasant warmth, sunlight filtering through the occasional small clouds drifting lazily across the sky. Daenera had finally managed to convince the old hag that a small stroll in the gardens would do her some good, primarily to escape the tedious needlepoint that Mertha had insisted was ‘a way to calm the mind.’ It was far from calming, the monotonous activity only heightened the agitation simmering beneath her skin, leaving her tense and ill-tempered, resulting only in a persistent headache drumming at the back of her skull. Her restlessness had only intensified since Aemond’s departure for Storm’s End the previous morning–leaving her to wait anxiously for his return. 

She estimated that he would have arrived at Storm’s End by the previous evening, a thought that further tightened the anxious knot already formed in her stomach. She wondered how he might have been received and how long he would stay in the Stormlands to secure the alliance. It would likely span several days–days filled with feasting and strategic discussions for him, while she endured the monotony of waiting, her days marked by dull tasks alongside Mertha.

That morning she had bolted upright in bed, her heart racing and a prickling sensation of dread lingering at the nape of her neck. Her pillow had been damp with tears that clung to her eyelashes, a testament to the terror that had gripped her in her sleep. The only fragments she could recall from the nightmare were the deafening roar of thunder that seemed to reverberate within her chest and the sinister glint of teeth. The dream had left her disoriented and confused, its clarity slipping between her fingers like wisps of smoke. 

A nagging sensation had tugged at her consciousness ever since–a feeling akin to having misplaced a vital memory, the frustrating, elusive brush with something important she couldn’t quite grasp. The intangible loss gnawed at her, leaving her with a residual sense of unease. 

As she wandered through the garden, her thoughts repeatedly drifted back to that nagging irritation, to Borros Baratheon, and her certainty that he would accept the betrothal. How could he refuse? The alliance would infuse House Baratheon with more royal blood, significantly increasing their influence and power, and crucially, it would bring a dragon to their House–an offer Borros Baratheon could hardly dismiss.

Daenera considered the implications further: had she fallen pregnant with Boris’s child and provided House Baratheon with a male heir, perhaps Borros might have hesitated. Yet, even then, he would likely have consented. A marriage between one of his daughters and a prince held a far greater advantage than one between his brother and a princess. If his daughter were to bear a son, Borros would alter the line of succession to favor this child, effectively pushing aside his brother and any potential offspring of theirs. It would establish a more direct line of succession, an heir with Borros’s own blood. 

It was perhaps for the best, Daenera mused, that she had not become pregnant with Boris’s child. Not only because such a child would inherit nothing, but because she was certain the childbirth would have killed her. Her death would have been for nothing. 

Despite the fragility of her alliance with House Baratheon, Daenera found herself without regret over her decision to have Boris killed. After all, she knew Borros Baratheon would have preferred an alliance through marriage between his daughter and a prince, rather than maintaining the existing alliance made through his brother and a princess–who lacked the advantage of a dragon. 

“Did you hear what I just said?” Lady Mertha demanded pointedly, her voice shrill and biting, which only served to grate on Daenera’s already thinning patience. 

“Something riveting, I’m sure,” Daenera replied, casting a glance towards the terse woman whose face was set in a perpetual sour expression, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. She briefly wondered whether the older woman’s perpetual uptight demeanor was a result of the tight bun at the back of her head, which flattened her hair and seemed to pull at her scalp. This hairstyle only accentuated her age, hardening her features and deepening the frown lines that etched her face. 

“Don’t be obtuse.”

“Why not?” Daenera challenged flatly, fully aware that her response would only further irritate the old hag. 

“Because it’s not proper,” Lady Mertha retorted scornfully. “You’re a princess, and I am aware that your mother has allowed you some liberties, but she should have taught you to behave like a proper princess.”

Daenera rolled her eyes in exasperation. 

“It is why the Queen Mother deemed it appropriate to assign me to you,” Lady Mertha stated, her hands folded neatly before her, her spine as straight as a wooden plank, her head held high with pride. “So that I might teach you how to behave properly.”

“Your husband must be thrilled that you’ve been assigned to me,” Daenera drawled snidely. “It frees him from your company, and more importantly, from the marriage bed. That is, assuming you are married. Have you been a lady-in-waiting all these years?”

“Now you’re being rude,” Lady Mertha snapped. “I am married if you must know.”

“Hmm, I pity your husband, having such a dusty old shrew for a wife–”

Before she could finish, Mertha’s hand clamped around the flesh of Daenera’s arm. Her gnarled, bony fingers dug into her skin with bruising, punitive force. She gripped her like one might an ill-tempered child throwing a tantrum, stopping her in her tracks and forcing her to face the consequences of her impertinence. “I will have you dragged back to your chambers if you continue this insolence.”

Daenera stared at her blankly, head tilting in challenge. “And cause a scene right here in the gardens?”

The gardens were alive with others enjoying the sunny day as well. Ladies sipped iced tea under the shade of the pavilions, while others strolled leisurely along the garden paths. Mertha glanced around warily before prying her fingers from Daenera’s arm, her eyes burning with reproach. 

A petty smile curled at the corners of Daenera’s lips in response. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Daenera caught a glimpse of pale silver that instinctively drew her gaze. Helaena was sitting beneath the shadow of a tall tree, leaning against its trunk. Her pale blue eyes were fixed intently on her hands, an absorbed expression on her face as her fingers danced through the air, seemingly lost in a world of her own.  

Ignoring Mertha, Daenera charged forward, gathering up her skirts and stepping briskly over the flowerbed onto the grass. She had only managed a few steps before Mertha’s shrill voice rose again, filled with reproach. 

“Where are you going?” Mertha chirped sharply. “Get back here! This is improper! You cannot just wander off; there’s a path!”

Daenera turned to see Mertha towing the edge of the flowerbed, her hands clutching her skirts tightly, her face contorted with a deep scowl. Nearby, the guard who had followed them stood awkwardly half-way between the gravel path and the grass, one foot planted on each side of the flowerbed. He shifted uneasily under Mertha’s scolding glare, seemingly unsure how to respond to Daenera’s blatant disregard for taking the conventional path and Mertha’s insistence on it. 

“You may take the path laid before you, Lady Mertha,” Daenera retorted with a notable edge of insolence in her voice. “I will make my own.”

Turning her back on Mertha, Daenera walked determinedly towards Helaena. Behind her, she heard Mertha grumble to the guard,” Get back here Oliver. We’ll take the path.”

With a long, almost theatrical sigh, Daenera gracefully sank to her knees and then let herself flop onto the grass, resting her head in Helaena’s lap as they had done countless times before. Helaena offered only a small smile in response, her attention hardly shifting from her hands as the small ladybug crawled over her fingers. The moment held a gentle  intimacy, marked by their comfortable silence, and Daenera inhaled deeply, her eyes fluttering open to gaze up at the canopy above. The green leaves swayed gently in the breeze, filtering streaks and rays of golden sunlight that danced with the soft shadows they cast. 

The grass tickled against her palm as she swept her hand over its surface, finding solace in the light touch. 

“Your Grace,” Mertha greeted Helaena with a nod, her tone courteous yet unable to mask the tightness of reproach as her eyes drifted towards Daenera. “Get up, Princess, we’re returning to your chambers.”

“No. I wish to stay,” Daenera replied, her eyes closing in defiance. 

“No?” Mertha repeated, her voice rising in disbelief. “This is not–”

“Lower your voice,” Daenera interjected, her eyes snapping open to give the older woman a scornful glare. She gestured towards the lightly babbling Maelor, who was preoccupied with sucking on a silver rattle, his little feet kicking while he rested in his basket. “With your shrill voice, you’ll leave the baby in tears.”

“Princess…” Mertha began again, her voice low and warning. 

“I wish to stay here. It’s such a nice day after all, why not enjoy it?” Daenera stated, fixing Mertha with a steady, calm gaze that met the older woman’s muddled gray eyes. “Give us some privacy, will you?”

Mertha gritted her teeth, her grip on her own hands tightening with anger. She took a step back, then another, as if that small distance was enough to offer them semblance of privacy. Yet her shadow still touched Daenera, she was still too close for comfort. 

“You’re still too close, move further back,” Daenera commanded firmly. When Mertha stubbornly refused to move an inch, Daenera decided to invoke higher authority. “The Queen will agree with me that there's no need for you to be so close.”

The subtle smile on Helaena’s face widened just a touch, a small change meant only for Daenera to notice–and notice she did. She seemed to find a quiet amusement in Daenera’s defiance. The tightness in Mertha’s face intensified, her lips pursing as if she had tasted something incredibly sour. 

“You may step away, Lady Mertha. Thank you,” Helaena added softly, her voice gentle yet dismissive, effectively releasing the older woman from her duties for the moment. 

“Perhaps you can wait for me down by the path. I believe there are benches for your to sit on–for your knees, of course,” Daenera called out as Mertha turned and began to head towards the path she had come from. At Daenera’s words, Mertha paused and turned back to glare at her, her jaw clenched tightly, before continuing on, finally giving them some space. 

“Must you provoke her ire?” Helaena inquired, her head tilting slightly as her eyes followed the bug darting over her finger, letting it pass from one hand to another. 

“Yes,” Daenera responded petulantly, closing her eyes against the rays of sunlight piercing through the canopy of the tree. “If I am to endure her company, I will ensure she suffers mine in return, and it’s the only entertainment I am allowed. I am sick and tired of needlepoint. If I see another stitch, I might just sew my eyes shut.” 

Daenera rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palms, letting out a frustrated exclamation, “She won’t even let me touch a flower! Every time I reach for one, she slaps my hand away. They keep me from the gardens, confining me to the path. If Mertha had her way, I’d be confined to only visit the Sept.”

“They fear you’ll poison someone.”

“How much harm could I possibly do with a single flower?” Daenera retorted, her voice thing with exasperation. 

“I imagine a lot,” Helaena murmured as she watched the small, red bug crawl across her skin, seemingly amused by Daenera’s misery. 

“Do you have any idea how many flowers I’d need to gather to concoct something that causes more than just a stomach ache? Sure, I could pick a bunch of hydrangea, but poisoning someone isn’t as simple as just mixing flowers into someone’s meal–and with those, you’d only get very familiar with the chamber pot,” Daenera continued on, rambling as Helaena chuckled. 

“Like you did with Aegon?” 

Offering a wide grin, Daenera hummed with feigned innocence. “I have no idea what you’re insinuating. Your brother must’ve caught something in Flea Bottom.”

“Mhmm…” Helaena responded, her tone rich with amusement.

“Most flowers aren’t potent enough to be deadly–and those that are, you can’t very well hide away into someone’s food…” Daenera continued musing, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the ruffles of her dress. “But to truly kill someone, I’d need access to the herbal garden at the very least. Which, of course, I don’t have.” She let out a weary breath, then continued, “I could theoretically use apple seeds to make poison, but do you realize how many apples I’d have to consume just to gather enough seeds? If an apple has five to ten seeds, I’d need about two hundred apples to collect a lethal dose. Then I’d need to crush the seeds into a fine powder, and imagine the volume of that–it would hardly be inconspicuous. If I had my tools, I could refine it into a more potent form, just a few drops would suffice.” Daenera turned her head to look up at Helaena, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Of course, there are other seeds that are poisonous as well…”

Daenera knew that even cherry seeds or peach pits contained a certain amount of poison, yet the task of gathering and crushing enough of them posed its own challenges. If she were inclined to poison someone, she would prefer a quicker and less laborious method–perhaps using a few berries from one of the bushes in the herbal garden or the root of some of the flowers. However, such options were beyond her reach, as she was kept under strict observation at all times. Even now, Mertha sat at the edge of the clearing, her gaze fixed pointedly on Daenera, and the guard, Olliver, stood just behind a nearby tree, ever watchful. Helaena, now that she was Queen, also had her own entourage keeping close watch. Two ladies-in-waiting were positioned at a nearby table, attentive yet discreet, and a member of the Kingsguard stood steadfast by their side, ensuring the queen’s safety with vigilant eyes. 

Daenera thought he must’ve been cooking inside his armor. 

“Sounds like you’ve given this some thought,” Helaena chuckled softly. “This is why they keep you away from the gardens.”

“Well, they give me plenty of time to think about it when they have me stuck doing needlepoint all day,” Daenera grumbled, releasing an indignant huff and scowling even with her eyes closed. “I have never encountered anyone as infuriating as that old hag.”

“Not even Aegon?” Helaena challenged lightly, her tone playful as if she were teasing a child. 

Daenera opened her mouth, poised with a sharp retort, but paused, her words catching as she actually considered the comparison. She drew in a deep breath, pondering, then replied, “No, not even Aegon. At least Aegon isn’t as dull as her. He’s a drunken fool, but at least he isn’t dull.”

The amused smile on Helaena’s face widened slightly, adding a mildly wry expression to her features. Helaena let her vent. 

“I mean, truly, I pity her husband. He’s married to a right old cunt–dry, I’m sure, and filled with dust,” Daenera continued with a sharp edge to her voice. “I would rather sit silently in a room with your grandfather than be forced to endure more needlepoint in her company. If this continues, I will surely go mad and pull all my hair out!”

“Don’t pull your hair out,” Helaena advised with a chuckle. “You wouldn’t look good with tufts of hair missing. You’d just look…well… insane…”

Daenera laughed in response, a genuine, light sound that felt almost foreign to her ears. It had been days since she had truly laughed–days since he had found anything to genuinely laugh about. She blinked against the sunlight to look up at Helaena, noticing how the fine strands of her silver hair gleamed in the light, the faint blush of amusement coloring her cheeks, her pale blue eyes bright and present, even as they remained fixed on the bug. 

Helaena drew in a measured breath, her head tilting slightly. “Mmm, I don’t think you’ll go mad yet…”

“Yet,” Daenera repeated, a bemused smile tugging at her lips. 

“Do you think you know when you’ve gone mad?” Helaena asked, her tone light yet tight, as though it were a genuine concern for her. 

Blinking up at Helaena, Daenera looked at her in puzzlement. “I think it depends on what kind of madness you have.”

“Is it madness, or is it grief?” Helaena mused, her voice humming with curiosity. “Could madness be just another form of grief?”

Concern nibbled at Daenera’s fingertips, but she remained silent, allowing Helaena to ponder as her eyes tracked the tiny creature scampering from one palm to the other. Just then, Maelor emitted an unsatisfied grunt, the chime of his rattle hanging precariously in the air as he kicked and twisted, his face reddening with discontent. Daenera sat up, gently lifting the baby from the basket and cradling him against her chest before lying back down again. Maelor’s head rested against her sternum, his chubby little fingers clutching the fabric of her bodice as he nestled into her, visibly soothed by the contact. Her head then fell back into Helaena’s lap, finding comfort in the familiar and reassuring presence. 

“He misses you,” Helaena murmured softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Daenera’s gaze instinctively drifted down to Maelor’s head, observing his pale wisps and delicate curls. He nuzzled against her, his chubby little hands playing with the soft fabric of her dress. She could feel his weight against her and found an unexpected comfort in it. 

“I don’t think he’s capable of missing anyone yet,” Daenera responded, her palm resting on his back, her thumb gently soothing him. 

Helaena hummed lightly in response, a knowing tone in her voice. “You miss him too…”

Daenera looked up at Helaena, confusion furrowing her brow. “The baby?”

Helaena’s lips quirked at the misinterpretation. “No, Aemond.”

“Ah,” Daenera exhaled, her voice trailing off as she fell into a pensive silence, a new weight settling in her heart. Around them, the garden continued its gentle melody; leaves rustled softly above, the warm breeze caressed her skin, carrying with it the sweet fragrance of flowers and a hint of salt from the sea. Bees buzzed busily among the blooms, and butterflies languished in the warm sunlight. 

Daenera’s voice emerged again, small and almost fraile, “It’s not as easy as that… Missing him, I mean. I should hate him…”

She wished she could muster hatred for him. Hatred would simplify everything, an easy path to clarity, she thought. If he were merely her enemy, all would be straightforward. But emotions were tangled, and her heart seemed to rebel against such simplicity. 

Helaena’s gentle smile faded, her expression becoming distant as the ladybug spread its wings and flew away. “You will…” Her hands remained in the air, fingers twitching a little as though prickling to catch some invisible string in the air. “There’s two kinds of hatred, I think. One, a frigid flame, pure and desolate, offering nothing but cold…” Her hands fell to her lap. “The other, a fierce counterpart to love, both seated as equals, dining at the same table of passion. A hatred that burns with fiery intensity may blaze bright, but like most wildfires, it too will eventually burn out… And what is left when hatred has turned to ash, is the nature of love and its ability to grow. Love is such a strange thing, isn’t it?”

Daenera could feel her heartbeat, hard and quick, like the wings of a bird caught in flight, and she lifted her eyes to meet Helaena’s, asking tentatively, “Is it love?”

“Is it?” Helaena echoed, leaving the question to hang between them, light and gentle. Her hand brushed through Daenera’s hair, eyes reflecting a soft blue challenge. 

Shifting uncomfortably, she wrestled with the truth that clawed at her heart, demanding to be acknowledged. Suppressing the rising emotions and locking them away deep inside, refusing to acknowledge them, she murmured softly in an attempt to change the subject, “I had a nightmare.”

“Tell me about it,” Helaena responded, her voice humming with a gentle curiosity. Her hand found its way into Daenera’s hair, brushing it back and twirling strands around her fingers–a restless motion, as if she sought comfort or needed something to occupy her hands while anticipating the depths of the conversation.

“I only remember the crack of thunder and the gleam of teeth,” Daenera replied, her thoughts drifting back to the dream. She could still sense the persistent itch in the back of her mind, the nagging feeling of something forgotten, something pivotal that had yet to fall into place–the itch of having lost something. “And a cruel laugh.”

“He fed it, and now it will feed upon him…” Helaena mused, her gaze turning distant, as if lost in a mist that Daenera couldn’t quite perceive–adrift in what seemed to be the haze of dreams. “It shall feed upon you too, vengeance hungers… A curse is a beast with no master, it will heed its calling, once unleashed upon the wind and it will see the task for which it’s pinned. None may hope to bind it twice, without yielding something in sacrifice.” Her voice trailed off into silence, her mind seemingly enveloped in a fog, her eyes distant and tinged with sadness. 

Drawing a deep breath, Daenera chose to set aside her questions for the moment. Instead, she decided to draw Helaena back from her distant thoughts. “We’d travel along the channels of Braavos and visit every single one of the Hundred Isles. Then we’ll meet with the Sealord of Braavos, and he will grant us a palace. Within the palace courtyard, we’ll eat supper there and watch the stars and have music played at all times. 

Helaena blinked, her focus returning to Daenera, a soft smile slowly spreading across her lips. I thought we’d go to Lys.”

“We could go anywhere,” Daenera responded, her voice filled with the gentleness of a dream. 

They fell into a shared silence, warding off the intrusive thoughts and unspoken concerns that threatened to invade their peace. They created a sanctuary in their secluded corner of the garden, deliberately ignoring the looming red walls of the Red Keep and the scheming minds within. In this quiet sanctuary, they allowed no shadows to darken the clear patch of grass around them. 

Maelor, resting peacefully on Daenera’s chest, brought her a tranquility that the restless nights had denied her. She surrendered to the warmth of the afternoon sun, letting it lull her into a brief respite. It was only as the sunlight began to wane, casting long shadows across the garden, that she stirred from her repose. Her eyes fluttered open just as a shadow swept overhead–a tangible reminder of the larger world beyond the seclusion of their garden sanctuary–as Vhagar returned, its massive wings beating a steady rhythm, bringing them back from their journey to Storm’s End. 

Daenera sat up, carefully transferring little Maelor into Helaena’s waiting arms. Helaena stood, wrapping the child snugly in a soft blanket, and tenderly kissed his cheek. A damp patch marked Daenera’s bodice, a testament to Maelor’s peaceful slumber and occasional drooling. Maelor, his chubby fingers waving, gurgled happily as Helaena carried him back towards the Keep. 

Following closely beside Helaena, Daenera walked shoulder to shoulder with her, with Mertha and Oliver trailing along. Mertha muttered under her breath, a continuous stream of terse grumbles filling the air. As they walked back, the towering shadow of the Red Keep loomed ahead. 

As they made their way into the courtyard, the walls appeared to close in around Daenera, and the familiar weight of unease settled back into her stomach. The restlessness returned, creeping under her skin, intensifying as she bid farewell to Helaena and Maelor with a kiss to their cheeks. The two headed back towards Maegor’s Holdfast, Helaena musing lowly to her son as they went. Daenera then climbed the steps to the Keep, positioning herself on the landing that overlooked the courtyard and the gates. 

“We should get back to your chambers, Princess,” Mertha said tersely. “Edelin will have prepared supper by now.”

“I will have supper later. I wish to see Aemond,” Daenera responded firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument as she remained steadfast on the landing. 

Her gaze settled on the Bronze Gate, her heart pounding anxiously as she twisted the rings on her fingers–a mix of anticipation and dread churning within her. A nagging sensation clawed at the back of her mind, persistent yet intangible, deepening her unease into a palpable dread that settled heavily in her stomach. 

“Princess,” a voice called out, snapping her from her troubled reverie. 

Clenching her jaw tightly, Daenera reluctantly shifted her focus away from the gates, turning to face Ser Criston Cole as he ascended the steps towards the Keep. His armor caught the golden rays of the setting son, casting a harsh gleam that seemed almost foreboding, while his dark eyes fixed on her with a chilling, steely gaze. 

“Ser Criston,” Daenera acknowledged the greeting with a dry tone, taking a deep breath before fixing her gaze fully on the knight. “I suppose congratulations are in order on your rise to becoming the new Lord Commander. Though…” Her head tilted slightly as she scrutinized him. “It begs me to wonder what happened to Lord Commander Westerling. Did the same ill luck befall him as it did Lord Lyman?”

Ser Criston’s smile was cold as he reached the top of the landing, his dark eyes locking with hers. “Lord Commander Westerling was relieved of his duties due to his uncertain stance on who the true successor to the crown really is.”

“Is that so?” Daenera responded, her voice dripping with skepticism. “It seems to me that the Lord Commander’s honor is the only one that remains incorrupt.”

“And what do you know of honor, Princess?” Ser Criston challenged, his tone sharp and laden with disdain. The veiled insult hung heavily in the air between them, each word a barb. 

“I know that you lack it. If you possessed any, you wouldn’t have killed a woman who had already surrendered,” Daenera retorted, her words edged with her own scorn. It was one thing to kill in battle, another entirely to kill someone who had laid down their weapon. It had been murder in cold blood–dishonorable and contemptible, and she would not forget it, could not forget it. 

Daenera vividly remembered the widening of Joyce’s eyes, the shock and pain etched onto her face as the blade sank deep into her flesh, emerging bloodied and cruel on the other side. She recalled precisely where it had struck–directly in the stomach, a deliberately painful and slow way to die. The warmth of her blood that had touched her skin was unforgettable, as were Joyce’s quick, shallow breaths. She had watched as Joyce paled, her life ebbing away while the pool of blood around her expanded. Later, her body had hung beside Lord Caswell’s, limp and heavy, dark blood-stained dress, her eyes half-lidded, empty of life. Daenera remembered it–saw it each night as she closed her eyes. 

Ser Criston’s dark eyes narrowed, his gaze as sharp as the blade he had used to end Joyce’s life–a life taken not in fair combat but in a cruel bid to wound Daenera. It had been an act of sheer cruelty. Now, as she confronted him, she noted a slight shift in his posture, a sheepish, defensive tightness that spoke of a man uncomfortable being forced to face his own dishonorable actions. 

“I killed her in self-defense–” 

“She had dropped the blade–”

“She had not,” Ser Criston countered firmly, his voice unwavering as he attempted to rewrite history. “Your servant woman–”

“Her name was Joyce,” Daenera interjected sharply, her voice edged with a cold precision. “You should remember the name of the woman you killed in cold blood.”

Ser Criston stepped closer, his voice lowered to a menacing whisper. “Your serving woman wouldn’t have met her end had you simply compiled and surrendered from the start. Her death is on your hands, not mine.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” Daenera asked, feeling a surge of rage burning within her, the injustice festering like a bitter wound in her gut. 

“It is the truth,” Ser Criston replied flatly, his expression unyielding. 

“Is that what it is?” Daenera challenged him again, her voice raw and quivering slightly with emotion–with rage and grief. “It seems to me that you tell yourself that to believe you possess some semblance of honor. But we both know that’s a lie.”

“And what lie do you tell yourself, Princess?” Ser Criston retorted, his eyes scanning her face with a cool detachment. The way he emphasized ‘princess’ carried an insult that stung like the crack of a whip. “That you are free of dishonor?” His voice dropped to a dark timber, meant only for her ears. “That it doesn’t run through your veins? That your marriage was free of it? Do you understand what duty and sacrifice it requires?” His gaze bore into her, placing himself above her. “Honor is not innate. It’s something you earn, it is something you uphold.”

Daenera’s scowl deepened, her eyes narrowed as she responded with biting callousness, “You seem to mistake your ambition for honor.”

“I have no ambition beyond serving the King,” Ser Criston declared, holding his head high. “Something we should all strive to do.”

“Is that who you serve?” Daenera shot back, questioning his allegiance and the true nature of his so-called honor. It wasn’t truly the King that Ser Criston served, though he might believe so. In truth, it was the Queen Mother to whom his loyalty lay–and he served her not out of genuine allegiance but to cling to some semblance of honor, to uphold his own idea of what honor should be. Ser Criston’s allegiance to the Queen Mother stemmed not solely from duty but from what she represented to him and what she offered; she was a mirror, reflecting back at him the values he believed was to be right and pure. Moreover, his deep-seated hatred for her mother found a resonant echo in the Queen Mother, making her not just a ruler to serve but a companion in his disdain. 

“I serve the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms,” Ser Criston reiterated firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt in his declaration. 

“A dog cannot serve two masters,” Daenera asserted sharply, her voice laced with contempt. “And a dog as dishonorable as you should not have been made Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. It seems to be your luck that you continue to rise despite your failures.”

The Bronze Gate opened with a resounding thump, instantly capturing Daenera’s attention, even as Ser Criston fumed beside her. He sifted on his feet, leaning in close to whisper harshly, “Was it honor that had you abandon your men to be killed? Will honor be enough to save those you have left?”

His words struck her like a slap in the face, a sting she hardly had time to process before he brushed past her, his cloak sweeping against her skirts as he strode into the Keep. Daenera swallowed thickly, her gaze shifting to Aemond as he dismounted his horse and handed the reins to a stable boy. With determined strides, he approached the Keep, taking the stairs two at a time. 

“Aemond…” Daenera called out, her voice faltering as he brushed past her without a glance, his expression set in a hard, unreadable mask–cold as ice and seemingly carved from it. His hair, though dry, had the slight curl characteristic of his mother’s, a departure from the usual straightness of it, which spoke of him having met rain on his journey. She frowned at his blatant disregard, a growing sense of dread tightening in the pit of her stomach, unease crawling under her skin. 

Daenera turned on her heels and followed him inside, despite Mertha letting out a sharp exclamation of displeasure, urging her to stop. “What happened? Who does Storm’s End stand with?”

Her skirts whispered across the floor as she hurried after him, his pace fast and unwavering even as he began to ascend the stairs. Daenera pressed on, demanding answers to her questions, her growing anxiety fueled by his silence. Had Lord Borros Baratheon defied expectations and chosen to align himself with her mother? Had he rejected the proposed marriage alliance? Or had his demands exceeded what Aemond had to offer? Did he seek additional alliances through not only one marriage but two? Or, more grimly, had he demanded Daenera’s head? 

These questions swirled within her mind, growing in the absence of his answers. The tension seemed to thicken with every step they took, and amidst her spiraling thoughts, Daenera could almost hear the ominous crack of thunder resonating in the back of her mind, mirroring her growing unease. 

“Where does Storm’s End stand?” She repeated, needing to know the position her mother was in. 

When he refused to answer again, Daenera reached out, her hand brushing against the leather of his sleeve as she grasped the crook of his arm, trying to halt his progress. He pulled his arm free and continued up the stairs without a backwards glance. The sting of his rejection was palpable, and Daenera’s frown deepened as she followed him. 

“Stop, Aemond,” she called after him, feeling the slight strain in her lungs as she attempted to keep up with him, reaching the top of the stairs. 

When he showed no signs of slowing down, she positioned herself directly in his path, effectively blocking him and forcing him to confront her. She looked up at him, noting how his jaw clenched tightly, his teeth gritted, his gaze fixed stubbornly on a point just above her head, refusing to meet her eyes or acknowledge her presence. 

Something had clearly gone wrong at Storm’s End–something that rendered him either unable or unwilling to meet her gaze. 

“Tell me, Aemond,” she implored, her voice soft yet insistent, almost pleading as she attempted to coax an answer from him. His jaw tensed further, muscles flexing visibly as he continued to bite down, refusing to meet her eyes. His expression was hard and cold as the steel at his hip, seemingly carved from the same iron resolve. His complexion was pale, showing no signs of the flush that might have lingered from his flight, suggesting the gravity of whatever news he carried. 

There, at the collar of his leather coat, on the pale column of his neck, was a smear of dreadful red–a detail she hardly noticed at first, barely processing it as her heart thundered within her chest. Daenera’s gaze was fixed intently on his face, searching desperately for answers he was unwilling to provide. 

“Please,” Daenera murmured, her voice barely audible as he brushed past her, slipping through her fingers like smoke as he made his way towards the council chambers. Her eyes tracked his every movement, watching helplessly as he opened the doors and disappeared inside, sealing away all the answers she desperately sought. Her heart throbbed painfully within her chest, a sense of dread tightening around her as she stared at the unyielding doors. 

Mertha abruptly stepped into her line of sight, her face set in a perennial scowl. “Come, let’s get you back to your chambers.”

“I don’t want to go back,” Daenera protested, grimacing as Mertha’s fingers dug into her arm with the same harsh grip she had used in the gardens. She was determined to remain stationed outside the council doors, to wait for him to emerge so she could demand the answers she needed–so that she could force him to look at her. 

“You’ve been quite unruly today, and I will not have you loitering outside the council chambers demanding answers for matters that are not your place to inquire about,” Mertha grumbled, shaking Daenera slightly as if she were a misbehaving child who had just thrown a tantrum. “I’ve allowed you more than enough liberties for today. Now, come.”

Daenera forcefully wrenched her arm free from Mertha’s grip. “You’ve missed your calling, Lady Mertha. You should have been a septa. You certainly have the countenance for it.”

Despite her reluctance, Daenera allowed herself to be guided back to her chambers, where she ate her supper in dreadful silence. It wasn’t long after that she sent Edelin with a message to Aemond, requesting his presence. She then spent the evening pretending to read a book by the hearth, her thoughts adrift and her patience thinning as she waited anxiously for the door to open and reveal Aemond. Mertha sat beside her, diligently mending one of Daenera’s skirts, lips pursed in concentration. 

“You’ve been reading that page for a long time,” Mertha observed, her voice carrying over the rhythmic creaking of her rocking chair–a sound that only heightened Daenera’s irritation. “If you’re not going to read, you might as well work on your needlepoint. The gods know you needed the practice, and it helps keep the mind from wandering too far into restless pondering…”

Daenera glared up at Mertha, poised to retort sharply, when the doorknob turned, the door creaking open. She stood abruptly, dropping the book as she turned expectantly towards the door, only to feel a wave of disappointment wash over her when she saw that it was just Edelin. The girl’s expression was sheepish and apologetic. 

“Aemond?” Daenera asked hopefully, clinging to a sliver of hope that Edelin would convey some promising news. 

“I’m sorry, Princess,” Edelin replied gently. “He’s not coming tonight… I believe it’s been a long journey and he may need the rest. 

Daenera nodded, managing to mask her disappointment with a soft smile for the girl. “It has been a long day for me as well. Best I get some sleep too…”

As soon as the gates creaked open, Aemond’s gaze was mercilessly captured by her presence–her figure sharply silhouetted against the bleak setting of the landing, her features twisted into a scowl. Her eyes locked in a fiery exchange with Ser Criston Cole, her cheeks flushed with a hue that spoke more of irritation than warmth. A cruel ache wedged itself between Aemond’s ribs, his heart contorting at the sight of her waiting for him. 

The painful stirrings of longing mingled with a gnawing sense of foreboding as he urged his horse forward, forcefully tearing his gaze from her as he dismounted with a swift motion. He handed the reins to one of the stableboys, his movements brisk and impatient. Turning to another, he issued a sharp command, “Inform the Hand and my mother that they are to meet me in the council chambers.”

“Yes, my prince!” The younger stableboy replied eagerly, dashing off to carry out the order without delay. 

Aemond steeled his expression into an impassive facade, like ice over stone, effectively masking the inner chaos churning beneath his calm exterior. He marched toward the Keep, his stride purposeful and heavy, each forceful step on the gravel propelling him up the steps two at a time, narrowing the distance between him and Daenera–and the impending confrontation her presence promised. 

“Aemond…” Her voice faltered as he brushed past her without pause, his gaze fixed determinedly ahead, refusing to meet her eyes. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to stop, not to falter, and especially not to look back at her. 

“What happened?” She asked pointedly, seeking clarification. “Who does Storm’s End stand with?”

He clenched his jaw tighter, feeling the muscles work under the strain as his hands curled into tight fists. With a relentless place, he stormed up the remaining steps and pushed into the Keep, the sound of rustling skirts and quick footsteps echoing behind him. Despite his resolve, he was acutely aware of her following him, her presence as palpable as the tumultuous emotions he struggled to suppress. 

Aemond pressed forward, the clatter of his boots resonating along the staircase, determined not to stop or show any signs of what had transpired at Storm’s End. Despite her persistent inquiries, he kept moving, almost reaching the top of the stairs when he felt her hand slip into the crook of his arm, an unexpected touch that sent a jolt through him. Instinctively, he wrenched his arm away, unable to allow even a moment’s pause. 

“Stop, Aemond,” Daenera’s voice echoed up the stairwell, tinged with urgency and a hint of desperation. Her plea hung in the air, but Aemond hardened his resolve and continued his ascent. 

Aemond felt her presence block his way as she positioned herself squarely before him, her hand firmly grasping his arm. He could feel the intensity of her gaze, probing his expression for clues, her eyes imploring him to meet hers. He maintained his focus just over her head, fearing that any direct eye contact would betray the inner turmoil he harbored–feared that she would shee the culpability that stained him, fear that she would recognize the monster he felt he had become. 

He stood frozen, his heart pounding against the rigid armor of his chest, as Daenera’s voice softened to a whisper that carried a dangerous appeal. “Tell me, Aemond.”

Aemond clenched his jaw tighter, the muscles in his face straining as he fought against the urge to succumb to her plea–her tone had weaved a threat of desperation around Aemond’s heart, tugging at him, threatening to pull his gaze down towards hers. If he spoke now, if he allowed himself even a glance towards her, he feared that the truth would spill forth unbidden. He couldn’t afford to reveal everything, not here, amidst the prying eyes and ears that haunted the corridors of the Red Keep–news would reach them soon enough anyway. 

“Please,” Daenera’s voice was a whisper, yet it struck him with the force of a gale, chilling his heart with its desperation. 

Yet, despite the monster he had become, he wasn’t completely devoid of compassion–he would find a moment to tell her, in privacy, away from the walls that seemed to listen. With a painful effort, he swallowed the burgeoning confession, feeling it burn like acid in his gut. He moved past her with a brisk, determined stride, his path unyielding as he made his way to the sanctuary of the council chambers. 

Aemond let out a deep sigh as he shut the council chamber doors behind him, the solid wood providing a temporary shield from Daenera’s probing gaze. He was almost relieved. Almost. Leaning back against the sturdy barrier, he allowed his head to rest against it briefly, thumbing it softly in a mixture of frustration and exhaustion. With his eye closed, he took a deep breath, regaining the icy composure he had meticulously pieced together on his long journey from Storm’s End. 

Straightening up, he pushed away from the door, stepping deeper into the council chambers. The room was draped in shadows that stretched long and eerie as the sun sank below the horizon, casting the chamber into a dramatic scene painted with strokes of orange and red across the sky, almost mirroring the tumultuous thoughts swirling within him. The setting sun seemed to bleed forebodingly into the horizon.

Aemond’s heart thrummed uneasily against his ribs, a rhythm too forceful, too revealing of the turmoil within him. He despised the sensation–it laid bare his vulnerabilities. Tightening his hands into fists, he tried to quell the tremor that threatened to unmask his inner conflict, but the effort proved futile. The golden band encircling his finger felt constricting, a metallic grip that seemed to tighten with each beat of his heart. 

Lifting his hand to catch the dwindling light of the sin, he uncurled his fingers and ran a thumb over the ring’s lever. With a soft click, a needle-like blade sprung forth, its surface catching the last rays of the setting sun, transforming into a lethal sliver of light. The ring was diminutive, almost innocuous, yet deadly–a fitting emblem of their union as much as the scar that slashed across his palm. She had trusted him with its secret–a trust that now felt both precarious and perilous as he contemplated the path that lay ahead. 

The ring had become a dark emblem of her influence–a potent reminder of the poison that had, in a way, seeped into his own life. 

Her poison had seeped into his being, becoming something beyond its initial form–a torment on which he became dependent, both lethal and intoxicating. It was inherently a poison, yet it had evolved into something far more consuming and intricate. It was love–a force as perilous and all-encompassing as any poison, weaving through his very essence with devastating potency, reshaping everything in its wake. 

Now, Aemond grappled with the ruinous loss of that love–a love he had decimated with his own hands in the pursuit of vengeance. Part of him yearned to erase the memory of having ever known her intoxicating affection, to forget the sweetness of her poison, the comfort of her touch, and the profound connection of being truly seen. 

Aemond traced the needle’s sharp point with his fingertip, careful not to press too hard. His thoughts flittered to whether any of her deadly poison lingered on its edge, even after all these months, and if, by pressing harder, he might release it into his own blood. Could such a trace be lethal, even now?

He applied more pressure, the delicate skin of his finger bowing under the strain, nearly punctureing. The needle’s tip hovered menacingly close, threatening to break the surface, and as he pondered the grim possibility, the doors of the council chambers swung open, abruptly pulling his attention from the lethal contemplation. Swiftly, he clicked the needle back into its hidden sheath within the ring and clasped his hands behind his back to compose himself. 

The Hand of the King entered first, setting the pace for the others who followed closely behind. His mother, always dignified, made her way inside, accompanied by Aegon who made his way directly to the side table. The King poured himself a cup of wine with a casual indifference before taking his seat at the head of the table. 

“We didn’t expect you back so soon,” Otto commented, his gaze narrowed as he took his place with a practiced grace, settling into the chair. Alicent settled beside the King, at his left, turning to look expectantly upon Aemond.

The chamber filled quickly, the air thick with tension of the impending deliberations as Aemond readied himself to reveal what had transpired at Storm’s End, his heart still beating an uneasy rhythm.

“What did the fat stag say?” Aegon asked and reclined in his chair, his gaze shifting from his brother to a marble ball he spun idly in its holder, the grating noise of it echoing slightly in the chamber–a display of restless impatience, or even childish impertinence, that grated on Aemond’s nerves. 

Aemond moved closer to the table, his hand finding the back of a chair for support as he declared, “Storm’s End stands with us.”

Otto Hightower leaned back, a cautious approval evident in his posture, though his expression remained shrewd and calculating. His gaze lingered on Aemond, expectant. 

Aemond continued, his fingers fidgeting nervously, betraying his otherwise composed demeanor. “House Baratheon has pledged its swords and banners to us, sealed by a marriage alliance. Daeron’s bride has been chosen, one suitable and to his liking, I should think… And the dowry is agreed upon; we merely need to finalize the remaining terms.”

Otto Hightower’s voice cut sharply through the room, “You should have stayed at Storm’s End to secure the agreement. Why return prematurely?”

Maintaining his posture, Aemond faced his grandfather’s stern gaze, “As we neared finalizing the agreement, an envoy from our sweet half-sister arrived. She sent one of her bastards. Lord Borros did not take kindly to being reminded of his father’s oath and sent the bastard back to his mother.”

As Aemond fretted with the skin beside his thumbnail, a tangible sense of unease churned within him, intensifying as they edged closer to the disclosures of what had occurred at Storm’s End. He tried to suppress the growing anxiety, swallowing it down hard, allowing it to fester into a more familiar sensation–resentment and bitterness that simmered beneath his calm exterior. This nervous habit of his, often unnoticed, became a visible testament to the turmoil brooding inside as they awaited his next words. 

“Lucerys Velaryon is dead,” Aemond stated, his voice cutting clearly, his tone void of emotion. The impact was immediate–his mother’s face blanched, her eyes widening in shock, her lips parting as if to protest, but no words came. Even Aegon, usually indifferent, halted his fidgeting with the marble ball, his features tightening into a grimace that quickly twisted into a smirk of dark amusement. 

“I offered him a chance to settle his debt, to choose an eye, which was more than he ever afforded me,” Aemond continued, his gaze icy as he recounted the encounter. “But he fled, proving himself the coward I knew him to be, unable to face his fate.”

“What did you do?” Alicent muttered, hand fluttering to her mouth as her eyes widened in horror. “What did you do, Aemond?”

“I chased after him…” He began, feeling that thing with teeth and claws within him stir, felt the bitterness coil in the festering pit of his stomach. 

Aemond had only meant to instill fear, nothing beyond that–a mere echo of the terror he had endured when his eye was taken. He suppressed the admission, burying it deep within the recesses of his mind where it churned silently beneath the surface. 

His glance shifted towards Aegon, whose expression mixed surprise with dark delight, the kind of amusement that comes in witnessing another's misfortune, relieved to be free from the weight of judgment for once. 

Aemond endured their scrutinizing gazes, the weight of their judgment pressing heavily upon his shoulders. As he faced them, a cruel and calculating resolve crystallized within him. He refused to confess to any loss of control, to any unintended consequences to his folly. He had wanted Lucerys dead, and now he was. He forced any conflict–any hesitancy and emotion–out of his voice as he spoke, “I killed Lucerys.”

Alicent’s response was a whisper, a prayer of disbelief and dread mingling in the air. 

“Mother have mercy on us all,” she murmured, her hands rising to cover her face, fingers threading through her hair in a gesture of despair. Her body seemed to fold inward, embodying the shock and grief that Aemond’s actions had wrought upon them. 

“You only lost one eye,” Otto muttered, his voice laced with exasperation and his gaze sharp and unforgiving. “How could you be so blind?”

The accusation cut deep, sending a sharp pang through Aemond’s head. He clenched his jaw, forcefully swallowing the sharp bite of his pain as it ebbed away almost as swiftly as it had surged. 

“Do you grasp the magnitude of your actions?” Alicent’s voice trembled as she lifted her head, her expression etched with despair. She shook her head slowly, her eyes locked onto her son with a mixture of disbelief and sorrow–a dejected look that almost seemed as though she didn’t recognize him. “There will be no negotiations now–no surrender. This means war.”

“War was inevitable,” Aemond stated, repeating the words that had become all too familiar, as if using it as a shield against his mother’s reproach. He was convinced of it, certain that conflict would have erupted whether Lucerys had lived or died. In his view, his actions had merely accelerated the inevitable. 

“We may have been able to avoid war had you not–” Alicent interjected, her words trailing off as she shook her head more vigorously, her lips pressed tightly together in frustration. She glanced upward, as if seeking guidance from the gods, her expression one of exasperation.

Aegon reclined in his chair, absently swirling his goblet of wine. He watched the liquid dance within the glass before speaking nonchalantly, “I fail to see the cause for such uproar. The best kind of bastard is a dead one–and now we have one fewer to worry about.” 

Alicent turned sharply towards him, her voice sharp with urgency, “Rhaenyra will not be swayed by reason now; she will seek vengeance for the son he slew. And she will seek your crown with the same kind of fervor. There will be no peace now, Aegon, no compromise.”

Dragging his gaze from the crimson swirls in his goblet, Aegon lifted his eyes to meet his mothers, musing, “Good. I want them attained, I want them arrested and I want them dead.”

Alicent sighed deeply, her gaze flickering back to Aemond with a mixture of frustration and concern. “No sin weighs more heavily than that of kinslaying. And no man is so accused as the kinslayer.”

He watched his mother’s hands twist together in an agonized plea, her knuckles white as she seemed to silently implore the gods for clemency on his behalf. Yet, in his heart, Aemond felt a disconnect; he was convinced that any divine favor had long since abandoned him–years ago, when they seemed to have punished him for claiming what was his to claim. 

Alicent’s voice quivered with a mix of desperation and realization as she broached the potential escape from the damning truth. “If we claim it was an accident, a mere folly gone awry–” Her tone betrayed her as she spoke, conceding that no such admission could soften the grim reality of his actions. 

The mere suggestion irritated Aemond, even if it was the truth. His response was sharp, his voice slicing through the tension, “I pursued him. I killed him. To claim otherwise would be a falsehood.”

“It would brand you a kinslayer!” 

“He would be a kinslayer no matter the circumstances,” Otto said, his voice cutting through the tense air as he fixed his cold gaze on Aemond. “It is better to be a kinslayer than a boy who cannot control his dragon.” 

Alicent’s eyes snapped up, gaze narrowing at her father, “You cannot mean that.”

He returned her gaze, exhaling slowly, “Soon, the realm will hear of Lucerys’ death,” he turned his eyes to Aemond, “And your role in it. Whether it was your intention or a mishap, you will bear the title of kinslayer.”

Aemond bit the inside of his cheek to the point that the metallic taste of copper spilled onto his tongue, the new epithet searing into his identity as fiercely as ‘Aemond One-Eye’ once had. Now, he would also be known as ‘Aemond the Kinslayer.’ In the eyes of the realm, he was now marked as a kinslayer, reduced to a single, damning term that would overshadow all else. The intricacies of his motives, whether his encounter had been seeking justice for what had been done to him or a lapse into vengeance, were immaterial to those who would judge him–and all would judge him.

“We must prevent any rumors that we cannot manage our dragons,” Otto continued, his words almost an indictment against Aemond–as though he could see the lie hidden beneath his mask. “How can the people trust us to protect them if we appear unable to control our own beasts? This would only lend credibility to Rhaenyra and her bastards should it get out, and it would cast a pall over our legitimacy to rule.”

His gaze was icy as it locked onto Aemond’s. “You made a choice, Aemond. You killed Lucerys Velaryon, and your actions have reshaped the very nature of this conflict. This is no longer a mere war of ravens; it will be fought by dragons now.”

Silence engulfed the room as the full weight of the situation descended upon them, the sky outside transitioning into a deep twilight, the fiery hues of sunset extinguished. The chamber was shrouded in a gathering gloom, each figure lost in contemplation. 

Otto leaned back, his demeanor outwardly calm but a finger rhythmically tapping the armrest betraying his inner turmoil–or perhaps it was the restlessness of a mind at work. Alicent, overwhelmed, buried her face in her hands, elbows propped on the table, her posture one of defeat. Aegon, on the other hand, grimaced as he peered into his empty wine goblet, his brows arched in a mixture of frustration and resignation, tipping the goblet to watch the last few drops swirl, evidently displeased it offered no more solace. 

Aemond maintained his composure, suppressing any internal chaos beneath an impenetrable facade of stoicism, like entombing turmoil deep within a crypt, sealed in a casket of stone. He pushed down his emotions, ignoring their desperate clawing from within their confinement, threatening to break free.

If judgment was to be passed for the blood on his hands, Aemond resolved to wield it like armor–a shield, a mask, a sword if he had to. Throughout the long ride back to King’s Landing, he had felt the mask he so meticulously crafted mold into his features, its edges and contours fitting to his face with an icy steeliness. It seemed to cool his expression, hardening something deep within his core. 

He would grow to fit the mask, he thought, and at some point, perhaps, it wouldn’t chafe as it did. 

“Daenera will seek vengeance for this.” Alicent raised her head, her hands falling heavily onto the table with a thud that echoed her resignation. Her eyes, weary and filled with a somber realization, met Aemond’s as she spoke, “The marriage cannot go through now–”

“Who else would have him? No respectable lord would marry his daughter to a kinslayer.” He paused, his gaze piercing as he continued, “The marriage must proceed as arranged for now.”

Aemond traced the rough texture of his cheek with his tongue, feeling the sting where his teeth had bitten into the flesh, the copper taste of blood mingling with his bitterness. His hand slipped from the chair’s back to rest at his side, toying discreetly with the hidden lever of his ring’s needle. A painful twist clenched at his heart, and he pressed down harder, forcing the lid of the coffin of his emotions to remain shut–pressed down on the lever, letting the needle spring forth.

“But she will kill him!” Alicent exclaimed, her voice sharp with frustration, almost bordering on desperation. “Once she learns he’s responsible for her brother’s death, there’s no doubt she’ll seek vengeance. She will kill him.”

Aemond barely registered his mother’s voice echoing through the chamber, lost as he was in the sharp, oddly comforting sensation of the needle puncturing his skin. He gently pressed the pad of his finger against the fine point, increasing the pressure gradually. His skin yielded to the sharpness, and as the needle sunk deeper, he noted the sting, familiar and curiously distant. The pain was not immediate, rather it crept slowly, a nagging throb that was almost soothing in its presence. As the needle embedded itself further, a fleeting thought crossed his mind–how potent would any remaining poison be, and how quickly might it act, if at all?

Otto remained undisturbed by his daughter’s concerns, and remarked coolly, “We still hold her men in our dungeons.”

“Daenera won’t be swayed by threats against her men or even herself; she will stop at nothing to avenge her brother’s death,” Alicent said, her voice trembling with urgency. 

Returning his focus to Aemond, Otto spoke with calculated firmness, “This is your responsibility. You will tell her of her brother’s demise, and you will make it clear that the marriage is still set to proceed. Make sure she understands the full implications of any rash actions against you.”

Aemond responded with a terse nod, withdrawing his fingers from the needle’s sharp embrace. A bead of blood welled up at the puncture site, staining his skin as he clenched his fist tightly, the crimson trace marring his pale flesh. 

“Come morning, the realm will have been altered to the vents at Storm’s End,” Otto continued with a grave, weary tone. “Lucerys Velaryon’s demise will create a divide. Your longstanding animosity with the boy will frame this as an act of vengeance. However, we must assert it as a legitimate conflict, one in which you emerged victorious. The name ‘kinslayer’ will be attached to your name, regardless. We must brace ourselves for the backlash, and prepare for Rhaenyra and Daemon’s retaliation.”

Aegon expelled a theatrical sigh, heaving himself from his seat. “All this talk of kinslaying and marriage is moot! We should be celebrating, brother. I shall host a grand feast in honor of your victory!”

“You will do no such thing,” Alicent countered, her voice laden with sharp disapproval. “Celebrating your brother with a feast for the demise of your nephew would be seen as a grave insult. It would be viewed as callus and vile, an act of sheer cruelty. Rhaenyra will perceive it as nothing less than further provocation!”

Otto added his own thoughts on the matter, “I would strongly advise against such an action–”

“My brother won a great victory, did he not?” Aegon interjected, his voice rising in challenge against his grandfather and mother. “I desire to honor my brother for slaying the bastard who maimed him. Aemond faced our enemy and triumphed; he is as much a hero as he is a kinslayer. It’s one less bastard to worry about.”

Aemond was torn between gratitude and dread at his brother’s show of support. Aegon approached him, clapping a hand on his shoulder with a firm squeeze. 

“Well done, brother,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of pride and challenge. Aemond felt the weight of the gesture, knowing it tied him even closer to the actions that had transpired at Storm’s End. 

Otto rose from his chair, his voice carrying an authoritative undertone as he announced, “I will notify the council and summon them for a meeting at dawn.”

The council chamber began to empty, with Otto exiting first, his steps resolute. Alicent followed, her face etched with weariness and concern, casting a lingering glance back at her sons. 

Aegon lingered beside Aemond, pausing until the heavy doors clanged shut behind their mother. He leaned in slightly, his voice a low rumble. 

“The bastard had it coming,” he offered. “It was justice.”

Aemond remained silent, his eye searching his brother’s face for his intent. 

“It was bound to lead to war soon or late,” Aegon added with a shrug, his tone pragmatic. “We struck first blood, and we’ll be the ones to strike the last.” 

With another pat on his shoulders, Aegon turned and strode out of the room, leaving Aemond alone with his thoughts. He stood motionless, his gaze fixed through the window overlooking the sprawling cityscape with Blackwater Bay shimmering along one edge. Below, the city lay in innocent ignorance of the grim shadow cast by his actions. They were still on the precipice, the full reality of war not yet upon them. To them, he was still Aemond ‘One-Eye,’ the moniker of ‘Kinslayer’ not yet whispered through the corridors or shouted in the streets. Yet, the damning title was already branded deep within him, scorched into the very essence of who he was as indelibly as the scar that marred his face. 

Aemond left the council chambers, the heavy doors closing with a thud that echoed down the deserted corridors. He half expected to find Daenera standing outside, refusing to move before she’d gotten the answers she was looking for. The quiet of the Red Keep enveloped him, a stark contrast to the earlier tension. The evening’s chill seeped through the stonework as he walked towards Maegor’s Holdfast, the twilight shadows casting long, dark figures against the ancient walls.

The silence persisted, heavy and expectant, as if the castle itself held its breath, unaware of the storm brewing in its halls. He ascended the grand staircase of the Holdfast, his footsteps resounding with a solemnity that matched his mood, reaching the corridor leading to his own chambers when a hesitant voice broke through his contemplation. 

“The princess wishes to see you, my prince. She insists,” a young servant girl said, her voice a whisper against the stillness. Aemond paused, turning to face her. Her eyes darted nervously under his gaze, her stance uneasy as she waited for his response. 

Aemond’s gaze wandered down the dimly lit corridor, his heart constricting with the dread of the news he carried to Daenera. The mere thought of the anguish that would cloud her features as he spoke chilled him to the marrow. He swallowed hard, the weight of his steps heavy as he approached her chambers. Pausing just outside her door, his hand lingered over he handle, hesitating. 

Inside, Daenera remained ignorant to his actions–her world was still whole, her brother still alive in her mind. She would greet him with those gentle blue eyes, still untainted by the shadows of grief. The thought of shattering that peace held him frozen at the threshold. Not yet, he thought. He couldn’t bear to tear away her bliss just yet. 

Aemond retreated from Daenera’s door, the act of turning the knob and facing her too daunting. He considered it a small act of kindness–to spare her the crushing weight of the truth for just a little longer. He would grant her one more night of innocence, one final evening of peace before the storm of grief struck–before he would have to confront her inevitable fury, before he would witness the light within her eyes dim with the realization of his cruelty. Aemond knew the time would come when he must face Daenera and see the trust they had nurtured crumble into dust. This dread settled heavily in his chest, a prelude to the storm of accusation and pain that would soon sweep through her, extinguishing whatever warmth had once flickered between them.

With a heavy heart, he turned and made his way back down the corridor towards his own quarters. Behind him, the voice of the servant girl hesitated, her tone tinged with confusion and concern, “My Prince? The–the princess…”

Her voice trailed off as he continued walking, lost in his own tumultuous thoughts, leaving the echoes of what was yet unsaid hanging in the cool air of the hallway. 

Aemond didn’t halt his stride until he was safely inside his own chambers. With a deep sigh, he shut the door behind him, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet of the room. Methodically, he began to shed his attire; first, his coat, then the sword and belt which he laid carefully across a chair. Finally, he removed his leather doublet, letting it fall with a soft thud onto the same chair. Left in only his billowing white tunic, he felt the fabric’s coolness against his skin. 

Aemond poured himself a cup of wine, desperate to wash away the bitter, metallic taste that clung to his tongue. He stared at the cup, the wine swirling within, contemplating the temptation to drown his unease as Aegon often did–finding comfort in the bottom of his cups. His throat tightened, his mouth parched by the thought, yet he forced himself to swallow the wine. It was a vain attempt to wash away the acrid taste that seemed to permeate his senses. The wine almost burned down his throat and settled heavily in his stomach. Setting the cup down with a decisive clunk, he moved towards the water basin. 

He tossed his eyepatch onto the table beside the basin, the leather landing with a soft thud. Leaning over, he scooped up handfuls of cold water and splashed it against his face, trying to cleanse away the day’s grime and the weight of his deeds. 

The water ran in rivulets down his scarred cheek, each droplet stinging his skin like fire. Ever since the moment Vhagar had closed her jaws around Lucerys and Arrax, his scar throbbed incessantly–a relentless reminder of the horror he had wrought. The pain seemed to seep deeper with each heartbeat, as if the dragon’s fire still lingered beneath his flesh, a smoldering ember that refused to be extinguished. 

Exhausted, he leaned heavily against the edge of the table, his gaze lifting to meet his own reflection in the mirror mounted above. He stared into his own eyes, confronting the harsh line of the scar that cruelly slashed across his face–through muscle and bone–a visible mark of brutality. He studied the jagged scarring that framed his sapphire eye, catching the icy gleam within. 

Lucerys had branded him a monster long before; was it any wonder, then, that he acted as one?

Aemond tried to convince himself that it had been justice, what he had done. He had offered Lucerys the opportunity to atone, to rectify the past, to repay the debt of pain. If only the bastard had possessed the courage to accept the consequences of his actions, to suffer as Aemond had, then none of this would have been necessary.

He wouldn’t have had to pursue him, wouldn’t have had to exact the justice that had been denied to him for so long–if only his father had possessed the fortitude to administer justice when it mattered, then perhaps the gnawing sense of injustice wouldn’t have fermented into a dark, vengeful force with claws and teeth, a beast birthed from years of pain and humiliation–a monster with a taste for cruelty. 

Lucerys Velaryon had made him into this. First, with a dagger that left him permanently scarred, and now, with his death. 

Aemond consoled himself with the thought that had Arrax not provoked Vhagar by attacking her, Lucerys would still be alive. In his mind, it was Lucerys’s own actions that had sealed his fate, not Aemond’s. This rationalization served as a cold comfort–not a comfort at all–a way to swift the burden of guilt from his own shoulders.

Vhagar had delivered the justice he had been too restrained to claim for himself. There was no room for regret over the act itself in his mind, yet the repercussions it would have on Daenera haunted him.

His gaze dropped to his hand, noticing the smear of blood, not diluted by water, where the needle had pierced his skin, leaving a mark resembling a bruise. He was still alive–not poisoned then. With deliberate pressure, he pressed his thumb against the small wound, breaking the skin anew. A fresh drop of blood emerged, which he methodically smeared across his finger. 

The inevitability of losing her was almost too much to bear. He dreaded the moment she would look upon him and see the monster he had become. Those beautiful blue eyes that had once gazed at him with warmth, that had seen past the blood on his hands and the scar on his face, would turn cold and dim. These were the eyes that had sparkled with amusement in lighter moments, that had flashed with fiery challenge during their spares. Now, he feared, they would only reflect back his monstrous deeds. 

His heart contorted with pain, as if invisible claws were tearing into the soft tissue, shredding every fiber with ruthless precision. The chilling dread of Daenera turning away from him, seeing him as only a monster, was nearly unbearable. He clung to the slim consolation he could provide–one more night where, in her world, her brother was still alive. 

It was the only mercy he could afford her now, and even that felt like a coward’s gift. 

He was a kinslayer, marked not just by the world, but by his own damning reflection. 

The stone coffin of Aemond’s suppressed emotions cracked, unleashing a tempest of chaos and pain that felt like poison coursing through his veins. Resentment ignited within his chest, and fear and despair coiled tightly around his lungs, constricting his breath. 

Blinding  pain erupted behind the sapphire, beginning as a vicious scratch within his skull before it transformed into an explosive force than nearly crippled him–it reminded him of the pain he felt when they had reopened the wound to remove the festering eyelid and limit the scar tissue, scraping at the inside of his socket to clean it out. 

Overwhelmed by this onslaught of agony and frustration, Aemond lashed out in a fit of fury. His arm swept across the table in a violent arc, colliding with the basin with such force that it crashed to the floor, sending water splashing across the stone. 

Aemond clutched the edges of the table, his knuckles whitening as he resisted the surge of pain that throbbed through his head, vivid enough to make the wine in his stomach churn. With a grunt, he pushed away, staggering towards the cupboard. He fling its doors open, his movements frantic as he searched the shelves. His fingers finally close around the cold glass of a small bottle. 

Returning to the table, Aemond poured another cup of wine, his hands unsteady. He then carefully added a few drops from the green bottle into the dark liquid. The relief he once found in Daenera’s touch was a distant memory, replaced by this bitter necessity. 

He knocked back the wine, wincing at its newly acquired earthy bitterness, reminiscent of wet leaves rotting on the forest floor. Setting the cup down with a clatter, Aemond massaged his brow with the heel of his hand, the other hand bracing against the table. 

He walked slowly back to his bedchamber, each step a battle against the pain. Collapsing onto the mattress, he lay back, eye staring at the canopy above as he willed the pain relief to drag him into a deep, dreamless slumber, far from the reality that awaited him in the morning. 

[mymiraclebox]

Why is the Prodigious canonically more powerful than the Miraculouses? Like Nooroo full on says: "It is for good reason that the Prodigious was abandoned in favor of the Miraculous! It was secured in that cave because it is too powerful, too dangerous!" and I just... don't see it?

Like don't get me wrong, being able to transform into animals is an awesome power, but how is it more powerful and more dangerous than the Miraculouses? The Peacock alone can create animals to fight and many other beings, we've seen the Butterfly give the power of shapeshifting to one not even using a Miraculous, and the elemental powers one gets in dragon form is the same as the Dragon Miraculous. And all of this is not considering the many other powers the canon Miraculouses can do, and who knows what the other Miraculouses not seen in the show can do as well!

Then to actually use the Prodigious you have to possess the value each Renling has to even transform! With the Miraculouses anyone with any intent or any values can transform and use the powers by just knowing the right words, words they can order the kwami to tell them with no resistance! Kwamis are forced to the whims of their holders with just a few words, while the Prodigious gets a whole powerful guardian to protect it and deem who is worthy to wield it? Why don't the Miraculouses get that level of protection?

Then finally with the Miraculouses we have the Wish with Tikki and Plagg's Miraculouses. You're telling me the ability to completely destroy the universe and recreate it at one's own whims is less powerful than shapeshifting? That the shapeshifting powers are the ones that needed to be sealed away in the cave but literal universe-ending powers didn't?

[kckt88]

The Lost Dragon 2 - War.

Summary: The Queen and her King go to war and a dragon is lost.

Warnings - Angst, Drama, Allusion to Smut, Fighting, Dragons, Fire, War, Injury, Blood Loss, Character Death.

AEMOND TARGARYEN x O.C -VAELYS TARGARYEN

Word Count: 4000

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9

The Targaryen army had been assembled, their banners fluttering proudly in the breeze as they prepared to march.

Meanwhile, the Velaryon fleet, led by Jace, were already enroute to Rain House, where they would rendezvous before launching their assault on the Triarchy.

In the war room of the Red Keep, final preparations were underway as commanders and strategists laid out their plans for the coming campaign. Maps were spread out on the table, battle plans meticulously drawn, and orders issued to the troops.

Vaelys and Aemond stood at the head of the table, their expressions grave yet determined. "This is it," Aemond declared, his voice carrying a note of resolve. "The time has come to put an end to the threat of the Triarchy once and for all."

Vaelys nodded in agreement, her eyes shining with determination. "Our forces are ready, our resolve unwavering," she affirmed. "Together, we will ensure the safety and security of our realm."

With a shared nod of understanding, they turned to leave the war room, ready to lead their troops into battle. As they stepped out into the courtyard of the Red Keep, they were met with the sight of their army.

Sovia and Daevyn stood beside Alysanne, their gazes lingering on the assembled forces.

“We leave you in charge-Should the worst happen then Alysanne will be at your side to guide you both“ said Vaelys firmly.

“I pray the worst does not happen and that you both return to us” said Sovia as she hugged her mother and father in turn.

“I will do everything in my power to see your mother safe byka grēges” whispered Aemond (Little bug).

“-And you Kepa” replied Sovia (Father).

“I will do my best-now son I expect you to assume my duties in my absence and we will send word as soon as the Triarchy have been dealt with” said Aemond firmly.

“Perzys se ānogar” urged Daevyn (Fire and blood).

“As always my son-” replied Aemond.

With one last farewell, Aemond and Vaelys checked their armour and made their way to their dragons.

With practiced ease, Aemond ascended the rope ladder and chained himself into Vhagar's saddle, his movements fluid and confident. Vaelys followed suit, gracefully climbing onto Vermithor's back, her heart pounding with anticipation.

With a silent command, Vhagar lifted into the air, her powerful wings beating against the wind as she soared into the sky. Vermithor followed close behind, his wings slicing through the air with effortless grace.

With Vhagar and Vermithor leading the way, they flew over the head of their army, their dragons' roars echoing through the air as they escorted their forces to Rain House.

After many hours of travel Vhagar and Vermithor finally descended upon Rain House, their powerful wings beating against the air, Aemond and Vaelys guided their dragons to a smooth landing in the open field.

The Targaryen army followed closely behind, their banners fluttering in the breeze as they formed ranks on the ground below.

With a graceful dismount, Aemond landed on the soft grass, his eye scanning the area for any signs of danger. Vaelys followed suit, her movements fluid and confident as she slid down from Vermithor's back.

The air was filled with a sense of anticipation as the Targaryen forces made camp for the night, setting up tents and lighting fires to ward off the chill of the evening air.

The sounds of horses trotting and soldiers talking filled the air, mingling with the crackle of flames and the occasional roar of the dragons.

Aemond and Vaelys moved through the camp together, their presence instilling a sense of confidence and determination in their troops. They checked in with their commanders, ensuring that all preparations were in place for the coming battle, and offering words of encouragement to all of their soldiers.

As night fell and the stars began to twinkle in the sky above, Aemond and Vaelys stood side by side, gazing out over the camp below.

That night, Aemond whisked his wife off to their tent and spent the night thrusting his hard cock into her.

His mouth sucking on her rosy nipples as she slowly rode him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders as they sat in the middle of the bed, the second time her took her, his harsh thrusts as he fucked her relentlessly from behind, his pace never wavering. His fingers digging into the flesh of her hips.

The third time, it was slow, passionate and loving. Even after he spilled his seed, he kept his cock inside his wife. Never wanting to leave her warmth.

The night was for them, as tomorrow the would face the Triarchy and they would see an end to the rebellion once and for all.

As the Targaryen and Velaryon forces engaged the Triarchy in battle, the clash of steel and the roar of dragons filled the air. The sky above the step stones became a battlefield as Vhagar, Vermithor, and Vermax descended upon the enemy fleet.

As much as they had surprised the Triarchy with their attack the Triarchy had still been prepared.

Their number far exceeding what they had originally been led to believe.

They had learned from their previous encounters with the dragons Caraxes and Seasmoke and had mounted scorpions to the bows of their ships, firing huge crossbow bolts at the dragons.

As the sharpened bolts flew through the air, Vhagar, being the largest target, became the primary focus of the Triarchy's assault.

Vaelys watched with growing concern as the bolts came dangerously close to injuring both Vhagar and Aemond.

Realizing the danger, Vaelys knew that she had to act swiftly to protect her husband and their dragons.

With a firm command, she ordered Aemond and Vhagar to stay back and cover their men over the land, while she and Vermithor would deal with the enemy fleet upon the seas alongside Jace and Vermax.

Aemond hesitated for a moment, torn between his duty to protect his men and his desire to fight alongside his wife.

But he knew that Vaelys was right. Vhagar was too large a target, and they couldn't risk losing her in the heat of battle.

With a heavy heart, Aemond nodded in agreement, his jaw set with determination. As Vhagar banked away from the fray, Aemond prepared to lead their ground forces into battle, his mind focused on the task at hand.

Meanwhile, Vaelys and Vermithor joined forces with Jace and Vermax, their dragons unleashing torrents of fire upon the enemy ships, their roars echoing through the air as they fought with all their might to turn the tide of battle in their favour.

But the number of Triarchy forces seemed unending, when one group fell more rose in their place.

As the battle raged on, Vermithor unleashed torrents of fire upon the sea born Triarchy ships, his roars echoing through the air as he wreaked havoc upon their fleet. The enemy vessels were engulfed in flames, their crews scrambling in a desperate attempt to escape the dragon's wrath.

Some of the Triarchy ships even made attempts to flee, but they were met with resistance from the Velaryon fleet, their ships forming a blockade to prevent any escape.

Meanwhile, Vermax soared overhead, his powerful wings beating against the wind as he searched for any remaining enemies.

But then, disaster struck.

A bolt from one of the Triarchy's scorpions found its mark, striking Vermax. The dragon roared in pain as he plummeted from the sky, crashing into the ground with a deafening thud.

Vaelys tried to fly after her brother and his dragon, but a bolt just narrowly missed her, and she had no choice but to manoeuvre Vermithor out of the way, she directed her bronze fury to fly higher in the sky, using the sun to her advantage.

She advanced upon the remainder of the Triarchy forces on the sea, Vermithor unleashing his flame upon them.

Dragon and rider working together, to rid themselves of the enemy and protect the Velaryon fleet.

With a swift command, Aemond guided Vhagar to land beside the fallen dragon, his mind racing with concern.

As they landed, Aemond hurried to Jace's side, his heart pounding in his chest as he checked for any signs of injury.

Jace was dazed but alive, his eyes wide with shock as he struggled to comprehend what had happened.

Meanwhile, Vermax lay on the ground, his massive form wracked with pain as he struggled to rise, his wing was broken from the collision, rendering him unable to fly.

“VERMAX” shouted Jace as he quickly freed himself from his chains and hauled himself to his feet.

“-His wing is broken” replied Aemond.

“D-Do you think he’ll be ok?” asked Jace worriedly.

“He’ll be fine-so long as we see an end to these cunts first” exclaimed Aemond as he unsheathed his sword, the darkened blade gleaming in the sunlight as he charged into the fray.

The Triarchy's ground forces surged forward to meet him, their weapons drawn, and their faces twisted in expressions of hatred and rage.

But Aemond was undaunted. With years of training as a swordsman and his experience with the Dothraki during his time in exile, he moved with speed and precision, his sword flashing through the air as he cut through his enemies with ease.

His movements were fluid and graceful, his strikes deadly and efficient as he engaged the enemy forces on the ground.

Beside him, Jace fought with equal ferocity, his own sword flashing in the sunlight as he stood shoulder to shoulder with his uncle. Together, they formed a formidable team, their swords singing as they clashed with the enemy, their movements complementing each other perfectly as they fought side by side.

Meanwhile, Vhagar hovered protectively over Vermax, her massive form casting a shadow over the injured dragon as she kept a watchful eye on their surroundings, ready to breathe fire on any who dared approach.

As the battle raged on, Aemond and Jace fought with unwavering determination, their swords flashing in the sunlight as they cut down their enemies with skill and precision.

As Aemond fought valiantly against the Triarchy forces, his sword slicing through the air with deadly intent, he suddenly felt a searing pain shoot through his leg.

With a gasp of agony, he stumbled backward, his balance faltering as he fell to his knees.

The world spun around him as he clutched at his wounded leg, blood seeping through the fabric of his breeches as he struggled to stay upright.

The clang of steel and the shouts of battle faded into the background as he fought to stay conscious, his vision swimming with waves of pain.

Beside him, Jace's voice rang out in alarm, his nephew's sword flashing as he fought to defend his uncle from the enemy forces.

But Aemond could hardly hear him over the pounding of his own heart, the pain in his leg threatening to overwhelm him.

With a grimace of determination, Aemond gritted his teeth and forced himself to push through the pain. Summoning every ounce of strength he possessed, he pushed himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his sword for support as he prepared to rejoin the fray.

But even as he struggled to rise, the pain in his leg refused to abate, shooting through him like a bolt of lightning with every movement.

As Aemond struggled to his feet, clutching his wounded leg, a group of Triarchy men advanced on him, their weapons drawn. With a grim determination, they loomed over him, their eyes glinting with a cruel intent.

Before Aemond could react, two of the Triarchy's men drew their bow's and fired arrows directly at him.

With a sickening thud, the arrows struck Aemond, one in the shoulder and one in his side. A cry of pain escaped his lips as he stumbled backward, the force of the impact driving him to his knees once more.

His weight braced on Blackfyre, Aemond fought to maintain his composure despite the searing pain coursing through his body. Blood oozed from the wounds, staining his armour crimson as he gritted his teeth against the agony.

With every ounce of strength he could muster, Aemond forced himself to remain upright, his grip on Blackfyre tightening as he prepared to defend himself against the advancing enemy.

Despite the odds stacked against him, his resolve remained unbroken, his eye blazing with defiance as he faced his enemies head-on.

But even as he prepared to meet his attackers, Aemond knew that he was wounded and vulnerable, his movements slowed by the stinging pain radiating from his leg and body.

As Aemond braced himself for the impending attack, one of the Triarchy men raised his bow and took aim directly at his heart.

With a swift motion, he released the arrow, the deadly projectile hurtling through the air.

But just as the arrow was about to strike Aemond, Jace shoved him to the ground.

The arrow struck Jace's chest with a sickening thud, and he crumpled to the ground.

Time seemed to stand still as Aemond stared in shock at his fallen nephew, his heart wrenching with grief and disbelief.

His mind raced with a whirlwind of emotions, from horror and despair to a burning fury that threatened to consume him.

With trembling hands, Aemond reached out to Jace, his fingers brushing against his nephew's prone body.

Tears stung his eye as he realized the extent of the sacrifice Jace had made to save him, and he felt a profound sense of guilt wash over him.

With a primal roar of rage and grief, Aemond launched himself at the Triarchy men, Blackfyre, flashing in the sunlight as he cut through them with swift and deadly strokes.

His movements were fuelled by a fierce determination to avenge his fallen nephew, each blow landing with the force of his sorrow and fury.

One by one, the Triarchy men fell before him, their cries of pain drowned out by the thundering beat of his heart. With every swing of his sword, Aemond unleashed his wrath upon them, his grief giving way to a burning desire for vengeance.

Finally, the last of the Triarchy men lay defeated at his feet, their lifeless bodies scattered across the battlefield.

With a heaving breath, Aemond cast his sword aside, his grief bearing down upon him like a crushing weight.

Rushing back to Jace's side, Aemond gathered his nephew into his arms, his heart breaking at the sight of the young man gasping for breath, his life slipping away before his eye.

"Why, Jace? Why did you sacrifice yourself?" Aemond demanded, his voice trembling with emotion as he searched his nephew's eyes for answers.

Jace's breath came in ragged gasps, his strength fading with each passing moment. With a faint smile, he reached out to take Aemond’s hand, his fingers cold against his uncle's skin.

"F-For h-her. I-I w-was w-wrong a-about y-you-" mumbled Jace, his voice barely a whisper as he struggled to speak. And with those words, his hand fell limp, his breath ceasing as he passed away in his uncle's arms.

Aemond was silent, his grief overwhelming as he held Jace's lifeless body close to his chest. Tears streamed down his face as he mourned the loss of his nephew.

As the last of the Triarchy forces fell before the might of the Targaryen and Velaryon armies, victory was finally theirs.

The battlefield lay strewn with the fallen, a grim testament to the cost of war. But amidst the carnage, the banners of House Targaryen and House Velaryon flew proudly, their victory hard-won but well-deserved.

Vaelys descended from the sky on Vermithor's back, her heart pounding with a mixture of relief and dread. As she landed not far from where Aemond knelt, cradling Jace's lifeless body in his arms, she caught sight of her brother and her heart stopped.

"JACAERYS" screamed Vaelys as she dismounted from Vermithor in a rush, her legs shaking beneath her as she stumbled toward Aemond and Jace, her mind reeling with shock.

"Aemond!" she cried; her voice raw with anguish as she fell to her knees beside them. "No, no, gods, no!"

Her hands reached out, trembling as they hovered over Jace's lifeless form, her heart breaking at the sight of her beloved brother lying so still and cold.

Tears streamed down her face as she looked up at Aemond, her eyes filled with a mixture of grief and accusation.

"Aemond, what happened?" she demanded, her voice choked with emotion. "What happened to him?"

Aemond's gaze met hers, his eyes filled with sorrow as he held Jace's body close to his chest. "He-he saved me," he whispered hoarsely, his voice thick with grief. "He sacrificed himself to save me."

Vaelys' heart clenched at the words, her grief threatening to consume her. She reached out to touch Jace's face, her fingers brushing against his cold skin as she whispered a prayer to the gods of old Valyria for his soul.

As Aemond knelt beside Jace's lifeless body, cradling his nephew in his arms, he felt a sudden wave of dizziness wash over him. His vision blurred, the edges of his sight fading into darkness as the blood loss from his wounds finally began to take its toll.

Through the haze, he could hear Vaelys' voice, her screams of anguish echoing in his ears like a distant echo. "Aemond! Aemond, stay with me!" she cried, her voice filled with desperation and fear.

But Aemond could no longer hold on.

His strength failed him, and he collapsed to the ground, his body trembling with exhaustion and pain.

The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was Vaelys' face.

Vaelys paced back and forth in the dimly lit tent, her heart heavy with worry as she watched the Maesters tend to Aemond's wounds. Her braided hair was a tangled mess, strands of silver falling loose around her face, and her clothes were stained with soot and ash from the battlefield.

With every step she took, her mind raced with fear and uncertainty. Aemond lay unconscious on the cot before her, his face pale and drawn, his breathing shallow and laboured.

The Maesters worked with practiced hands, their faces grave as they tended to his injuries, but their expressions betrayed their concern.

Vaelys couldn't bear to look away from Aemond, her eyes fixed on his still form as she silently prayed for his recovery. Her heart ached with worry, her thoughts consumed by the possibility of losing him, and she felt a rising tide of panic threatening to overwhelm her.

But she pushed aside her fear, forcing herself to focus on the present moment. She paced back and forth, her footsteps echoing in the quiet confines of the tent, her mind racing with a thousand unanswered questions.

Hours passed in tense silence, the only sounds the muted voices of the Maesters and the soft rustle of fabric as Vaelys paced. And then, finally, a hushed murmur broke the stillness as one of the maesters spoke.

"He's stable, Your Grace," the Maester said, his voice tinged with relief. "But he's lost a lot of blood. It will take time for him to recover."

Vaelys' heart clenched with gratitude at the news, her eyes filling with tears of relief. She rushed to Aemond's side, her hands reaching out to grasp his limp fingers as she leaned in close, her breath catching in her throat as she whispered words of encouragement and love.

As she sat by his side, her hand clasped in his, she vowed to stay by his side until he woke, her love and devotion unwavering.

Vaelys remained steadfast at Aemond's side, her vigil unbroken as she refused to leave him for even a moment. She sat beside him, her eyes never straying from his pale, unconscious face, her hand clasped tightly in his.

Despite the urging of the Maesters and her advisors, Vaelys remained resolute in her determination to stay by Aemond's side. She refused to speak to anyone, her silence a testament to the depth of her love and devotion for her husband.

Minutes turned into hours, and still Vaelys remained at Aemond's side, hoping that her presence would be a comfort to him in his unconscious state. She repeatedly whispered words of encouragement and love, her voice soft and soothing as she spoke to him, willing him to wake.

Outside the tent, life went on, but inside, time seemed to stand still. Vaelys paid no heed to the passing hours, her only concern the man lying before her, fighting for his life.

As time stretched on, hope waned and despair threatened to consume her, but still Vaelys remained unwavering in her determination to stay by Aemond's side.

"Your Grace. A dragon has been sighted in the sky."

Without a word, she rose from her place beside Aemond's cot and made her way outside, her footsteps quickening with each passing moment.

As she emerged into the open air, the ground shook beneath her feet as the dragon Sapphyre landed in front of her.

"Daevyn," Vaelys exclaimed, her voice filled with both surprise and relief. "What are you doing here?"

Daevyn's face was drawn with worry as he dismounted from his dragon and approached his mother.

"I was worried," admitted Daevyn, his voice tinged with concern. "We didn't receive word from anyone, and I feared the worst. I had to come and check for myself."

Wrapping her arms around him, Vaelys held him close, her heart overflowing with love and gratitude. "Thank you, Daevyn," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "Thank you for coming."

Daevyn gazed at his mother’s dishevelled appearance, noting the tangled strands of silver hair and the soot stains on her clothes. His heart clenched with worry at the sight, his mind racing with concern for her well-being.

But then, through the flap of the tent, he caught sight of the linen-wrapped body lying on the cot, and a wave of dread washed over him.

His breath caught in his throat as he automatically assumed the worst, fearing that his father had met his end on the battlefield.

"M-mother," he stammered, his voice trembling with fear. "Is-is that-"

But before he could finish his question, Vaelys reached out to him, her hand resting gently on his arm as she met his gaze with a reassuring smile.

"No, sweet boy," she said softly, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her heart. "It's not your father-"

Relief flooded through Daevyn at her words, his shoulders sagging with the weight of his sudden release from fear.

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes brimming with gratitude as he wrapped his arms around his mother, holding her close in a tight embrace.

"Thank the gods," murmured Daevyn, his voice muffled against her shoulder.

As Daevyn held his mother close, his heart still racing with the fear of loss, Vaelys gently pulled away from him, her eyes filled with sorrow as she met his gaze.

"Daevyn-" she said softly, her voice tinged with sadness. "-It's Jace."

A look of confusion crossed Daevyn's face, his brow furrowing in disbelief. "J-Jace?" he repeated, his voice barely a whisper. "But-how?"

Vaelys took a deep breath, steeling herself against the pain of the words she was about to speak. "He gave his life to save your father," she explained, her voice trembling with emotion. "He pushed Aemond out of the way of an arrow meant for him, and-he didn't survive."

A heavy silence hung between them as Daevyn processed her words, his heart heavy with grief at the loss of his beloved uncle.

Tears welled up in his eyes, his throat tight with sorrow as he struggled to comprehend the magnitude of their loss.

"He-he sacrificed himself for father?" Daevyn whispered, his voice choked with emotion.

Vaelys nodded, her own eyes brimming with tears as she reached out to him, offering him comfort in their shared grief. "Yes," she said softly. "He saved your father's life, Daevyn. He was a hero."

[alexanderlightweight]

hellloooo. do you have any dragon alec in your little treasure chest? i love him and cat magnus being cuteee

i wrote some just for you! here we go i hope you enjoy!

<3 lumine!

-

Magnus is gone when he opens his eyes

That’s the first thing Alec realizes even as his vision adjust and he can see for himself the lack of a body next to his own.

It’s the reason why he wakes.

The heart of his hoard is gone, away from Alec’s protective adoration and covetous claim. The knowledge of Magnus somewhere else — somewhere without Alec — is intolerable enough that Alec’s instincts threaten to take over. He wants to burst into his largest form and fly until he finds Magnus, destroying every single thing that is between he and Magnus.

But he can’t, because Magnus is most likely in Pandemonium which means that Alec can’t just destroy it. Not when it belongs to Magnus and is something he built, a sign of his power. To harm it would be to harm Magnus’ reputation and to put him in danger from those stupid enough to think it a sign that Magnus was weakening.

Still, threats are a distraction that Alec finds unnecessary. He’s much rather simply enjoy his days spending as much time with Magnus as possible. Which Magnus knows. Which makes the lack of his company and presence even more upsetting.

Clearly Alec hasn’t been communicating as well as he thought he was, which is disappointing but hardly Magnus’ fault.

Clothing is confusing without Magnus so Alec just goes with a pair of the sweatpants Magnus summoned for him and a hooded vest that still smells like sandalwood and sweat and magic.

It’s with Magnus’ scent in his nose that he follows the trail of Magnus’ magic and loops the path of the portal into a mirror that he steps through. The floor is cool and hard under his bare feet and Alec frowns as flashing lights, raucous noise and the scent of far too many people hit him all at once.

It’s possibly the worst experience Alec has had and he’s suddenly very grateful that all the times he’s come, he’s been a dragon and warded by Magnus’ presence and magic. As if it, Alec very narrowly avoid killing three people and maiming another dozen before he get to the point where Magnus’ magick thickens.

There is security here and when they try to stop him, Alec growls and lets the threat of his voice rush over them. It works well enough and then he’s up and in the high room that surveys the rest of the club from a large window and a glass floor.

Magnus is alone on his throne, but there are throngs of people around him and Alec loathes to see it. Magnus is practically surrounded and Alec can taste the greed and lust and envy in the air. It infuriates him to the point where Alec is just about to rip the nearest person’s spine through their neck when Magnus’ voice catches and stalls.

“Alexander?”

—

Magnus is stunned to see his boy, especially when he sees just what Alec is and isn’t wearing.

Alexander is in sweatpants and one of Magnus’ workout vests and only that. He has no shoes and from the delicious outline of his pants and the unzipped front of the vest, he has nothing else on either.

“Come here darling, I’ve missed you.” Magnus is helpless but to offer his hands and wait greedily for Alexander to come to his side. It infuriates many of his guests, but that’s to be expected. They don’t know who Alec is to Magnus and they certainly don’t know what he is.

“You didn’t wake me up.” Alexander says and Magnus pulls him to sit next to him, marveling that Alexander came out by himself — to Pandemonium no less — in human form.

Just because Magnus left and didn’t wake him up.

“You were too adorable to wake, darling.” Magnus admits shamelessly, “I couldn’t bear to see you pout at me for more sleep. I would never have left our bed.”

“I’ll sleep here then. I’d rather just come with you instead of waking up because I realize you’ve gone. Wake me up next time.”

Magnus hardly has a moment to process that very tired and sleepy speech and then Alexander is moving Magnus to the side of his own throne. There’s a minute where the very air is charged as the court meeting with Magnus pulse in confusion. Even Magnus is confused and then Alexander curls up — folding his large, long and still human limbs— and lays his head in Magnus lap. His cool breath tickles the bare skin of Magnus’ stomach and never before has Magnus ached so deeply as he does now.

The signs of Alec’s draconic nature are no doubt on his thighs and shoulder-blades right now, hidden for the moment by thin material. Likewise, the scales that normally dapple his jaw and cheekbones are only crowning his brow and lie hidden behind soft, dark curls.

Alec has rarely looked so human yet rarely has he been so clearly other.

It’s with possessive glee that Magnus allows himself to pet Alexander’s hair — his fingers finding and playing with the scales on Alexander’s nape — and return to the matter of the downworld.

A dragon counts Magnus important enough to it that immediately upon waking, he was hunted down.

And Alexander craved Magnus’ company enough that he suffered crowds of people and interaction in human form, just to sleep curled up in Magnus’ lap with Magnus’ hand in hair.

Whatever the smile on Magnus’ face says, it causes those around him to avert their eyes, apprehension in their postures.

Magnus however, is quite pleased. Pleased enough to let out the deep, rumbling purr that's been building since Alexander's head was pillowed on Magnus' thigh.