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troublesomesnitch · 4 months

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The Novice

Aemond x Septa!Reader

The one-eyed prince makes a late night confession.

Contents: Book!Aemond. Pure filth, extremely dubious consent/non-con. Confessional dirty talk, coercion, power imbalance.

Words: 4200

Mostly book!Aemond, but with some show elements added to make him a real piece of shit.

CW: sexual assault!

Proof read, but I am not good at proof reading.

Twice a week, the grand sept receives fine visitors.

It is always something you look forward to, something special and exciting; hearing guards in the streets outside, and the swift feet of errand boys running to inform your superiors.

The queen will be arriving shortly.

There is not much preparation that needs to be done, because you never tarry in your duties - there are always fresh matches laid out, candles ready to be lit, not a spec of dust on the altars. But for the queen, you go above and beyond. You fetch cushions for her dainty knees, you light incense in every corner, and you usher out any crowds that are not worthy of her presence.

You greatly admire the queen. She is all that a lady should be, the very image of womanhood. Gracious, pious, beautifully but modestly dressed, and always kind and courteous to you. She says thank you, and blessed day, sweet Sister, and she asks about your training, your health and wellbeing, what charitable causes you wish to devote yourself to.

The older septas say that the queen seems to have taken a liking to you, and that perhaps if you are lucky, she will request for you to join her household once you have taken your vows. To be a helper and companion to her daughter, and to teach the little prince and princess - her grandchildren, which is a strange thought, because the queen is so young and so beautiful to already be a grandmother.

She is certainly much younger than her husband. The king is old and frail and rarely leaves his castle now, but even in his youth, he never came to the sept. At least that is what you are told. Septon Alester says he is an unworthy husband, and an unworthy ruler, too. A heretic, like all the rest of his Valyrian kin, who flout divine law and believe themselves above the gods.

You would never dare to utter such a thing, but it seems at least partially true - in all the time you have served the sept, the king has never accompanied his queen to prayer. Not even once. She always comes alone, escorted by her guard and her maid. And sometimes by her son.

The one-eyed prince. The one who rides the largest beast in the world.

There are many rumours swirling about noble lords and ladies, but especially about him. In the taverns and winesinks people say he is of a sullen disposition, and that the loss of his eye at such a young age has left his face hideous and deformed - clearly they have never seen him, but you have, and you know it is nothing more than malicious slander.

The prince is as beautiful as his mother.

They look lovely when they kneel together by the altar, with their hands delicately folded and their heads respectfully bowed. Regal, godly. Like the Mother and the Warrior, you think. You often wonder about the contents of his prayers - what could a royal prince possibly wish for? Not as many things as a queen, it would seem, because he never kneels for as long, retreating after a minute or two to stand and wait for his mother. Watch over her; look at her with devotion and reverence. You cannot help but steal quick glances at him; at his graceful posture and his strong face, and you are always too slow to look away, so sometimes he catches you in it. Even when you stand on his blind side, he somehow knows to turn his head and meet your gaze. The little bow he gives you is courteous, but the taunting smile that follows is not, and you must always remind yourself that you have done nothing wrong.

It is not a sin to be curious.

—

When the evening bell tolls, and the city gates close, the High Septon calls to prayer. But one person must always stay behind to keep vigil until the morning, and the duty is shared between all servants of the Faith. Septons and septas, novices, even holy brothers and sisters, sometimes. Only the Most Devout are exempt from it, as well as those who are weakened by illness or old age.

You are neither, but you do not mind taking your turn. It is an easy task, as all of the city is asleep, and those who are not would much rather drink and carouse than come to a place of worship. Here, the night is quiet and calm, and you quite like these hours of solitude. Alone in the sept with only the statues, and maybe the gods, for company.

On this day though, you are startled from your thoughts when the heavy doors are swung open.

You have never before encountered guests at this hour, so your fearful imagination is quick to jump to conclusions - the man could be a thief, a common brute, a scoundrel hiding from a brawl, or - gods forbid - from the City Watch.

But when you peek out from your little corner, you are surprised to see that it is the prince. And that he is alone.

He is dressed differently tonight, in dull colours and coarser fabrics, far simpler than what he usually wears. Perhaps in an attempt to go unnoticed among the common people - but if that was indeed his intention, he has very much failed. Everything about him is unusual, from his hair to his eye to the shining silver clasp at his neck; the immaculate tailoring of each of his garments. Even the way he carries himself makes it abundantly clear that this is no grocer or stonemason.

You cast your eyes down as his steps echo through the sept, purposeful and determined. Clearly heading towards you, but you would hate to be presumptuous, so it is only when he is right in front of you that you rise from your seat to curtsy. Reverently, so deep that your knee almost touches the floor.

“Sister,” he nods. “I have sins I wish to confess - a troubled mind I wish to unburden.”

You curtsy once more, though not as low this time.

“I am not ordained to hear confessions, but I should be happy to fetch a septon - “

“No,” the prince says. “I will speak to no one but you.”

What he demands is a breach of the rules, and a cruel thing to ask of you, but there is not much to be done about it. You can hardly refuse a prince of the realm, and what if he tells his mother that you were unhelpful? After all, it is your sacred duty to comfort and guide the faithful. To lead them on the path to righteousness.

So you nod, draping your veil over your head as you both sit down on your little bench. Right beside one another, so close that your legs almost touch. A proper septa would say confess, and may the Father judge you justly, but that is not appropriate for you, so you merely look down at your folded hands and wait for the prince to speak.

“I am plagued by impure thoughts,” he begins.

The colour drains from your face in an instant. Oh, not this.

Anything else, you do believe you could handle. Envy, drunkenness, greed, gambling, even violent offences, perhaps. Anything but this. But you remain calm; force yourself to keep your composure as you speak.

“All young men have impure thoughts. It is perfectly natural.”

From the corner of your eye, it looks as though the prince smiles ever so slightly.

“Of course,” he nods. “But mine are by nature nefarious, because the lady I desire is a chaste and pious woman… a maiden, and justly proud of her innocence. She would be distraught if she knew the wickedness she inspires.”

You feel yourself blushing. Although you are sufficiently educated on the matter, speaking of such things makes you feel ashamed and uncomfortable. As it would most young women. Confession or not, nothing about this conversation is appropriate, and you want nothing more than to be done with it and return to quiet contemplation. You keep your eyes cast down, and you are as curt as you dare when you answer.

“Then you should not sully her, My Prince, even in your thoughts. You should pray to the Smith for strength, or to the Warrior if you prefer, and occupy yourself with noble pursuits. Prayer, studies, and so forth.”

“Oh, but I do,” the prince says gravely. “I devote my every hour to noble pursuits. And yet time and time again I sully her, and my own hand too in the process - yes, I must confess that I have sinned exceedingly, in both thought and deed. These urges of mine are so unbearable, I simply must relieve myself…” He pauses to look at you coolly, his brows drawn together in a disapproving frown. “You look quite pale, Septa, is my confession too scandalous for you? I should hope the Faith would not admit a novice so unfit for her position…”

“Of course not,” you quickly mutter, though in truth, you are mortified. This is far beyond your station and skill. Not only is the matter highly delicate, but you must also carefully choose your words so as to not offend a member of the royal family. And one with a - supposedly - unfortunate temper at that.

“It is not for me to command a prince,” you begin, “but it is my duty to remind you that the Faith condemns such practices - surely you know that by indulging your urges, you will only make them stronger.”

“I have tried to refrain from it,” the prince laments. “But even then, she haunts me… at night, I dream that I lie on top of her - that I spread her thighs and press her body to my own. And these dreams are so vivid, so terribly arousing, they often cause me to - forgive me, Sister - emit my seed.” He sighs deeply, and turns his face away, his shoulders tense; his handsome features full of torment. “A rather shameful predicament, for a grown man - is it not?”

Perhaps, you think, but a common one nonetheless, and not something he should be chastised for. You know perfectly well that there are some functions of a man’s body that are beyond his control, as do the gods who made it so. It is best not to dwell on it.

“My Prince,” you say instead, with what little confidence you can muster, “ - with your permission, I would offer you this advice: if you cannot restrain yourself, and if you care for this lady, then you should court and wed her.” You fiddle nervously with your dress, lowering your voice to barely more than a whisper. “It is a wholesome thing, for spouses to give their bodies to each other - for a man to make love to his wife…”

The prince hums, either in agreement or contemplation, you can’t tell. But you hope he will take your words to heart, and make this irresistible woman his wife. If the mere sight of her can stir such passion, then he would surely grow to love her deeply, and their union would be happy and prosperous. Blessed by the gods.

- Or maybe not.

“I am afraid that is not possible,” the prince says. Slowly, thoughtfully. “Because you see, my lady is a septa - a novice, as it were…”

His words trail off, and his hand reaches to caress your face, right by the edge of your veil, where a strand of hair has loosened from its pin.

You recoil at once, springing from your seat to look at him with shock and horror.

“This is highly improper - “

“I have thought of nothing but you,” he exclaims, impassioned, rising quickly to reach for you once more, “ - since the day I saw you, I have wanted no one else - ”

Again you manage to evade his embrace, but the prince is tall, and his legs are long and agile. Each one of his strides is worth two of yours, and when you back away he follows, stepping ever closer until you are backed up against a pillar.

Oh how you wish that it had only been a thief come to rob the sept. You could have easily escaped out the little hidden door by the dias; let them take whatever riches they could carry. There is only silver here, and the Faith has no shortage of that.

The prince is after something far more precious.

“Don’t touch me - ” you plead, feeling your pulse quicken, the hair rise on the back of your neck. He is too near, moving to loom over you, intimidating and imposing, and so tall that he must bend to brush his nose against your hair.

“It is a waste,” he murmurs. “That such beauty should only belong to the gods.”

You should flee. You should defend your virtue. Maids and ladies, harlots and tavern girls, all women know to protect themselves, to kick where a man is the weakest, to scratch, bite, shout, make a racket. There are guards patrolling the square outside, and septons sleeping nearby in their cells - if you were loud enough, someone would hear you and come to your aid.

But at what cost, when your assailant is a prince?

You dare not risk it, so you stand frozen in place, too frightened to push him away, too frightened to even look at him as he gropes your body, touching it in ways that it has never been, and should never be touched. One of his arms wraps around your waist, the other trails over your dress, feeling your shape underneath the fabric. Your stomach, your hips, your bottom, and especially your breasts.

He cups them with both hands, kneading and massaging them hard, pressing his fingers into your flesh.

“I would take you right here,” he breathes. “Against this very pillar, for all your gods to see - ”

The blasphemy, the shameless vulgarity - you gasp, and at the sound, the prince chuckles faintly.

“You said yourself it is a wholesome thing…”

“For husbands and wives -” you squeak, “please, you mustn’t hurt me!“

“Never,” he says, bringing your hand to rest on his chest, over his heart, as if to reassure you. “If you would only oblige me, I swear I will be gentle…”

You shake your head, but it does not dissuade him. He kisses your hair, your cheeks, the shell of your ear, touching his lips to every little sliver of exposed skin. Not just your face and neck, but your forearms too, your wrists, the insides of your elbows. Anywhere that lets him truly feel you. Feel the rapid beat of your pulse; the warmth and softness of a woman’s body.

And as he touches you, you feel him. His manhood, stiff against your hip when he presses himself against you, moaning softly at the feeling. It is a most intimate sound, and you are ashamed to realise that your body instinctively responds to it; to the closeness, the touch of a man. You feel warm in your chest, and wet between your legs - unnerving, and so at odds with the panic that still grips you, with the tears that prickle in your eyes.

“Please don’t - ” you whimper, just as his teeth graze your jaw, drawing a single, involuntary sigh from your lips. One that spurs him on to swiftly yank the veil off your head and discard it, fully exposing your hair and neck.

He pulls back to look at you, your neatly pinned tresses, your smooth throat and collarbones. Your beauty that he has long wished to admire.

“Like an angel,” he says softly, longingly, taking your face in his hands and stroking your cheeks with his thumbs. “A little angel - the Maiden in the flesh - “

“That is a blasphemous thing to say,” you sniffle.

It only makes him laugh, and before you can say anything else, he tilts your face up so he can press his mouth to yours.

No one has ever kissed you before. Many boys have wanted to, but none were ever allowed the privilege. You always knew you did not want to be a wife. That you had a different calling.

It is a very strange sensation, this kiss. Hot, wet, and sticky. You do not return it, and yet the prince is undeterred, parting your lips softly but insistently, just enough to slip his tongue inside. It gives him pleasure, even when your mouth is slack and unresponsive - you can tell from his blissful sighs, and from the indecent way he moves his hips, rubbing the prominent bulge in his trousers against you. He is so entranced by your mouth and your body that you feel a treacherous sense of relief, thinking to yourself that if this is how he wants to gratify himself - by licking your tongue and humping against your hip - you will let him. No real harm has been done to your virtue, and the gods will understand you had no choice. Already you are silently saying your prayers, to the Warrior for courage, the Mother for compassion, the Father for leniency -

But you are cruelly interrupted when the prince draws back and begins to loosen the closure of his breeches.

“No - oh no, no - ,” you shriek, but as you try to wriggle from his grasp, his face hardens and his gentle touch becomes like a vice. Rough and unyielding, holding you in place.

“You must forgive me,” he rasps, his gaze dark with lust, his nostrils flaring, “ - for I can no longer deprive myself of what I so desire...”

He is so much stronger than you. With an impeccably polished boot he shoves your feet apart, his one hand pinning your arms behind your back, the other hiking up your skirts, determined, deaf to your frantic pleas.

“You don’t understand, I must remain chaste!”

“Don’t lie to me,” he hisses, “I know the workings of the Faith, you’ve taken no solemn vows yet - “

“No, I have, I have!” you cry. “I pledged myself to the Maiden when I was a girl!”

It is the truth, but the prince does not care. He silences you with another desperate kiss, crushing his face to yours, reaching to hook his hand under your knee and lift your leg. He has you trapped, pinned between his body and the stone column, and you can claw at him until your hands bleed, it makes no difference. Your dress is bunched up, your legs forcibly parted, your most intimate secrets laid bare to be violated. A great sin, made even greater by the circumstances, and yet the gods have abandoned you, left you here to suffer.

They must be occupied elsewhere, and the statues too stand motionless on their plinths, with their tranquil faces, staring blankly into the distance as though deliberately blind to your tragedy.

To the hand that worms its way underneath your smallclothes. The nails that dig into the back of your neck, holding your head in place. The mouth that swallows up your sobs until he is forced to break the kiss so he can reach between your bodies and finish unlacing his breeches.

You gasp for breath, looking up and straight at him, your eyes wet and pleading, your lip trembling.

“Don’t ruin me, please - I beg you, don’t take from me what can never be replaced - “

The prince’s hand hesitates on your thigh. His one eye flickers between your two, between the tears that flow uncontrollably down your cheeks; your little hands clenched into fists against his chest.

For a split second there’s a shadow of something softer on his face, a strange draw around his mouth, and then he curses and releases your leg. And you bolt, without thinking, ducking under his arm to sprint towards the door and safety.

You manage all of two steps before the prince catches you and pins you to the pillar once more.

“Not yet - ” he orders, slipping a hand down the front of his trousers to finally free his member from its confines. He cradles it at the base to proudly show it off before he begins to stroke himself, shamelessly and urgently, while you look on. At once frightened and sinfully curious.

You have never seen it before. The masculine organ. Only in drawings, of which some were intended to educate young women, and others were of a much lewder nature. The prince’s manhood does look much like those anatomical illustrations, only it is bigger in person than you had imagined. Hard and swollen with need. It fits perfectly in his fist, and the skin glides back to reveal the head, which is thick and meaty, and a dark purple red. It almost looks as though it should be painful for him, having it filled and engorged in such a way. Having it stretched to be so big. But of course you know that is not the case. And even if you didn’t, his gasp of pleasure would have made it very clear.

He reaches for your wrist, tugging it down between his legs, and you are quick to look away when he closes your fingers around it, with his own hand on top. Somehow, you reason that if you keep your eyes averted, it is not as sinful. Not as deserving of punishment.

But you can still feel it. In your palm, against your clammy skin. Warm, and pulsing as he squeezes your fingers tight around the shaft, moving them from the base to the tip and back down again, using your hand to pleasure himself. Slowly at first, but as his arousal grows he quickens the pace, moving your hand only over the tip of his member, massaging the bulbous head with quick movements. All the while groping at your chest.

And you let him do it. All of it, resigning yourself to be used at his will and pleasure. It is the best and safest course of action now, and all you can do is bear it. You keep your sobs inside, and your eyes cast down, staring mindlessly at the patterns in the stone floor until the prince’s hand seizes your jaw.

“Look at me,” he commands through gritted teeth, running his thumb over your mouth, pressing against your lips. “Open - suck, use your tongue - “

You do as he says, wanting so desperately to just be done with it - once he has finished he will surely let you go. The thought prompts you to suck on his fingers with increasing fervour, taking them deep into your mouth, running your tongue along the length of them, along his knuckles; making him gasp at the feeling.

“Fuck, like that - gods yes,” he moans, letting go of your hand to lean against the pillar for support, his eye falling closed, his hips making shallow, instinctive thrusts.

You continue with the same movements, up and down over his manhood, trying to mimic exactly what he did before, whilst still sucking on his fingers, too. Letting him feel your soft mouth and your warm lips; your little wet tongue caressing his skin. You haven’t a clue as to what you are supposed to be doing, and there is no grace or skill to your licks, but each swirl of your tongue makes the prince moan regardless. He would probably much rather feel this attention somewhere else, but clearly he has the wits to know that shoving his member into an unwilling mouth is not a wise idea. So he contents himself with this.

And thankfully, it does not take long before your efforts are rewarded.

When you choke back a mewl his hips jerk forward, and his hand flies down to close around yours again, guiding you to squeeze him harder and faster. His jaw goes slack, and his manhood stiffens even more, and even though you are inexperienced, you know what it means. You can feel it, feel his sac tighten, feel him twitch in your hand as semen travels up his shaft. He bends to lean his forehead against yours, and finally, finally, he spurts, moaning with pleasure as he empties himself onto your hand, his seed pulsing out in hot, wet squirts. Soiling not only your skin and your dress, but your conscience too; your virtue, honour and dignity.

And at last it is over.

The prince slumps forwards against you, hiding his face in your neck. His body trembles with the final waves of his rapture, and he brushes his fingers over your hair in a strangely intimate way, a tender way. As though you were lovers.

In a sense, now, you suppose you are.

Before he leaves you he quickly tidies his clothes, throwing his cloak around his shoulders and tucking his shirt into his trousers. And once he has made himself presentable, he retrieves your veil too. Brushing it off with a gloved hand and draping it over your head once more.

“Thank you, Sister,” he says sweetly, cradling your face to kiss your lips and then your forehead. “I feel much more at ease now.”

No sooner have the doors closed behind him before you fall to your knees by the Maiden’s altar to beg for her forgiveness.

Part 2: The Devil You Know

Please feel free to come into my asks or DMs with critique of my fics! Constructive is preferred, but not required.

Tags. @arcielee, @helaelaemond, @targaryen-madness, @qyburnsghost.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x you #aemond smut #aemond targaryen smut

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autistichalsin · 11 months

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Astarion and Halsin's traumas were meant to be foils

When characters are foils, there are two components: first, there's a shared background, event, personality trait, etc. But how the characters act from then on are diametrically opposed, allowing us an insight into the various ways people can act or respond to one core "element". In this case, I would argue that Halsin and Astarion are meant to be foils in their responses to sexual slavery.

Both Astarion and Halsin were denied their freedom and agency, raped and abused. Both were very young when this happened; Astarion was in his 30s, which is before elves reach their majority, while Halsin's age wasn't specified, but he goes out of his way to mention "youth" many times. In other words- both were young enough for this to be a formative memory for them. Both carry deep traumas from their experiences. Both are incredibly physically attractive, and allude to or outright say that their looks played a part in their captivity; Astarion was used to seduce others for Cazador, while Halsin notes that his Drow captors "took an interest in him" and saw him "as a novelty"- most likely for his looks as much as for his race. Both were enslaved by people of high social status- Cazador a wealthy influential figure in Baldur's Gate, and Halsin's captors high-ranking Drow nobles. That is what they have in common.

But their responses to their traumas are complete opposites.

First, just the nature of how they express their traumas. Astarion is loud about it. He expresses it all openly; he is traumatized. And he knows he didn't deserve what happened to him.

Halsin buries it. He pretends it was no big deal. He victim-blames himself, saying it was his fault for being a "foolhardy young Druid" intent on seeing the Underdark.

Astarion despises Cazador; he wants revenge. He will do anything to get revenge on his abuser. This need for closure is the core of Astarion's entire arc, to the point that of all the scenarios I can think of where Astarion leaves the party, most of them involve his journey to kill Cazador.

Halsin has trauma bonds to his captors. He speaks kindly of them even when describing their abuse. He says he feared for his life, but he "did some things that were less than necessary," making it sound like he was complicit in his own rape. He can't even bring himself to call them captors (except for one option in the post-patch 5 dialogue), nor himself a sex slave; instead, he was something "between a guest, prisoner, and consort."

Astarion is (in most cases) ultimately allowed closure; he kills Cazador. In the bad path, he then joins the cycle of abuse by killing the other vampires and subjugating a romanced avatar; in good scenarios, he only kills Cazador, and then has a cathartic, tearful breakdown after.

Halsin never had (or seemed to want) that kind of closure; he escaped while his captors were fighting another noble house, and his freedom was all he wanted. Whether his captors lived or not, he doesn't care. All he wanted was his own freedom.

Astarion is younger, and his trauma a shorter time ago, yet he has processed what happened more; he is both further ahead and further behind on his healing journey than Halsin.

Halsin is older, and his trauma longer ago, but he hasn't processed what happened to him; bouncing from trauma to trauma and being forced into a leadership role caused him to have to bury it. He is both further behind and further ahead on his healing journey than Astarion.

Astarion makes a point of avoiding intimacy, and he only has a few exceptions with the player. (Ascended Astarion becomes much more confident, but that's a bit different.)

Halsin is incredibly sexually open. He enjoys sex of all kinds, finding it comforting, and the only way he can openly express his emotions after having to stay in control as Archdruid all the time.

Astarion dissociates during the Drow brothel orgy. He is miserable and uncomfortable, but doesn't regret it; he needed to take the step to explore his sexuality on his terms. Even if it triggered him, he still wanted the experience, and indeed, finding what one's triggers are is an important step for many survivors.

Halsin enjoys himself during the orgy, and even seems pleased after, but then he lets the cracks show, talking about how he was held as a slave. He enjoyed the orgy during, but after, the thoughts started creeping in, as he was reminded of his captivity.

Astarion will respond to cruel player comments about Cazador with a massive hit in approval, and possibly breaking up with a romanced player, like when they say they have a kidnapping fantasy about him if he's kidnapped by the spawn in act 3.

Halsin, in the post-patch 5 dialogue options, doesn't seem to react that much even to cruel comments; when the player threatens to sell him back into slavery, all he has to say is, "you would be unwise to attempt it, trust me. In any case, the house of my captors is long-extinct." (Followed by him having an epiphany that they WERE his captors) He never gets angry at the player despite the absolute evil of this option; as with nearly every other mean thing the player says to him, he simply shrugs it off, clearly sad but brushing it off as always. Being the "bigger person", literally and metaphorically.

Astarion was left with scars all over his back, symbolizing how this is something he'll never break free from entirely.

Halsin was left with no scars, his only prominent one being from an unrelated incident, symbolizing how much work he puts in to hide his traumas.

It's understated, so a lot of players aren't going to think about it much because of this, but I think it's worth bringing up as a note on characterization!

#astarion #halsin #bg3 #baldur's gate #halstarion #should i tag it as that? it's not explicitly shippy but it kind of counts

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imjustreadinglmao · 3 months

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BLUE PART II

Paring: Azriel x reader, Lucien x platonic!reader

Series summary: After Azriel and Elain‘s courtship is revealed, their mates, Lucien and Y/N, are left to deal with the consequences. While fighting against Koschei and for Prythian‘s freedom, Y/N has to navigate her emotions and learn how to live with the heartbreak of a one sided mating bond. But what happens when secrets are revealed and everything turns out differently than they thought?

Warnings: unrequited love, death, detailed descriptions of fights and blood, angst, characters being idiots

A/N: my last azrielxreader post won’t appear in the tags so reblogs are very much appreciated.

Word count: 3.3k

It’s a beautiful, crisp spring morning. The sun is shining, birds are singing, and the wind carries the lovely scent of freshly baked pies. I sigh at the prospect of leaving this peaceful place and trading it for the Autumn Court.

As I push the heavy oak doors of the River House open, I can feel anxiety coursing through my veins. After fleeing Autumn seventy-three years ago, I didn’t expect to return there so soon, even if only temporarily. It was difficult for me to leave. I couldn’t risk telling anyone about my plans, so I never had the chance to say goodbye.

Knowing my father, he had probably been more concerned about how me leaving would affect his standing with the High Lord and the other noble families. But my mother and sister… I would give a lot to see them again.

All those years, I have missed the familiarity of my home court, the traditions, and the celebrations I cherished so much as a child.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself as I step into the foyer. Rhysand, Amren, Azriel, and Lucien are already there, waiting for me.

Except for Lucien and me, who are wearing traditional Autumn Court attire, everyone else is dressed in midnight black.

Lucien looks up as I enter, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “You look… convincing,” he says.

I let out a breathy laugh at that. The last time he saw me in Autumn colors was at a ball my family hosted, which ended with me puking my guts out, most of it landing on Lucien’s shoes.

Judging by the face he is making, he hasn’t forgotten either.

Azriel, standing beside him, nods in agreement. “It suits you,” he says quietly, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than necessary.

His shadows peek over his shoulder as if they want to take a look too.

I try to ignore the flutter of emotions his words stir within me. Instead, I focus on the mission ahead, on the role I must play. The safety of Prythian depends on our success, and I can’t afford to let myself get distracted.

Rhysand steps forward, a mischievous smile on his face. “I have to say, you both pull off Autumn Court fashion far better than I expected. Maybe we should visit the Autumn Court more often.”

Amren, her eyes assessing our disguises, retorts, “If you spent as much time on strategy as you do on fashion critiques, we’d have won the war by now.”

I have to cover my mouth to not laugh out loud and accidentally anger the century-old creature that’s lurking beneath that Fae body.

Rhys just rolls his eyes, clearly undeterred by her sharp tone. “I’ll have you know that looking good is part of the strategy.”

With one last look at me, he stretches out his hand and asks, “Ready?”

I nod, take his hand, and let him winnow me away.

———————————————————

Arriving at the southern border of the Autumn Court, I am immediately struck by the beauty of the landscape. The trees here are taller than I remember, their leaves a riot of red, orange, and gold, perpetually caught in the peak of autumn. The air carries the earthy scent of fallen leaves and the smoke of distant fires burning in hearths.

As we step onto the moss-covered ground, bittersweet memories flood my mind. I find myself thinking of the simpler days of my youth, the carefree ones.

I feel dark talons gently scraping at the shields in my mind and lwt Rhys in. So lost in the beautiful nature, I barely realize him wishing us good luck and winnowing back to Velaris.

Right after Rhys leaves, Azriel begins to scout the area for any magical traps or shields set by Koschei, leaving us to wait for his return. As the minutes stretch into an hour, my anxiety starts to build.

I pace restlessly, my mind conjuring all sorts of terrible scenarios.

Lucien tries to reassure me, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“He’ll be fine,” Lucien says softly. “Azriel knows what he’s doing.”

But his words do little to calm me.

“How can you be so sure? He could be injured… or worse. We don’t know what Koschei is capable of!” I snap.

I begin to ramble, listing every possible way Azriel could have gotten hurt. “What if he’s caught in a trap? What if there’s a magical barrier he can’t break?”

Just thinking about him being in trouble makes me want to vomit. “That’s it. He’s taken long enough. I’m going to find him and—”

Amren steps in, her voice cutting through my panic. “Enough. Get your shit together. We don’t have time for this.”

Her bluntness shocks me into silence, and I sulk, feeling chastised.

But Amren isn’t finished. “Oh, quit acting like a child. Maybe if you told him about your feelings and the mating bond, you wouldn’t be so anxious, girl.”

My mouth drops open and I look to Lucien, his face also morphed into shock. When I look back to Amren, she just lifts an eyebrow.

“How do you know about the bond?”

Amren lets out a long sigh. “Only someone stupid wouldn’t have picked up on that. And Azriel being the stupidest of all.”

She rolls her eyes and starts picking at her nails. “We all suspected it. For a while we thought it snapped for Azriel too. The way he followed you around like a love sick fool, we were sure of it. But I guess it didn’t.”

I don’t say anything else after that, my mind not coming up with a response.

——————————————————

Another hour passes, and my worry only deepens. I can’t stop imagining Azriel injured or trapped, his shadows unable to find a way back to us. Every rustle of the leaves makes me jump, hoping it’s him returning.

Lucien tries to keep me distracted, but my thoughts are a whirl of dread. He tells me stories of his own missions, but I can’t focus on his words. My mind is entirely on Azriel.

Finally, just as the sun reaches its peak, Azriel returns. He looks slightly worse for wear, his clothes torn in some places and his face smeared with dirt, but otherwise unharmed. He notices the tension immediately, his eyes narrowing in concern.

“What happened?” Azriel asks, looking between us.

I step toward him, my relief overwhelming. “Are you okay? What took you so long?”

Azriel nods, his expression serious. “There were more traps than I anticipated. It took a while to disable them all, but the path should be clear now.”

Amren crosses her arms. “Good. We don’t have time for any more delays.”

Lucien places a hand on my shoulder again, this time with a reassuring squeeze. “See? I told you he’d be fine.”

I manage a weak smile, still shaken by the fear that gripped me. Azriel’s eyes soften as he looks at me.

“We should move quickly,” Azriel says, breaking the moment. “It won’t be long till they notice that their shields and traps were destroyed. Amren and I will accompany you to the Forrest House, then we’ll separate and follow the original plan. It’s too dangerous otherwise. We can’t risk you.”

Lucien nods and gestures for me to go first. “Let’s get moving then. The sooner we’re done here, the better.”

We begin to move deeper into the forest, leading to Beron’s residence. The beauty of the surroundings contrasts sharply with the danger I know lurks nearby.

As we walk, I steal glances at Azriel, wondering how he can be so calm and collected all the time.

Gods, I nearly lost my mind over him doing his job. I am a hypocrite for snapping at him the other day. Yes, I am mad at him for courting Elain, but I also can’t expect him to be loyal to me when he doesn’t even know that we’re mates.

How different things would be if it had just snapped for him the second it did for me...

It happened three years ago. Unbeknownst to us, we were just celebrating the last winter solstice without Rhys when it snapped into place.

One moment I was admiring him from afar, the next I was connected to him for the rest of my immortal life.

He had still been in love with Mor back then, so I chose not to say anything. A huge mistake, because soon after, Elain came into the picture.

Truthfully, I never thought they were anything more than friends until I overheard Rhysand ordering Azriel to stay away from her. It wasn’t until then that I realized I had lost him forever. He wasn’t going to stay away from her, so I accepted my fate and kept silent.

———————————————————

After five hours of hiking through bushes, stepping in rabbit holes, and nearly getting killed by a boar, I can feel the exhaustion creeping into my bones.

“Can we please take a break? My legs are going to fall off,” I ask.

Amren smirks, not breaking her stride. “And here I thought you were tougher than this.”

Only Rhysand’s plea to behave and work together holds me back from strangling her. Gods, she really is a cranky hag.

Lucien chuckles softly and turns to me. “We’re only a few minutes away. Hang in there.”

I groan but press on. As we finally crest a hill, the sight of Beron’s castle comes into view, exactly as I remembered it. The imposing structure looms against the deep orange sky, its dark stone walls lined with creeping ivy. Tall, narrow windows glint in the dawning light.

“It’s just like I remember,” I whisper, a mixture of awe and dread washing over me.

Lucien glances at me, his expression unreadable. “Let’s get ready. We need to find a way to get in there.” He points to the entrance of the castle, where nobles are lined up to enter the masquerade ball hosted by the High Lord himself.

We slip through the dense forest that surrounds the castle, our movements silent and precise. Azriel scouts ahead, his shadows cloaking him in near invisibility. After what feels like an eternity, we find a secluded spot to prepare for our infiltration.

“Here,” Amren hands both Lucien and me a stack of clothes. “These are your disguises. You will pose as Lord and Lady Hawthorn. The late Lord Hawthorn died three months ago. You are recently married with no offspring or heir yet. This is your first outing as Lord and Lady. Some might recognize your name, though they should not look twice your way. Be discreet and don’t draw attention.”

“What about the real Lord and Lady Hawthorn? What if they decide to turn up and out us as imposters?” I ask.

Azriel shifts on his feet and answers a bit sheepishly, “Don’t worry, they have already been dealt with.”

My brows furrow in confusion. “What do you—” realization dawns over me. “Oh… oh, okay. I guess that makes this a lot easier.”

I grab the clothes Amren gave me and head for the nearest bush to change. When I look back, Azriel has his head tilted sideways and smiles at me.

The dress I change into is a deep burgundy, adorned with delicate golden embroidery.

The fabric is soft and luxurious and fits me like a second skin. The mask is made of similar fabric, with intricate golden lace around the edge of it.

As I step out from behind the bush, my eyes find Azriel’s immediately.

His eyes, usually so guarded, widen slightly as they take in my appearance, his gaze lingering on the details of my dress and the way it clings to my form.

“You look… stunning,” he murmurs, his voice low and sincere.

I feel a blush rise to my cheeks and look away, focusing on Lucien. Lucien is similarly attired, his outfit complementing mine with its dark tones and subtle elegance.

He grins at me. “Shall we, Lady Hawthorn?”

I bark out a laugh. “We shall, Lord Hawthorn.”

———————————————————

Getting inside the Forrest House was easier than expected. We just walked right up to the entrance, stated our names, handed them our fake invites, and were ushered in.

As we step into the grand ballroom, the sheer opulence of the scene takes my breath away.

Crystal chandeliers hang from the high ceilings, casting a warm glow over the sea of elegantly dressed nobles. Musicians play softly in one corner, their melodies mingling with the murmur of conversation and the clinking of glasses.

At the far end of the room, atop a raised dais, sits Beron, his cold gaze sweeping over the crowd. To his right stands Eris. Our eyes meet briefly, and I give a subtle nod, which he returns.

Lucien and I mingle with the guests, keeping our eyes and ears open, waiting for Eris to give us our signal.

As Beron rises from his throne, a hush falls over the grand ballroom. The guests turn their attention to him. He begins to address the crowd, his voice echoing through the vast space.

“Welcome, esteemed guests, to this celebration of our enduring legacy and power,” Beron proclaims, his tone laced with self-satisfaction.

Just as he is about to continue, the heavy doors of the ballroom burst open. A squadron of Eris’s soldiers rushes in, their armor clanking loudly. The crowd parts like a tide, murmurs of confusion and fear rippling through the room.

Beron’s confident façade falters, replaced by one of anger and panic. “What is the meaning of this?” he demands, his voice rising in pitch as he glares at the soldiers.

Eris steps forward, his demeanor calm and resolute. “Father,” he begins, his voice carrying a chilling edge, “it is time. Your reign has been marked by tyranny and cruelty, and I will no longer stand by and watch my people suffer under your rule.”

Beron’s eyes narrow, a sneer curling his lips. “You think you can overthrow me, Eris? It takes more than a few soldiers to claim this throne.”

Eris begins to smile. “Oh, I know. A noble to swear me in and an heir to secure the lineage, right? Well, here they are.” He gestures to Lucien and me.

My eyes widen as I whisper-shout in Lucien’s ear, “He cannot be serious? THIS is his plan?!”

Lucien replies, equally as quiet. “I have learned a long time ago not to question my brother’s way of handling things.”

“You are truly deluded, Eris.” Beron laughs, a harsh, mocking sound. “They won’t accept a random noble as your heir.”

Eris stands his ground, his gaze unwavering. “But they will. Take off your masks,” he says to Lucien and me.

And so we do. Nobles everywhere are gawking at us. Some eyes fixed on me, most on Lucien.

Beron steps down from the dais. “What a surprise. The lost son finally returns home.” He turns his gaze to me. “And you, you’re Lord Yarrow’s daughter, no?”

I don’t answer. Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I could. I’m rooted in place, not taking my eyes off Beron.

Beron turns to Eris again. “Well, it seems you really are full of surprises. But you’re forgetting one important thing. You would have to kilI me to claim the throne. And you’ve always been weak, Eris. You’re not strong enough, but you shall try.”

In that moment, I realize what Eris was doing. He was provoking his father into accepting his challenge, and Beron just did exactly that.

“I’ve had a long time to prepare.”

And with that, all hell breaks loose.

———————————————————

Chaos erupts as Beron and Eris clash, their swords flashing in the bright light of the ballroom. Beron's strikes are powerful, but Eris is swift and precise, his fire magic flaring up with every swing.

Lucien and I are quickly surrounded by Beron's soldiers. The nobles' screams fill the air as they flee the room in terror. I manage to grab a blade as the first soldier aims right for my neck.

My heart races as I parry another soldier's blow, my muscles straining with each clash of steel. Lucien fights beside me, his own fire magic scorching the air around us, incinerating our enemies with fiery blasts.

The ballroom is a whirlwind of chaos.

As we cut through the soldiers, our eyes are locked on the fight between Eris and Beron. We try to reach them, but more and more of Beron’s soldiers are streaming in.

Eris and his father fight with brutal intensity, their swords ringing out as they meet. Eris dodges and strikes with a precision that keeps Beron on his toes, but his experience gives him the upper hand, forcing Eris back step by step.

Just as Lucien and I are within seconds of reaching Eris and Beron, the ballroom doors burst open again. Five of Koschei's soldiers, dark magic radiating from them, storm in. They immediately begin slaughtering nobles, women, and children alike. Their dark magic tears through Eris's soldiers as if they were paper.

Lucien and I have no choice but to turn away from Eris and Beron and face Koschei’s magic wielders.

I take several hits to the gut, and a sword slices across my cheek, but I fight on, managing to take down one of the dark soldiers. Lucien, with his fire magic, kills two more, but before the third soldier is turned into ash, he drives a sword straight through Lucien’s chest.

Lucien collapses to his knees, blood pouring from the wound. I rush to his side, my heart pounding in my chest. Lucien's eyes flutter, and he tries to speak, but I stop him. "Save your energy," I beg.

He begins to close his eyes, the loss of blood making him weaker and weaker. "Lucien, stay with me!" I cry, trying to stem the flow of blood with my hands.

I have to get him to a healer fast; otherwise, he will bleed out. So I do the only thing I can think of.

Desperate, I tug on the bond with Azriel, praying that he will sense my distress.

A moment later, Azriel bursts into the room, Amren in tow. Azriel’s eyes widen with panic as he spots me and Lucien. He rushes to us, dropping to his knees beside Lucien.

"Azriel, you have to winnow him back to Velaris," I plead. "Find Madja , now!"

Azriel looks torn. "I can't leave you," he says, his voice tight with fear. “I— not like this. Not with you being my—”

"Amren is here, I’ll be fine," I insist, glancing at Amren, who is finishing off the last two of Koschei’s soldiers. "Please, Azriel! I can’t watch him die. I am begging you, just go, please!"

Azriel nods reluctantly, wrapping his arms around Lucien. With a final, desperate look at me, he winnows away, leaving me behind in the chaos.

With Azriel and Lucien gone, I feel a pang of anxiety, but I have no time to dwell on it. I turn back to the fight, watching as Eris and the High Lord continue their deadly duel.

Around me, the battle rages on. I join Amren, who is ruthlessly dispatching the remaining dark soldiers with a ferocity that belies her small stature.

Together, we fight our way through the chaos, our movements synchronized from years of fighting side by side.

We are fighting for what feels like hours. My arms ache from dealing blow after blow, and my eyes are getting blurry from the lack of sleep.

I steal a glance at Eris and Beron, watching as they exchange hits. Eris manages to land a few blows, but Beron shrugs them off.

The two of them are evenly matched, but the High Lord’s power coursing through Beron's veins gives him a slight edge.

Suddenly, Beron lunges forward, his sword aimed at Eris's heart. Eris barely manages to block the strike, their blades locking together. Fire erupts between them, and for a moment, it looks like Eris might be overpowered.

But Eris digs deep, summoning a burst of strength. He pushes Beron back, their swords disengaging with a loud clang. Eris's flames burn brighter, and he steps forward, pressing the attack.

The next moment, everything is quiet. No swords clashing, no screaming, just utter quiet.

As the flames subside, there, in the middle of the ballroom, not moving, is Beron.

The High Lord of the Autumn Court is dead.

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel #a court of thorns and roses #lucien x reader #azriel x you #writers on tumblr #eris acotar #rhysand #amren acotar #azriel shadowsinger #acotar x reader #azriel imagine

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endless-ineffabilities · 4 months

Text

But Daddy, I Love Him (chapter one)

Daemon Targaryen x f!reader

synopsis : the reader is a daughter of the Lord of House Arwen - ever so dutiful and mild-mannered. Slated to be the lady wife of some highborn Lord, someone who is noble and decent. Not the volatile Rogue Prince. Not Daemon Targaryen.

in this chapter : The Rogue Prince and the reader meet. Their fates entwine. A fool is made out of a Lady.

themes/warnings : Daemon being Daemon is a warning in itself, Daemon has a superiority complex, highborn!reader, House Arwen is my own creation (name inspired by lotr!)

series list : chapter one - chapter two - chapter three

word count : 2k ▪︎ masterlist

a/n : the title and the series concept inspired by the TS song ofc <3

Dutiful daughter, all my plans were laid. Tendrils tucked into a woven braid...

Your chambers. The Godswood. The library.

Every day is the same. The mornings start with your ladies in waiting helping you prepare for the day. Running your bath, carefully pressing your frocks, lacing you up in your bodice. Making sure each lock of hair is in place, the right amount of rouge dabbed against the apples of your cheeks.

You were once a perfect little girl, now a perfect little lady.

Soon a perfect little lady wife.

This is your story, already woven, already told time and time again. The same story for all ladies of your standing.

All you have to do is to be good. And so you are.

Thank the gods for the stories you read, enabling you jump into different lives. Adventures and romances you know you will never have, not truly. But you are happy to play the fool with every page turned.

The library has become your safe haven, your home within your home. Nestled high in the sprawling castle of House Arwen. Nothing can disturb you here. No one.

Or so you thought.

The very first words you hear Daemon Targaryen say to you come across as rather rude. You will find in time that he does not mean to be rude. Not all the time, that is. This is just how he is.

"I have always found that story rather dull. Amusing how you seem to be so engrossed in it, my lady."

"Excuse me, but I will you have you know - " you raise your head, taking in the visitor. Or intruder.

"Prince Daemon," you rise from your seat, offering a well-practiced curtsy. An instinctive move of obeisance for a lady like you.

He barely acknowledges your gesture, his face flat and impassive. "That book. I was forced to read it in my youth. Our Maester all but shoved it down my throat."

You immediately do not take to his approach. That book is one of the most famous tales from Old Valyria. He should know, being of Valyrian blood and all.

"I believe there is much to like about this book, my Prince."

"Such as?"

"Well, it depicts a warrior knight of Old - "

"Some warrior knight," Daemon scoffs, not even letting you finish your statement. "He gave up his powers for the love of a wench he knew for just a fortnight. He had every chance at glory but he squandered all of it away. For what?"

"For... for love?" comes your response, though you know he did not really want one.

For someone who claims to dislike this story so much, he sure knows it well.

He mindlessly taps his fingers on a nearby shelf, eyes lazily reading the titles. Drifting through the room with the unmistakeable disdain of someone who is used to having so much, the world practically by his feet, but is disinterested with it all.

You think that you could fall dead right then and Daemon wouldn't care. Wouldn't even bat an eyelash. He rolls his eyes at your mention of love, and it does not help your impression of him.

"There are only two things worthy of love in my eyes, my lady, and that is power and blood."

"Blood? Well, my prince, family is one of the most important - "

"Blood is not the same for me as it is for you. My blood carries a legacy of fire and magic, being of Old Valyria. You would not possibly understand how I hold my blood in high regard."

Oh may the gods strike him down now.

Your hands clench into fists, pressing against your skirts, but you don't have it in you to notice the unladylike gesture. All you can think of is letting him have a piece of your mind. "A family can have a flock of sheep or a horde of dragons, my prince, and it makes no difference to me. Your family is your family, your blood is your blood. But whether you choose to love them does not solely depend on blood."

It is as if he sees for you for the first time then, the moment you show that you have your own voice, and that you will not simply cater to his whims.

He turns eager to press you further, make you break, make you cave in. "What of you, my lady? What is it that you find worthy of love? Family, I presume, from your poorly formed argument? What about a lord husband?"

"I do love my family," you nod. "And when I do wed, I am sure I will love my lord husband just as dearly."

He walks closer, but does not stop in front of you as is the polite thing to do in conversation. He circles you, and you feel exposed by the way he openly takes you in. "Oh, but how will you know? You do not have a choice, do you? How can that be love?"

You do not answer right away, for the prince has just voiced one of your biggest fears. What if you do not find love in your lord husband? What sort of life would that entail? One which you have been preparing for since you entered womanhood, one you always thought you would be willing to accept. It is your duty, after all.

So you say just that. "It is my duty, and if I am able to fulfil my duty, then I am certain that will bring me happiness."

Daemon scoffs, his lips forming a self-righteous sneer. "In the story, do you then think that the warrior knight would have been better off fulfilling his duty and abandoning his love?"

"It is not the same."

"It is exactly the same."

"No," you emphasize, "because he had a choice. I do not."

He had stopped right in front of you, a bit too close for comfort, almost as if he needs to lean in to scrutinize you fully. "Love is the death of duty, my lady. Take my word for it, you would be far better off playing your role. If you truly wish to honour your family, you would not fall in love at all."

He's so close that you can feel his breath fanning your face. If you didn't know any better, you would believe that simply being so near Daemon Targaryen is the reason why your body feels like it is on fire. He gives off heat like a furnace, like a dragon.

Maybe he is a dragon. Is that not what they all say about Targaryens?

You open your mouth to take a breath, lest your throat also burns from the dry warmth, your stomach curling adding to your nerves. It prompts you to ask, "What about you, my prince? Has duty stolen every chance you have at love?"

His eyes draw downward to your lips, and his faint blonde lashes catch the light. The Rogue Prince does look otherwordly. Everything you have heard about him has been inadequate.

His violet eyes meet yours once more. "I would not bother with such frivolity. As I said, my lady, power and blood are all there is."

"Perhaps so. Perhaps true love only exists in the stories that I read."

"You are learning," he nods, and offers what might be his first genuine smile to you.

"Nevertheless," you step away from him, and carry your book back to the shelf. "I do not fault the warrior knight for choosing love over glory. I would choose as he had done, if that were a possibility."

His response is glib, but not meant to offend. "Then you are a fool, my lady."

"I wish I were a fool, my prince," you smile, lowering your gaze. "Aren't all fools happy?"

"You wish nothing more than to be mere mummer who has found happiness in love."

"If only," you say. It's surprising how easy you're finding it to engage in conversation with him. It feels like you have known him for many moons and not only for this moment.

The Rogue Prince, of all people. Which begs the question, what is he doing in the library of House Arwen?

"Pardon me, my prince, but why have you graced us with your presence this morning?"

He turns serious, almost bored, that he has to acknowledge the reason for his visit. "My brother, the King, has sent me to relay an official decree to your Lord father. He is to accept the position of Master of Coin for the small council."

"He... he is?" you swallow. This would mean that you have to go with him and live in the Red Keep. This also signals that your betrothal to Tyland Lannister is afoot. Your father had recently paid a visit to Casterly Rock to arrange for your marriage to Tyland or Jason Lannister. If it is to be with Jason, you would be sent to Casterly Rock. If Tyland, your father would take the offer to be part of the small council. You are to accompany him and begin courtship with the Master of Ships.

At least it will be Tyland and not Jason.

"Yes, I am supposed to meet your Maester here in the library to deliver the royal decree," Daemon replies, the task so insignificant to him, unaware that he has just delivered news that determines the course of your life.

Not that it makes any difference. Your father has always wanted to join houses with either the Lannisters or the Baratheons. Forge a true Westerosi alliance. It seems that he will finally get his wish.

Your thinking gets the better of you, and you stand unmoving, the weight of duty suddenly feeling too much to bear.

Daemon's face scrunches in what can misconstrued be concern. But surely he isn't. He must only be uncomfortable at your sudden silence and blank expression.

"Is something the matter? Are you not pleased that your father is graced with an opportunity such as this?"

"Of course. I am sure that he would be delighted."

"You do not seem to be."

No, you aren't. While you have met Tyland Lannister before, there was never any attraction there. From your side and his. Yours would be a marriage of convenience, for the benefit of both Houses.

How I wish I was the warrior knight.

"It matters not how I feel, my prince."

There is movement by the doors, and the old Maester rushes in all out of breath.

"My prince!" He calls out immediately. "My deepest apologies that I have kept you waiting."

Daemon pays him no mind. His attention is solely on you. Conscious that the Maester observes the exchange, you clear your throat. "I shall take my leave, my prince. The Maester will see to you now."

You tilt your head and curtsy in farewell. As you pass by Daemon, your hand brushes against his, the pads of his knuckes rough against your own. The first and likely the only time your skin will come into contact with his, you strangely think with regret. Still, it catches you off guard and you feel a sensation like needles pricking all the way up your arm.

"My lady," he greets, and under his breath, making sure the Maester cannot hear, he adds, "my lady fool."

Another smile is shared between the two of you.

Love is the death of duty, he had said. Sooner rather than late, you will find out just how it rings true.

Supper with your Lord father is but another constant. You have always been grateful for it, especially since the passing of your late mother.

He is the only family you have around, with your elder sister already married off to some Lord in the Riverlands. She has already done what was expected of her, securing an alliance for House Arwen and bearing children for her Lord Husband.

The mantle has been passed on to you. It was never something to ponder over, as it is not something in your control.

Do your duty. Play your role. Pray that you never fall in love at all, Daemon said.

But might I fall in love with Tyland? Should that not be what I aim for?

"I heard that you encountered Prince Daemon this morning," your father says. "I trust that you acted accordingly as befits his station."

"Of course, father."

"Though it matters little to me how that rogue prince fares." The derision in his tone cannot be contained. Your father has never held Prince Daemon in any regard, viewing him as a waste of his titles.

"The Prince was gracious enough to exchange pleasantries with me."

Pleasantries. Never mind how he mocked your story, your family, and by extension, you.

"Careful, daughter. Prince Daemon is never loathe to chase after the nearest skirt that catches his fancy. I feel for his newly betrothed, the Lady Laena Velaryon. Far too good for him, that one."

"Daemon is betrothed?" you ask, unable to hide your surprise. Last you heard, his wife Rhea Royce passed in a tragic hunting accident. You also heard the whispers that she perished by her husband's hand.

After finally meeting him, you would not count it as an impossibility. But some part of you does not want to believe that he could be capable of something so vile.

"Yes, Prince Daemon has been betrothed once more. No doubt the most fruitful union for their Houses," your father confirms. With all this talk of betrothals, you already know what is coming, but your stomach sinks all the same when he adds, "as will be the union of House Arwen and House Lannister, dear daughter. You should consider yourself highly fortunate. I have toiled considerably to bring about your betrothal to Tyland Lannister."

"Of course, father." The words are empty, worn through, forever echoing in your ears.

Of course. I will do my duty. What is love after all, but a passing fancy, mere fiction entombed in between pages?

The red scales of the infamous Blood Wyrm glisten under the bright sunlight.

Caraxes lets off an ear-splitting screech as Daemon guides him across the skies.

"Daor tolmiot sir." The Valyrian smoothly comes from Daemon like a song. Not far now.

Not far from the seat of House Arwen in the Westerlands. His destination, for some unknown reason.

Just the seventh day after he was sent to deliver the decree, he finds himself returning once more. It is the day that your Lord father, yourself, and the rest of your envoy are set to ride for King's Landing.

And Daemon has decided to extend an offer to you, the Lady Arwen, one that might infinitely expedite your travels.

There were a myriad of justifications floating around in his head. He found out that you are betrothed to Tyland Lannister and his actions on this day would no doubt ruffle the preening lion's mane.

Anything to needlessly anger a Lannister, Daemon would enjoy.

He would revel in the pleasure of bespoiling such a prim and strait-laced Lady such as yourself. It would be like sport to him.

It must also not be forgotten that this would rouse the ire of your Lord father, who has never held any love for Daemon and vice versa.

All these reasons make complete sense to Daemon. All but one which he does not allow himself to entertain.

That he wishes to see you.

Who are you, if not just another proper wench with your honour and your faith for the Seven Gods up your arse? Daemon has much more discerning tastes, from dragonrider to tavern whore, but never one with your disposition.

You are nothing to Daemon. No one.

But that does not mean he will refrain from indulging in the pleasure of causing chaos.

The clouds part as Caraxes dips lower, revealing the outline of your meagre castle.

"Sepār ilagon konīr." Daemon refers to the inner courtyard where a line of carriages await, precious possessions being lugged onto them by footsoldiers.

Caraxes dives down with precision, his wings casting a shadow over the courtyard as he suddenly descends, leaving everyone startled.

Daemon's boots heavily crunch against the gravel as he jumps down, and he scans the wary crowd for his prize.

Soldiers rising to attention, bowing their heads to their prince. Ladies-in-waiting openly ogling him as he draws nearer. The Maester and his apprentices approaching him with rushed greetings springing from their mouths.

And then, there you are.

Standing just behind the small crowd, whispering hurriedly to your companion. You shush when you spy Daemon heading right for you.

"My prince." You perform the usual curtsy. Daemon thinks the movement does not suit you. He much preferred it when you were getting riled up at his remarks back at your library.

"My lady," he greets. "Lovely weather we are having, is it not?"

You appear confused, your eyes narrowing and nose scrunching for but a brief moment, and Daemon relishes in prompting such an unguarded expression. But it reverts back into your polished smile.

"Yes, it... it is, my prince. Forgive me, but I was not aware that we were expecting you."

No. Of course not. "Let me rephrase that. It is lovely weather for dragonriding, and I am inclined to think that you would enjoy the journey to the Red Keep."

"I am afraid I do not follow."

Daemon gets right to the point and his next words ring true, leaving no room for doubt as to his intentions. "My lady, I would like for you to ride with me."

Your posture becomes slack, and you gape at him like he has grown a second head.

"That would be inappropriate, my prince."

"No," he sneers. "It would be inappropriate if I take you for myself right there on the dragonsaddle, my lady, but I merely wish to offer a ride."

Your companion blushes profusely at his words. Apparently the image affects her so much all she can do is stare at her feet.

You, on the other hand, are unyielding. Your eyes blazing right through his own violet. A nagging voice in Daemon's mind insists that this is what he came for. Nothing else.

You finally say, "It is unbecoming of me to even entertain that notion, Prince Daemon. My Lord father and my betrothed would surely not approve."

Daemon takes a step closer, and the two of you stand nearly toe to toe. "But do you not wish it? Do you not wish to fly on dragonback? Much like the heroes in your stories I would wager."

"Those are just stories. It would be foolish of me."

Daemon laughs dryly, "My lady, is that not what you are? A lady fool who dreams of adventure and love?"

You frown when he has you cornered, your thoughts whirring in that foolish head of yours. Daemon feels the need to run his thumb over your pursed lips.

Perhaps I am the foolish one.

The Maester interrupts, breaking the impasse, nervously looking between the two of you.

"My prince," he says, "if you came to speak to the Lord Arwen, he is still in his chambers. He should be on his way down shortly."

You glance at the Maester then back to Daemon, awaiting his response, but he has none to offer.

You tilt your head disapprovingly at his outright discourtesy until he extends his hand to you. "My lady," he says with sincerity, "you shall be made a good lady wife soon enough, but today I invite you to be foolish with your prince."

It is the Maester who speaks, "My prince, the Lady Arwen must not - "

But you rudely interrupt, a newfound fire blazing in your eyes. "Is it as exhilarating as the stories say?"

"Enough to please a fool," Daemon replies.

With a smile, you fit your hand right into his, consequences be damned.

I may not write for him as often, but Daemon just might be my favourite to characterize and the most fun to weave stories with 🖤

This is a fixed miniseries, with a more or less fixed story, so it will only a three-parter.

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen #house of the dragon #matt smith #hotd

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wispeth · 4 months

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Every knight of the round table possesses a trait that Arthur admires about them--a trait that he inevitably adopts himself, trying to mold himself into someone he is proud to be, by looking first at the people he admires, and why. Mimicry is the highest form of flattery after all.

Leon was the first person Arthur ever truly admired. When Arthur was a boy, he took a first notice of Sir Leon during his (Leon's) knighting ceremony. After a boyish bout of asking round the guests, Arthur had deducted that Sir Leon was something of a prodigy swordsman; the ginger haired man was younger than most who'd been knighted that day, but he was given additional honors for a recent act of heroism. It certainly raptured the princeling's attention.

That and, Uther looked genuinely pleased with him, which caught the eye of the little prince, who wished for his father to see him in the same light. Little Arthur wanted also to be something his father was proud of. So he looked to Sir Leon.

The knight was loyal. He was honorable. He was chivalrous. He was obedient. He was a proper soldier. He was everything a knight was meant to be; Arthur could see then why his father would be proud. Arthur took pride in him as well, still did, far beyond those days of youth.

The princeling was not jealous, no. He was awestruck. 'I could do that too,' he thought in wonder. 'I could be a knight.' He couldn't have been older than nine at the time: no idea who he was, but he did know, in his heart of hearts, that he, too, wanted to be a man like that.

Far later, now, Leon is a knight of the round table. His place at the table represents the soldier in Arthur--his roots--reminds him what he's fighting for: for Camelot, for home.

Lancelot, as well, was someone that Arthur admired. He faught only for the most noble of reasons, and was otherwise a very gentle (albeit gently chaotic) soul. He was kind, and he was charming, and Merlin--that was someone else who's opinion mattered--Merlin always looked happy to see Lancelot.

Arthur could do that as well. He could be kind.

Then there was Gwaine. That one, he, oddly enough, signified Arthur's humility. He was messy, sure, plenty rough round the edges, but he was a serious man when it counted (and not a second more).

Becoming a knight made him no less human. He was just as much of a man as he was before, just as much of a drunk, and a troublemaker, and just as good a friend. Similarly, even being but a mortal man of mortal mistakes, he was no less of a knight.

Arthur took a page from his book: to be a man first, and a king second. He would not make kingly decisions that would hurt his honest heart, and he would not do reckless things with the heart he uses to rule.

And Merlin--gods above, Merlin--there lies the heart in question. Merlin was hope itself. He was everything sacred in the world that Arthur vowed to protect.

Merlin was, well, he was odd, to say the least. He was gangly, and waifish, and awkward and clumsy--sassy, that one--and boyish too. Merlin went about life as if he learned how to be a person from the ground up, as if he was never told how to behave, as if--when he was young, and full of sunshine still--he was simply let loose, and never told to protect himself.

And still yet, it seemed that he wore his heart on his sleeve everywhere he went, as if nothing bad could happen to it while it was on display. And Arthur would wrangle the fates into obedience if it meant never having to prove Merlin wrong.

#bbc merlin #merlin #merlin bbc #arthur pendragon #sir leon #sir lancelot #lancelot du lac #sir gwaine #merthur #bbc merthur #merthur bbc #wispeth

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owlwithanapple · 3 months

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You’re Late ❤️‍🔥👄

Content : Adult Content/Romance/Passionate

Characters : Bruce Wayne x Y/N

Bruce: Dinner🖤?

Y/N: Ok♥️.

A man and a woman, spending some time together in bed, neither sex buddies nor lovers. Beyond friendship, maintain an ambiguous relationship, enjoying the bitter and sweet time. The taste that you have only tasted once, the process is deeply engraved in your mind.

For attend the date tonight, you pay great attention to elegance and temperament. You put on a delicate makeup, curled your hair, chose an elegant and noble dress, matched it with a pair of stilettos.

You arrived at the place early, which was the live music bar that Bruce chose. The atmosphere was great, the service attitude and environment quality were great. You sat down close to the stage, while waiting for Bruce arrive, you ordered a glass of water.

You know, waiting for someone may be lonely and sad. But when that person appears, you will feel indescribable joy and peace of mind. You are willing to wait, but may not be able to wait until he appears. You spent the most precious two hours here, he didn't respond to a single phone call.

"Miss, would you like to order?" The considerate waitress stood next to you.

You choked up, with countless sorrows in your heart, but still keep smiled and said, "I'm sorry wasting your time here. Give me a black pepper lamb chop and a portion of mashed potatoes."

The songs played by the live band very beautiful, with melodious and rhythmic melodies. You sit there quietly listening to every song. Music is a good medicine that can heal the soul, but you don't feel anything.

You tap fingers on table and say bitterly, "I'm so free."

The waitress refills drink and looks confused, "Huh?"

Because of waiting, you gradually think about it, and you are still indulging in fantasy, which is ridiculous. Everyone will willingly wait for someone until they meet. You have wasted a lot of your youth, why do you repeat the same mistake again.

You sorted out emotions, stood up and walked backstage, shaking your hair as you walked, exuding a breath of confidence and vitality. Remind yourself all the time are shining, as dazzling as a star.

When you get backstage and see the band about to go on stage, you step forward and gently tap one of the members on the shoulder, smiling and asking, "Do you mind having more singers?"

The band members looked confused. "You want to go on stage? Why?"

You stood there and smiled slightly. "I was stood up."

They gathered together discuss for a while. At this time, the lead singer went to rummage through the boxes and found a microphone handed it to you. "Shall we sing together?"

You curled your lips and smiled, nodded slightly. "Of course."

It was your turn to go on stage with the next band. The lead singer noticed your stiletto heels , he took the initiative hold your hand lead you to the stage. You sat on the chair to adjust the microphone, while the other members adjusted their instruments.

"Ahem, we have a new friend in our band today." The lead singer looked at you with a gentle look.

You shook your hair, smiled confidently, waved and greeted everyone, "Hello. Just call me Rosie. Today I will sing a few songs with the band."

The people in the audience applauded and cheered, and some even screamed. In your low mood, someone accepted your willfulness and a group of people tolerated your shortcomings. It's good that he didn't come. You like to have fun like this all night.

"First of all, this song is called You Are The Reason. It's a gift for my new friend Rosie." Suddenly he said this. You covered your mouth but smiled. The lead singer flicked his tongue a few times then snapped his fingers. The members played the music, the music sounded and you two swayed to the melody.

He held the microphone tightly, humming slowly to the rhythm of the music, looking at you with a gentle and firm look. You closed your eyes listened to the beautiful melody lingering in your heart. The prelude was shocked by his beautiful voice.

The whole world seemed to be enveloped by his singing, so beautiful and harmonious. The audiences sang together, the music and singing blended together to form a wonderful atmosphere. You put the microphone to your lips and sang with him.

I'd climb every mountain

And swim every ocean

Just to be with you

And fix what I've broken

Oh, 'cause I need you to see

That you are the reason

As your soft, flower-like voice and singing sounded, the audience burst into warm applause. The lead singer's eyes stayed on you, he held your hand tightly sang the song with you until the end before letting go.

The audience and the band members gave you applause. It was incredible that so wonderful and full of energy. You applauded with them. Immersed in this wonderful atmosphere, Bruce stepped in and noticed your face became solemn on the stage, and there was another woman holding his arm.

"Wow..." You smiled helplessly.

"What's wrong?" The lead singer patted your shoulder.

"Nothing. I want to play drums." You smiled slightly.

"You can?!" The lead singer was surprised.

"Who are you looking down on?" You took off your high heels and ran to the drummer, he gave you his seat. You picked up the drumsticks and played with them in your hands, then hit a rhythm on the drum. You winked at the lead singer confidently, he stood up and opened arms to clap his hands.

"Rosie! You are the best!" He pointed at you and shouted.

You raised the drumsticks and shouted "One more song!"

This is the first time Bruce saw you singing and playing drums here, the scene was very charming, you were a flower blooming in the crowd. He felt very guilty and had very complicated emotions. He completely forgot about the date with you. Two hours had passed, you still at the place.

"That girl is really amazing, right, Bat?" Selina took his arm.

Bruce rejected her tactfully and avoided her physical contact. He couldn't take his eyes off you at all, he fell in love deeply with your charm "Yeah."

She held Bruce's face and faced her "Where you looking at? The girl ? She is young and energetic."

He looked away coldly "I guess."

Selina noticed Bruce didn't see her, and said sarcastically "Bat? What's wrong? You are so absorbed in looking at that young girl."

He looked at Selina and said coldly "It has nothing to do with you."

You thought Bruce was different, believed he would come, just like last time. He did come, with another woman. From a distance, couldn't hear the conversation between the two, and they seemed unhappy. The woman dumped Bruce and left, leaving him alone enjoy your stage performance.

Waiting is so painful, it brings back your unpleasant memories. When the music started again, even your breath was colliding, you enjoyed the swaying steps, and every moment the music sounded, kept venting your emotions and feelings in your heart.

It was late, the happy time was over, the audience who spent time with you had left, the band members were packing up and preparing to leave, the music bar was closed, and you were left alone on the stage, looking at Bruce in his seat.

The lead singer whistled over, "Rosie, I take you home?"

You shook your head and declined, "No thanks."

"Mr Wayne, we're closed." The waitress said nervously.

"I know. Lend me this place." Bruce looked at you silently.

It was quiet, with only two lights on. There was no one around, you and Bruce were staring at each other. He walked towards you, kneeling on one knee to put on your high heels for your bare legs, and you willing to get down from the chair.

"Two hours. You are so cruel." You looked disdainful and hypocritical.

"I'm sorry." He just treated me coldly.

You were ready to leave, a hand grabbed your arm and pulled you into his arms. He hugged you tightly and buried his head in your neck. His breath was transmitted to your neck, which was puzzling.

"Are you happy with her?" You asked with a disdainful tone.

He calmed down and thought about it before speaking, "I talked to her about work."

You broke free from his arms and told him seriously with a dissatisfied expression, "Work? Are you sure? She doesn't look like that."

"Y/N. Listen to me."

When he was about to continue, you stopped him impatiently, "Stop. You left me here for two hours and I haven't started to argue with you."

He scratched his hair and sighed, "I'm sorry."

You crossed your arms in front of chest and stamped left foot helplessly. There were a lot of dissatisfied and unconvinced words in mouth that wanted to burst out, felt so disappointed but speechless. He is not what you expect, you take yourself too seriously.

When calmed down, you heard footsteps approaching, he was walking towards and stopped in front of you. He gently moved your hand, held your upper hand with his left hand, and hugged your waist with his right hand, our bodies close to each other.

"I haven't forgiven you yet." You looked away unsatisfied.

"I didn't ask you to forgive me. I just want to dance with this beautiful woman in front of me." He guided you to follow his dance steps step by step.

You looked into his deep eyes "Who is she?"

He smiled faintly, as if there was something hidden in his expression. You moved slowly and steadily with his dance steps until he said calmly "She is my ex-girlfriend."

You stopped and looked at him indifferently "Why you two here?"

He noticed that you had stopped and locked his eyes on you "Work. She and Batman are both people who act in the dark."

You nodded and smiled, "She is the one who made you late for two hours."

He hugged you tightly in his arms, slowly stroked your back until stopped at your waist, "I owe you a good night."

His tone revealed unspeakable pain, you hugged him and patted his back gently, "I am waiting here like a fool."

"You are not. The moment I stepped in and saw you, I fell more deeper than before." He let go of you and fingers gently stroked your cheek.

You held his hand on your cheek and stroked it gently, he moved closer to your face, and was felt on your face. You blinked and looked at him, and gaze were locked each other.

"She will jealous." You said teasingly.

"I don't need to know, I want you to be jealous." He left a kiss on your lips, he broke the kiss and looked at you again.

You hugged him and tilted your head to smile. You bit his neck, although it was just a light bite, but you didn't let go until satisfied. He had no intention of pushing away, and you heard him laugh softly.

"Are you satisfied? My love." He pouted and smiled, his hands restlessly touching your hips.

You pouted your lips to smile cutely, "You owe me a good night. I want you with me today until I satisfied."

He laughed and looked at you, "I'll listen to you."

You thought about it and took his hand pull him away. In the middle of the night, he held your hand tightly. You led him to a Japanese barbecue roadside stall and ordered two beef skewers to take a bite.

"Wow. Eat this?" He watched you eat the skewers.

You handed him "I like it."

He leaned down to chew a bite, his eyes lit up, "Not bad. Delicious. Give me another bite."

You ate all "Oops. Sorry."

He lowered head and laughed, then came close to slapped your butt, took out the money from his pocket and ordered two more, "My love, so naughty."

You took the initiative to bury his arms between your breasts and poked his face with fingers, "You are even worse, just teaching you a lesson."

He took a bite, pinched your face turned it to him, then passed the food in his mouth to your mouth and licked your lips. You chewed the food, he was fanning the flames, your confident look became shy.

He took another bite and chewed it, smiled confidently, "Delicious?"

You swallowed it and licked your lips once, "It's delicious."

The thick, slightly drunk and sweet atmosphere was ignited in an instant, he fanned the fire of desire and ignited it, your seductive and incomparable sexy temptation, he couldn't resist the desire in his heart and pulled you deep into the alley.

He pushed you against the wall, put his hand under your skirt between thigh, his fingers exploring your skin. You looked up at the sky and moaned with pleasure, he was playing with your clitoris through a layer of underwear.

"Fuck - Bruce -." Your sensitive clitoris was rubbed by his fingers until it was soaked, he inserted two fingers and kept fucking, make you feel excited in an instant.

He looked so proud, it was the most satisfying when he fucked you so wet with two fingers. He unzipped his zipper and showed his cock, you really wanted to be held tightly by him and fucked.

He looked like a big wolf wanting to eat a rabbit. He took out fingers that covered with your love juice and looked satisfied. He said in his magnetic and deep voice, "Turn around."

You obeyed and turned around. You raised hands and placed them on the wall. His rough hands pressed your hands against the wall. You bent down and raised your hips. He lifted your skirt and pulled down the panties. His cock rubbed your private parts until it was filled with your love juice and then inserted it.

His cock came in directly. The feeling made your legs sore and weak, but was very pleasant. You kept moaning, letting his cock hit you violently. He reached into your underwear and kneaded your breasts.

"Ah—fuck—there—Bruce—." In this position, his cock hits your insides so good, making you climax repeatedly and moan non-stop. He slaps your buttocks without any rest, the feeling reaches your private parts.

You climax and ejaculate love juice inside your body, but he doesn't intend to stop or let you catch breath. He increases the intensity and thrusts quickly, fucking you harder, and you feel his collision inside your body.

One night in a quiet alley, your unbridled moans can be heard. The two of you can't resist the temptation, and boldly take a unique and romantic adventure, making love in the alley without restraint, enjoying this intense process without scruples.

Time passed bit by bit, until his cock was at the edge, his movements were faster and bigger, he pinched and rubbed your nipples, his cock kept pushing deep inside you.

"I can't hold it anymore - fuck!" You moan louder as reach climax. You pinch your hands. He come directly inside you. His cock stays inside you. He leans on your shoulder take a breath. You feel the thick and hot semen staying inside.

He lets go of your hands and hug your waist tightly. Leans on your shoulder to take a breath. You touch his hair and say naughtily, "Don't forget take it out."

"Hahaha. My love, you are so comfortable and suitable for me." He lifts your hair and kisses it gently. At this time, he notices your hairstyle has changed, from straight hair to slightly curly hair. "Your curly hair is also beautiful.".

"Thank you. Today's dress is not wasted." After finished, he pulled out his cock. During the process, you stood for too long. Once relaxed, your legs were weak and couldn't stand steadily. He quickly came forward to hold you and took the opportunity to kiss his charming lips.

Today you are wearing high-cut lace panties. As soon as you put them on, can feel a sticky feeling in private parts. It is the stuff from him. Some of it has even flowed out between your thighs. You feel so shy and helpless that can't clean it up right away.

You can feel the liquid flowing as soon as you move a little. Your legs are sore and weak. You pull Bruce and ask, "Hold me. I can't walk."

He curled his lips and smiled when he heard your request. He bent down and picked you up in a bridal hug. Fortunately, there was no one around. Otherwise, exciting to have sex outside, but it would be embarrassing to be discovered.

You were swinging legs leisurely and suddenly heard him say, "My love, your new high-cut lace panties?"

You were dumbfounded that he actually noticed it. You poked his cheek, "Dear Bruce, do you like it?"

The corners of his mouth slightly raised, "You are really good at choosing. I love it."

You smiled slightly, "You actually noticed it."

He winked at you, "I also noticed your bra is blue."

You laughed until tears came out, "Fuck you."

"Come home with me tonight, I want to hold you to sleep." He suddenly mentioned to you.

"Hm... OK." You smiled slightly.

— The End —

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hamletthedane · 1 year

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Hamlet’s Age

Not to bring up an age-old debate that doesn’t even matter, but I have been thinking recently how interesting Hamlet’s age is both in-text and as meta-text.

To summarize a whole lot of discussion, we basically only have the following clues as to Hamlet’s age:

Hamlet and Horatio are both college students at Wittenberg. In Early Modern/Late Renaissance Europe, noble boys typically began their university education at 14 and usually completed at their Bachelor’s degree by 18 or 19. However, they may have been studying for their Master’s degrees, which was typically awarded by age 25 at the latest. For reference, contemporary Kit Marlowe was a pretty late bloomer who received a bachelor’s degree at 20 and a master’s degree at 23.

Hamlet is AGGRESSIVELY described as a “youth” by many different characters - I believe more than any other male shakespeare character (other than 16yo Romeo). While usage could vary, Shakespeare tended to use “youth” to mean a man in his late teens/very early 20s (actually, he mostly uses it to describe beardless ‘men’ who are actually crossdressing women - likely literally played by young men in their late teens)

King Hamlet is old enough to be grey-haired, but Queen Gertrude is young enough to have additional children (or so Hamlet strongly implies)

Hamlet talks about plucking out the hairs of his beard, so he is old enough to at least theoretically have a beard

In the folio version, the gravedigger says he became a gravedigger the day of Hamlet’s birth, and that he’s be “sixteene here, man and boy, thirty years.” However, it’s unclear if “sixteene” means “sixteen” or “sexton” (ie has he worked here for 16 years but is 30 years old, or has he been sexton there for thirty years?)

Hamlet knew Yorick as a young child, and the gravedigger says Yorick was buried 23 years ago. However, the first quarto version version of Hamlet says “dozen years” instead of “three and twenty.” This suggests the line changed over time. (Or that the bad quarto sucks - I really need to make that post about it, huh…)

Yorick is a skull, and according to the gravedigger’s expertise, he has thus been dead for at least 7-8 years - implying Hamlet is at least ~15yo if he remembers Yorick from his childhood

One important thing sometimes overlooked - Claudius takes the throne at King Hamlet’s death, not Prince Hamlet. That is mostly a commentary on English and French monarchist politics at the time, but it is strange within the internal text. A thirty year old Hamlet presumably would have become the new monarch, not the married-in uncle (unless Gertrude is the vehicle through which the crown passes a la Mary I/Phillip II - certainly food for thought)

Honestly, Hamlet is SO aggressively described as being very young that I’m fairly confident the in-text intention is to have him be around 18-23yo. Placing his age at 30yo simply does not make much sense in the context of his descriptors, his narrative role, and his status as a university student.

However, it doesn’t really matter what the “right” answer is, because the confusion itself is what makes the gravedigger scene so interesting and metatextual. We can basically assume one of the following, given the folio text:

Hamlet really is meant to be 30yo, and that was supposed to surprise or imply something to the contemporary audience that is now lost to us

Older actors were playing Hamlet by the time the folio was written down, and the gravedigger’s description was an in-text justification of the seeming disconnect between age of actor and description of “youth”

Older actors were playing Hamlet by the time the folio was set down, and the gravedigger’s description was an in-text JOKE making fun of the fact that a 30-something year old is playing a high-school aged boy. This makes sense, as the gravedigger is a clown and Hamlet is a play that constantly pokes fun at its own tropes and breaks the fourth wall for its audience

The gravedigger cannot count or remember how old he is, and that’s the joke (this is the most common modern interpretation whenever the line isn’t otherwise played straight). If the clown was, for example, particularly old, those lines would be very funny

Any way you look at it, I believe something is echoing there. It seems like this is one of the many moments in Hamlet where you catch a glimpse of some contemporary in-joke about theater and theater culture* that we can only try to parse out from limited context 430 years later. And honestly, that’s so interesting and cool.

*(My other favorite example of this is when Hamlet asks Polonius about what it was like to play Julius Caesar in an exchange that pokes fun of Polonius’ actor a little. This is clearly an inside-joke directed at Globe regulars - the actor who played Polonius must have also played Julius Caesar in Shakespeare’s play, and been very well reviewed. Hamlet’s joke about Brutus also implies the actor who played Brutus is one of the main cast in Hamlet - possibly even the prince himself, depending on how the line is read).

#hamlet #hamlet meta #hamlet’s age #this obviously does NOT imply anything about being 30yo btw #any age is a good age to be driven to madness by guilt and grief #It’s just very usual for shakespeare to describe somebody well past their apprentice age as a ‘youth’ SO MUCH #and that makes those lines very interesting #shut up e #willy shakes #posting this while EXHAUSTED going to see a million errors and tone problems tomorrow sorry in advance yall #**very unusual #long post #posting Hamlet meta like it’s 2014 hell yeah

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achaoticeternal · 2 years

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he has beautiful bones | a.t

AEMOND TARGARYEN x FEM!STARK!READER

summary: after your quarrels with alicent and aemond, you and aemond must come to terms with his actions. word count: 2.3k warnings: internalized misogyny a/n: i love this little war criminal and i don’t know whether to fix him or join him in his madness - but this is a fix him fic lol

part one | all that he sees

Three full suns had risen and set since you last lay with Aemond in your room, much less spoke with him. Rather than accompanying your husband where ever he be in the walls of the Red Keep, you took up the company of youthful noble ladies and your lady-in-waiting. And while you laughed and soaked in their kind company, the ache in your heart remained.

You had only seen Aemond, even Alicent, in passing through halls and gardens. Alicent would keep an eye fixated on you during the brief encounters, but you paid no mind to her as you passed by. You had nothing good or kind to say to the woman, so it was better that you keep your mouth shut. When Aemond would catch a glance of you, his expression became slightly hopeful, only to fall as you brushed past him. Instead of attending dinner, you took them in your maiden chamber within the presence of your lady-in-waiting and personal guards.

There was no doubt in your mind that Alicent had plagued your husband's mind with terrible thoughts and words about you and your behaviors. A small part of you hoped that he would retaliate against the unkind words, but you truly expected him to silently accept her words or even laugh along. Cruel thoughts...

You had taken to a daily habit of checking in with the maesters to see if words had come and go from your brother, Cregan. At first, it shocked you to hear that there was no correspondence from either side. Only one response from the Greens, requesting time to deliberate while a swarm of Lords from the Southern region congregated at the Red Keep. There was some relief on your part that Aemond had not just simply acted on his mother’s wishes... yet.

Currently, you were to be found in the grand library of the Red Keep. There was a pile of books on one of the desks closest to you; organized by records, stories, and histories. During your courtship with Aemond, he would often read you the histories of the Targaryen line and even the tales of Old Valyria. He thought it important that you knew and understood the family you would be marrying into. Admittedly, it was a kind gesture and a privilege that very few people who had married a Targaryen had ever received.

The love both of you had for your separate heritages was what helped to plant the seed of love in your marriage. While he taught you small and loving phrases in High Valyrian, you would tell him of the fables that your parents told you as a little girl. Stories of the children of the forest and the first men in exchange for the history of Valyria before the Doom. Such a small act of love was what truly made you, a Northern lady, feel welcome in the Southern kingdoms.

In your searches for the next book you would be mulling over for the next day or so, you came across a children’s book with stories of the Sigils of each house and how they came to be. The illustrations were silly and you even giggled at the depictions of the Mormont bear and Greyjoy kraken. You flipped through the pages, continuing your amusements until the wolf of your own house came into view. Ironically, the pages for Stark and Targaryen were next to each other in the section of the great houses. You read over both pages...

House Stark - the Direwolf: a house of ice and honor

a man of the north is an honorable man as there ever was he is strong he is fierce he does what is best, right, and good

House Targaryen - the Three-Head Dragon a house of fire and blood

a man of the dragon with fire in his veins he is steadfast he is regal he does what is best for the house

Your forefinger traced over the words as you compared the descriptions of both houses to the men you honored most in your life - your brother and your husband. But then you dismissed such comparisons and thought of yourself - how you embodied such traits of both houses. With a firm nod, you closed the book and turned on your heels... you knew what to say to your husband now.

As if divine timing was on your side, one of Aemond’s personal King’s Guard entered the library and announced himself.

“My lady, Prince Aemond requests your presence.”

“Thank you, ser,” You spoke with a curt nod as you began to exit the library, “And it would do you and others good to address me by my rightful title — Princess.”

The guards escorted you through the halls of the Red Keep until you came upon the familiar oak doors of your marriage chambers. As you approached, you waved the guards off to dismiss them and knocked at the great doors. There was a pause, and then Aemond opened the door.

Your husband, though still stoic and tall in posture, looked utterly exhausted. One might even conclude that he had barely slept since you were last properly at his bedside. This surprised you - as Aemond rarely showed any emotions outside of his amusements, teasing, and eagerness in training. His shoulders were even slightly slumped as his good eye met your gaze.

“My wife,” His tone was far softer than when you had last spoken with each other. His eye then trailed to the outskirts of the door, “Where are the guards?”

“I dismissed them,” You spoke bluntly, “We are speaking as man and wife, are we not? What reason do they have to be posted outside your door?”

There was no reason. Both you and Aemond knew that. He simply nodded his head, but there was a pause hanging in the air. It did not release until you broke it yourself.

“May I come in? Or will be speaking at each other through opposite sides of the door?” You questioned, cocking your head to the side.

Aemond’s eye trailed over your body before he fully opened the door and stepped out of your way. You could now fully step into the chambers and see what a disheveled mess it had become.

“Have the attendants not been coming in? It looks a full mess in here. They-”

Aemond quickly cut you off, “No one has been in these chambers except myself since you took the bed in your maiden chambers.”

There was another long silence. Your eyes flickered across the room and looked anywhere but at Aemond.

“Why?”

“Because even if you left my side in anger, I did not want to see you erased from our marriage chambers,” Aemond spoke softly, truthfully. His stature was wavering, you could tell that he wanted to grab your hand but fought against his touch-starved desire, “My mother tried to send in maid after maid to clean and tidy, but I sent them all away. I would not have her commands pull you from me - even in the smallest of details like your soft scent upon the bed pillows.”

Your brows furrowed, not in hurt, but more in surprise at his words. Your heartbeat picked up with each honest word. Though he was never an overly affectionate husband, especially before others, he did have his own special way of always taking your breath away.

“Aemond...” You breathed out...

You shook your head, knowing that you wouldn’t betray yourself by returning to his arms with just a few kind words.

“I’m glad to hear that you dismissed Alicent’s requests, but why not have avoided any of this?” You ask him with a twinge of hurt in your voice, “Why not defend me to her in the first place?”

Aaemond thought for a moment about your question. He thought over the consequences of his lack of action and how throughout his life, he rarely stood up to or disagreed with his mother. It weighed heavily in his heart - the comparisons he made between his mother and his wife.

When he thought of Alicent, he saw a woman who fought for her children. A woman who deeply loved him and cared for him when he lost his eye. A woman who admittedly helped to build him into a far better Prince than his elder brother. A woman who did her best to give him what he desired.

When he thought of his lady-wife, he saw a woman who seemed a direct foil of who young Aemond imagined he would marry. You were an engaging and intelligent young woman. You never wanted to simply bear the heirs of the Dragon Prince, but rather love him in the ways his family could never. You had taken the parts of himself that he hated or others had damaged and loved them.

"I am sincere in my apologies, my love." Aemond began, "I have... neglected my duties to you; made you feel undermined, underappreciated; and bit my tongue when I should have defended you."

He began to slowly approach you. As he came closer and closer, he reached out his hands to gently take one of your own between his palms. His gaze focus on your hand, more specifically the golden wedding band, as he collected his thought to continue his apology.

"I love my mother dearly — but I love you more..."

"When I was growing up, my father dismissed all of his children except for Rhaenyra, so I depended on my mother who was fighting her own battles. Aegon was... he is just Aegon, and Helaena had to process her own life. I did not feel so open to cherish or love anyone until you came into my life," he raised your hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss to your knuckles.

"I should have corrected Alicent instead of allowing her to brush you off. Your council is something that I deeply cherish and require with this matter. Please, join me tonight at the meeting of the small council so that we can finally provide an answer to Cregan."

A smile twitched at your lips with each word. You could feel the sincerity in each word and tell how much thought he had put into such. This was the man whose hand you had accepted in marriage. With his lingering question, you answered with a grateful smile, "Thank you, Aemond. I would love to be at your side tonight, and to return to bed with you after."

Aemond chuckled and fully pulled your frame against his chest, "Good," he whispered. He pulled you into a soft kiss, glad to have you back in his arms.

A chair had been drawn up next to Aemond's seat at his orders long before the pair of you arrived at the meeting. As a couple, you both were the last to arrive before the top of the hour. You had other catching up to do outside of apologies...

Once you entered the room, a small gasp could be heard — obviously from Alicent. The other Lords of the table held similar shock in their eyes but did not reveal their opinion with their words or faces. Arm in arm with Aemond, you approached your seats. Aemond pulled out your chair from the table like a gentleman and you stood in front of it. All members were standing, awaiting the arrival of King Aegon.

Your eyes shifted about the room, looking from Lord to Lord. Based on their expression, you knew Aemond had a look on his face, daring them to say something.

"It is good to see you back by your husband's size, my lady." Alicent finally broke the silence, "But may I ask why you are present?"

As you reached for your chalice of wine and sipped from it, Aemond answered his mother's questions, "My wife is originally a lady of the North and Lord Cregan is her brother. She is an excellent resource for us in this current predicament. She is here to provide us with useful insight which we may be unaware of."

Alicent did her best to maintain a composed smile as her eyes flickered between Aemond and you, "Interesting..."

As you returned your chalice to the table, Alicent quite noticeably cleared her throat, "My lady..."

"The Prince is smart to bring in your assistance for this meeting. I do encourage you not to make many interruptions as there is much to discuss this evening. In fact, your advice should only be to your husband and not the council, my lady."

The Queen mother seemed content with her backhanded words as she finished with a nod. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Aemond's knuckles go white as he clenched his hand into a fist. Though you appreciated his refusal to back down, you rested your hand softly atop his fist, insinuating that you would handle her words.

"My Queen, it is an honor to join the small council this evening and provide my insight where it is needed," You spoke with a smirk, "but I must say - much as I respect and even admire all the hard work you've poured into the ears of these fine Lords, I expect that you acknowledge my words as well. For as you, I believe it would be appropriate for you to reciprocate the respect that you expect of me."

"My lady—" She attempted to interject.

"My Queen, I wish for you to address me with my proper title — Princess..." You stopped her with a smirk.

All eyes were on you in shock that you had corrected the queen. However, your eyes glanced over to Aemond for a moment to see him smirking, clearly proud.

Before another word could be said, King Aegon finally entered and the meeting finally began. As you took your seat, you felt Aemond's hand reach under the table to grab your own. He squeezed it affectionately and kept it there the entirety of the night.

|| thank you for all the wonderful comments on part 1

|| i’ve tagged below those [the ones i could] who commented to part one

@violet2507 @malfoytargaryen @melsunshine @lol-im-done @thenovelcarnival @xoxo-pepprmnts @sl-ut @hoziersfairy @merovingianprincess

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caffeinewitchcraft · 2 years

Text

Cinderella Doesn’t Believe in Fairytales (part 9)

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3). (Part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7) (part 8)

Baron Ramsey knows a secret.

It is a very good position to be in, to be a noble and to know an important secret. The base of the aristocracy’s power comes from secrets after all and knowing one that many others don’t means he holds a special power. A different power. An important power.

Baron Ramsey subtly pulls his collar away from his neck as he’s led down the long, ornate hall to the audience chamber. He can feel a bead of sweat just shy of his hairline and he hopes it doesn’t roll down his temple at the wrong moment. The knight leading him to the King and Queen has a hand on the silver hilt of his sword. He doesn’t look back at the Baron, but Baron Ramsey can feel his attention regardless. Like a flock of birds looking down from the trees as you pass underneath.

Knowing a secret is a very good thing, he reminds himself. He dabs away the bead of sweat a beat before the knight opens the doors the audience chamber. He most likely has only been called to discuss a new item the Queen wants. Something that he who spends so much time abroad could find for her. It is a common occurrence. That is why he takes pains to never let her find him at home.

“Baron David Ramsey,” the knight announces. He steps smartly to the side and bows without ever once looking at the occupants of the room. “Your majesties.”

Baron David Ramsey. His name curls inside of his chest and settles like a band around his lungs. When he was a boy, his father took him to meet the Queen and King. His father said it was only natural to feel anxious and frightened in their presence. Natural and right, even. But now he can feel the unnaturalness in it and he struggles to take the first step forward. He could be crushed by their attention alone.

For our Cinder, he thinks and watches his feet carry him forward to kneel before the King and Queen.

The heavy, wood doors swing shut, sealing him alone inside.

“Rise, Baron,” the Queen says. Her voice is like the ocean. Trickling and light until the syllables collide into each other like waves. Then he can hear the depth of it, the power in it.

He rises and finally looks up at the thrones.

The Queen is draped in purple. Ribbons of the finest silk are braided into her hair, ranging from violet to lilac. She is sitting upright, her hands placed carefully on the arms of the chair so he can see the length and sharpness of her lavender nails.

Baron Ramsey’s heart beats faster, like a rabbit, when he sees the Queen. But it stops in its tracks when he sees the King.

The King isn’t seated on his throne. He is standing a step behind the Queen, his hands resting on the hilt of a sheathed sword that he’s using like a cane. He is dressed entirely in black except for a single piece of amethyst embedded in his obsidian crown.

He is not pretending to be a co-ruler right now. He is showing what he really is. The Queen’s one and only personal knight.

They know, the Baron thinks. He sways on the spot. They know I know.

“Welcome home, Baron David Ramsey,” the Queen says. She smiles and her teeth are astonishingly sharp. The King seems out of proportion behind her, his limbs a little too long and his eyes a little too deep set. The Queen laughs and it sounds like bells. “Welcome home to the Unseelie Court.”

Knowing a secret is a very good thing…until it’s no longer a secret at all.

--------.

Baron Ramsey is not a clever man. He used to think he was. Oh! The folly of youth. He’d been determined to reclaim the noble prestige his father had lost and had spent many years searching for the right thing to leverage into a higher position. Trade deals, a new variety of crops, attempting to gain protection from one of the Kingdom’s three dukedoms. He tried it all to no avail.

Then he went into the West Mountains.

He went to find a diamond mine. Journals from his ancestors spoke of treasure to the West. The entries never specified where to the west, but David Ramsey did not have many options. They did not have land of their own to mine and he did not want to rent it from the dukedoms which had rejected his service. So he took some money and his father’s disappointment west.

He did not come back with sacks full of diamonds.

He came back with a wife.

“I will marry you,” she said the day he proposed. Her hair was so pale blonde that it nearly blended in with the snow swirling around them. Her eyes the blue of a clear winter sky seemed to see through him. “But it will cost you. There is always a cost when you meet someone like me.”

And love-blind he said, “Whatever the cost, I will pay it. I love you and I want to be with you for the rest of our lives.”

Her lips thinned. She had already told him her years were numbered. Her lifespan slipped through an injury from the attack that had decimated her land. It would never fully heal. Did it make his love more shallow than hers that he knew how many years he must dedicate to her? She would be giving him the rest of her life. He would be giving her a mere years.

But, love-blind as well, she said, “The cost is this: you will never be a Duke or a Marquis or even nobility with land. You will stay a landless Baron. There will never be plenty in your coffers just as there will never be nothing in them. You must do nothing to attract attention to yourself or to me. We must live in solitude.”

“But we will live together,” he said. He felt the conviction in his heart and he got down onto one knee, uncaring of the ice on the ground. He held her hand between two of his. “My time with you will be all the treasure I need. If I have your attention, I need no other. Let me love you. Please.”

“You must never say please,” she chided gently. But she let him slip his mother’s ring onto her finger and she followed him down the mountain to the lush greenery below.

She gathered her power carefully in her chest when she stepped over the boundary between her land and this new one. Her Court lay dead behind her, but it did not mean the Unseelie Court would be forgiving enough to let her live. She wanted to live. She wanted to live with this human whose ancestors had once been her enemy and whose rulers were her enemy now. He did not hold their nature. He was human and perfect despite it.

For a while, they were happy. Truly they were. She supported him in finding new connections beyond the Kingdom to finance them. They soothed each other when his father passed. He had become like a father to her too. And when they had their daughter, she was still happy.

Something changed. She didn’t know what (or did not want to consider it). Her husband began to travel more and, having to take care of their child, she could not go with him. More than once she wondered if he still loved her. He had promised to let their time together be his treasure, but she did not feel treasured watching him disappear down the road alone. She spent hours staring in the direction he left, paralyzed by the fear of asking. Did he still love her? Did he still want to be with her?

Her daughter’s eyes were always on her. She had too much to lose.

She did not ask.

It wasn’t until she found their child killing ants in the garden with a sneer twisting her perfect face that she was confronted with the fact her absent husband might secretly hold part of her enemy’s nature after all. She felt it pulsing from their child like the night sky overtaking the horizon. It was only then that she realized what the Unseelie Court had become.

“They were dying like we were,” she told the Baron. He was coming home less and less. The cost he paid to be with her was driving a wedge between them. He wanted to provide more for their daughter and her restrictions kept him from trading within the boundary of the Kingdom. “The Queen held less morals than I did when I ruled my lands. She did not keep the Court pure. She let her powers spread thin outside of the Inner Court in hopes that one kernel of it would spark and ignite stronger than ever.”

“What are you saying?” The Baron asked.

“Our Cinder,” she said in a trembling voice. She watched out the window as their daughter ran after butterflies in the garden. “She has a spark of the Unseelie Queen.” From you. “And she will inherit my powers as well. She will be everything they want, David, she will be beyond what they want—"

“We’re safe,” the Baron interrupted. Conversation about the Queen made him uncomfortable these days. He did not tell his wife, but he had taken a contract with the Queen who had noticed of his foreign trade. She paid better than other kingdoms for harmless things. Jewels and fabric in ever shade of purple he could find. He avoided his wife’s eyes lest she discover his duplicity. “Your barriers are strong. They won’t find us here. They won’t find our Cinder.”

“You’re not listening,” she cried.

“You are worrying over matters that can’t reach us,” he soothed and that was the end of that.

But she knew he was wrong. He was human and did not understand the nature of the fae as she did. She had already been teaching her daughter how to behave like a fae. Now, she knew, she needed to teach her daughter how to avoid becoming the sort of fae who would attract attention.

I must teach her to be kind, she thought, holding her daughter to her chest that night. Memories of her Court screaming crowded in from all side. The look on her daughter’s face while she killed the ants seemed darker in her memory. Kindness will thwart this darker nature. I only have three years left. Only three years.

It would not be enough time.

[-------

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rise-my-angel · 1 year

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Heart of the Great Wolf

3 - An Intrigue Drenched in Blood

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader (Slow Burn), Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader

Length: 8.6k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, animal death, discussions of child murder and infanticide, brothels, blood and violence, slight canon divergence

Notes: Previous Chapter Here, Things pick up from this point on, I assure you. Series Masterlist Here.

Bright and noisy was the state of Kings Landing as knights poured in from every corner of the most populous cities. All with their shiny armour and polished bravados like they were every bit of confident that they would win the winning gold and glory. They were never your kind of attraction even in your younger years here. The play fighting that so many of these men staked their life on, and of all the days to miss it was yesterdays which had the worst of action.

Not allowing the chance to even truly approach for a question, Ser Gregor Clegane otherwise known as The Mountain had speared the newly knighted Ser Hugh with a lance right through the throat. A space in his armour seemingly perfect for such an action and it felt hard to believe that it was nothing but a coincidence. Nothing in this city was a coincidence anymore it felt.

Walking towards the stands you passed by where curiously your King uncle was absent from his seat. Not a man to miss a spectacle you toyed with the ridiculous notion that he would ride in the event. Even now you could recall a time when you were thirteen and a tourney was on just like this one, you had stopped by the tent King Robert was in and admonished him for being so foolish to join.

It was easier to be comfortable with him in those days. You were sat up on a table, popping grapes into your mouth as you casually would remark that not only would no man dare hurt the King even in jest, but that the armour he was trying to fit in was about fifteen years too small. Were you not so close, he might have gotten you in trouble for such a comment. You couldn’t imagine even having a conversation with him that would allow for fun now.

The King was less miserable, and typically more reasonable and sober back then and you were still full of a youth like pep in this city. You still had the urge to explore the nearly fifty miles length of tunnels hidden about by the former dynasty and the pretty colours, bright sun, and vast diversity of lords and ladies impressed you. You still could walk into this city with a smile, unlike now. Maybe it was the loss of a childhood trait, or more realistically it was the adult understanding that this was a dangerous place and you’d be a fool to think otherwise.

You still wore the pretty dresses, and entertained the noble daughters whom were some degree of friends but the spark was gone from your eyes despite it all. This place and it’s people no longer giving you joy, instead just now a place of bloodshed and the tediousness of cleaning up after your King’s messes. No wonder your fathers scowl had deepened the lines in his forehead so much, you were beginning to think you’d return to Robb in Winterfell, stress having doubled your age on him.

Spotting Renly, he gave you a closed mouth smile of surprise as you pulled your skirt upwards to climb the steps before flattening it all out as you sat next to him. His voice was as light as ever, not that you expected much. “When you asked if I’d be here, I didn't actually expect you to show up. I thought this wasn’t your kind of thing, my dear niece.”

Tilting your head with a slight grimace you relented. “No, I can’t say I see the great appeal in cheering about men whose claims are they are young and very good at knocking men off horses with a stick.”

Nudging you with his arm, Renly smirked. “Shame, you could do with some fun in your life, shake up the terribly boring personality my brother passed onto you.” Glaring with only a flicker of your eyes to the side, you felt back a slight smirk as he just sauntered onward like nothing. “I hope for Robb Stark’s sake you aren’t such a rigid, bore in bed as well. Last thing one of those northerners need is less enthusiasm in their personal lives.”

Rolling your eyes, you took a breath before just passing him onto the truth. “I promised Shireen I’d go see a tournament, so I can write to her all about it.” You dared not look at him, knowing it was something unjustly vile about her on his tongue.

You think you could see him shrug somewhat beside you. “At least it gets you out for once, you and Lord Stark seem to be working way too hard for a King whose never going to thank you for it.”

Watching the very man approach, he nodded with an unblinking stare for just a second before sitting next to his daughter. No one thought your jobs, certainly not Hand of the King’s job was done for the sake of thanks. Not when the King had attended maybe two or three small council meetings over the course of the six years you’ve been sitting in on them to some degree.

Squinting in the bright sun, you shrugged with an otherwise flat expression. “Someone in this family should do the hard work for once, I may as well take over that mantle.”

Chuckling, Renly and yourself glanced over to the King making his own way to his seat finally, the bumbling sack of nerves and apologies that was his squire following suit with the wine. “Don’t be so harsh on our King, takes a lot of energy to fuck as many whores as he does at that age.”

The contenders next begun to ride up. Ser Gregor large and as brutish as ever on a large yet skittish black horse that seemed to be as unsettled as many felt looking at the man. On the other side, dressed in a bright and ornate armour with poise was his opponent. Curls atop his head neat and styled and a rose in his hand as he looked towards the stands near where you sat, for a subject to give it too.

Settling on the young redhead in the front stands a few rows from you, you could see the elation in Sansa’s shoulders as she gently accepted it. “Thank you, Ser Loras.”

Unnoticed to her as he took steps away, glancing up to the rows where you sat he glanced with a pointed glint in his eyes. Renly did not respond, but the words were there as there was solidarity in your silence. You would tease your uncle as he would you, but something between the dynamic you two had build up seemed to have been discussed in the men’s private affairs. Your teasing was never meant as anything but fodder for banter.

The shared look was not romantic, but they tended to stay away in public due to image. Much of the court knew about Renly, you weren’t as sure many, if any at all, outside of the small collection of whisperers, knew enough to say the same about the son of Mace Tyrell, heir to Highgarden.

In the seat below you and one above the two Starks, Lord Baelish turned with a jaunty grin. “A hundred gold dragons on the Mountain.”

Renly beside, did not hesitate. “I’ll take that bet.”

The two knights made their way to each side of the procession as the lower man begun to brag of his confidence. “Now what will I buy with a hundred gold dragons? A dozen barrels of Dornish Wine, or a girl from the pleasure houses of Lys?”

With a quirk of your eyebrow, you glanced at him. “You could even buy a friend.” The reaction was as satisfying as such a man could emote. A smile as if he knew a secret you didn’t and it only reminded you why bothering to speak to him was so grating. Lord Baelish not allowing for a moment to let another get the one up on him even in words he always felt compelled to have the final look, the final say.

The trumpets sounded out, both riders finally going towards the other as it only lasted for a mere moment. Loras’s Lance striking Ser Gregors shield and pushing him back. The large black horse fumbling in it’s steps as it fell into the wooden railings and knocking the large knight himself to the ground. The crowd cheering with delight as you felt the pride next to you.

Pride in both energy and voice as Renly shouted down smugly, “Such a shame, Littlefinger. It would've been so nice for you to have a friend.”

Standing up and turning to face you both with a quieter tone and a wider smile, you felt the creeping below your skin with a narrowing of your brows. “And tell me, Lord Renly. When will you be having your friend?”

Both of you said nothing, but the glares spoke many things all at once that the man only found amusement in as he turned back. You and Renly glancing at the other for only a moment of seriousness before you glanced back to the waving Ser Loras at the people. “Dare I ask how much gold you two are playing around with to come up with that little stunt?”

Renly laughed, the one thing about you that separated from your father is that you didn’t have to lecture to disprove. If the rich wanted to play with their money like jesting boys, you’d just let them it didn’t matter to you. Leaning in to whisper closer to your ear, “To be fair my dear niece, it wouldn’t have worked as well on any other horse. A man’s animal is only as wild as it’s owner they say.”

The next words didn’t come out of your mouth, as the sounds combined with what image flashed in the side of your vision gathered a mix of yells and stunned silence. Ser Gregor at some point having acquired his sword, took it through his horse’s neck in a single slice. The anger in him wild and untamable as he turned on his opponent, knocking Ser Loras to the ground only just missing from by strikes to his shield.

Both you and Renly standing at the action, Loras was good, but not good enough for that. Strike once twice, enough that you felt the bubbling anxiety in your chest before a growling voice came down from that of the King’s Stand to leave him be.

Striking his sword against his before each pushed away from the other, brother against brother stared the other down in a hatred that spoke more about themselves then it did defence of another. Ser Sandor Clegane, the brother of the giant Knight in front of him with half his face burned in a sear of fire for life. Half the hair on that side barley able to cover it beyond the strands coming from the top of his head that weren’t destroyed.

It wasn’t of any interest to you, nor did it matter, but you recall learning what such a mark meant and how it happened. The two now clashing swords, your eyes narrowed and your nerves grew tense in your muscles. This would get out of hand until more bloodshed arrived but only one man dared to interrupt such a commotion.

“Stop this madness in the name of your King,” The roar from the stands as King Robert stood was strong and echoing. Ser Gregor taking a final swing as the other ducked the blow with a surprising grace as he bent down to kneel, sword stabbed in the ground with a bow of his head.

You felt Renly’s own nerves ease beside you as the Mountain threw his sword to the ground with a raging huff and stormed off. The King yelling to let him go as the crowd parted in a justified terror. The Hound was not a man you enjoyed associating with, found too much pleasure in the necessary harshities of life and considered you to be as aggravating and dull as he did your father. However, he did follow around your wretched cousin for most of his days and that would make anyone angry.

The crowd cheered for Ser Loras and The man most just called The Hound as the smaller and younger raised the others hand in the air of victory, you and Renly sitting back down slowly.

Glancing at him, you could see a brightness in his eyes looking at the proclaimed Knight of the Flowers, and you couldn’t see it within you to give anymore passing jests at the matter. His new close association with the Tyrells struck you as an odd choice, and it pinged a distrust in your brain but you in no way had let it effect what a terror that would be for him.

Renly wasn’t a fighter of any kind, you weren’t even sure he had ever held something longer then a stick to play fight with and certainly had never been hit hard enough to bleed. It’s scary to imagine that you are forced to sit there and do nothing as the man you love has a blade shoved into him.

You perished the thought, you dared not let yourself imagine anything for the two faces which struck you as the scariest.

Sighing to yourself as you walked through the Red Keep you were thankful for the silence, the handmaidens appointed to you were fine girls, good at their jobs, but they were also giggly and chatty and fussed over you a bit too much. Having to tell them day after day, “I can walk myself through the castle halls my ladies, I assure you.”

When you were younger, it was either one of your fathers household guards that would keep and eye on you, or another who wasn’t sworn to serve but seemed to always know when you snuck off. Ser Barristan was in the sworn brotherhood of the Kingsguard, but he took a liking to you the day you arrived in Kings Landing. Not quite good at holding your tongue just yet, but you were still serious and respectful like your father taught you.

It was one day he had been sent by the King to fetch his niece so he could spend some time with you that he came across the most unique of sights. A wide area of Lord Stannis’s quarters had been pushed up against the wall and he stood in the middle with you, only aged thirteen, with a wooden sword in your hand.

He watched for a while, seeing the clever instruction your father was giving you. Ser Barristan knowing your lord father to be a formidable opponent and one that he would not wish to fight on the other side of a battlefield. Yet it wasn’t that style which he taught you.

You were less hacking and slashing, and more about swift movements and carefully timed slices that would cut down faster then your strength could overpower. After that, it was he who often found his way to accompany you when the King had no immediate need of him.

Days like this, you almost missed that. You didn’t want the hen chatter of girls fussing over you like you were the princess but you did miss the company of those who didn’t see fit to treat you like a dainty doll. Sometimes you had wondered if your strange mix of ladylike properness and a tendency to more lordly tasks was because of your father. He gave you and Shireen a lords education and such teachings led you to other interests.

To many you weren’t ladylike enough, but it wasn’t as if you pretended to be anything but the highborn lady you were born as. You enjoyed the company of other women, you took pride in your appearance like many, but you also spent much of your days as a teenager being kicked in the mud and hit with wooden swords by three teenage boys that had no qualms of making you feel like you were fine at being both.

However, as you heard a groan of frustration and tiny pattering of feet scampering beside you as it dodged into the hall, you were met with an amusing sight. Arya was covered in a layer of sweat and grime as well as what appeared to be scratches along her forearms when she stopped. Bending forward to rest her palms on her thighs as she caught her breathe, only flinging back up in surprise when you chuckled.

Slowly approaching, you didn’t bother hiding a smirk. “Such a ghastly state of dress for a highborn girl such as yourself, Lady Arya.” Your chuckle bellowed to a much heartier laugh at how quickly she told you to shut up.

Coming closer to you, she plopped herself down onto a small series of steps as you carefully sat down to join her. “Syrio has me catching cats. If I can be quick enough to catch them, then I’m quick enough to move around my opponents.” You smiled fondly at her, exhausted and covered in scratches that looked unseemly like looking at your once self.

Glancing up, you kept your eye on the black cat hiding around the corner. Peeking it’s one ear’d head out occasionally to eye it’s chaser. “You’re smaller then a normal target. They’re stronger but if you’re faster then them, that’s how you get them before they get you.” When she looked at you with a curious question in her eye, you shrugged looking back to the black cat. “It’s what Jon told me when he started to teach me how to swing a sword.”

Looking up with narrowed brows she asked, “I thought your father taught you?”

Nodding, your fingertips started to tap at the other in a fidget. That memory was still clear as it was when it happened. “Sort of. You were just born, you wouldn’t remember any of it. But it was one night I couldn’t sleep and I ended up wandering into the training yard. I was fooling around with one of the training swords, no idea what I was doing at all. And before I knew it, Jon had snuck up behind me and hit me in the legs with one and I just fell to the ground.”

Arya looking a bit taken back, but you laughed. “We all used to rough house a lot more back then, me and your brothers. He and Robb were around fourteen or fifteen by that point, and I was twelve. So just shy of being too old to pick on girls anymore.”

Moving to tuck her knees closer to her chest she wrapped her arms around them. “So what, he hit you and then..?”

You mimicked the same position, “At first he joked that if I was going to play with swords I should at least learn to not turn my back unguarded. But then he asked if I really wanted to know how to use one.” Feeling far away, the girl next to you disappeared as well as the castle walls around you. “I think we met up after everyone went to sleep for three weeks straight. He taught me some basics, then realized I would learn a bit better if he didn’t teach me how to fight like him, but how to fight against someone like him.”

Smiling to yourself, it was during those nights all to yourself that had done you two in. You weren’t a lady in that moment, and he wasn’t a bastard. You were just you and Jon, your best friend guiding you how to fight simply beacuse you wanted to know and he wanted to teach you. You got roughed up a lot, in the privacy of the night, Jon certainly didn’t shy away from grabbing and throwing you around when you got too cocky.

“When I returned home, my father recognized what kind of cuts and bruises they were, instantly. I never told him who did it, I was scared he’d write to Lord Stark and Jon would get in trouble. But he never got mad at me. No, he figured if I wanted to learn and I already was, then he saw no reason to not continue himself.”

Those days you think were some of the last time you and your father so easily got along. He smiled and laughed during those lessons in his quarters, proud of his daughter so keen on learning the things that helped made him the Lord he was. You hadn’t seen your father so freely smile like the did on those days in a very long time. It was the last time he felt truly like your father, and not more like your Lord.

Lost in thought for more then you assumed, Arya’s voice startled you. “Does it bother you?” Glancing down at her, but she was looking at her feet not you. “Having to act like a lady when you want to do things the boys do?”

Considering for a moment, you saw no reason to sugar the truth. “For a while it did. When I came to Kings Landing for the first time, everyone treated me like a fancy highborn lady when both on Dragonstone and in Winterfell, people just treated me more like who I was already.”

Formality of such high luxury certainly was not common on Dragonstone. Being doted on and cared for like it was a waste of your effort to lift a finger that much was not the way of your father. You didn’t have so much done for you, that you forget what it means to earn your keep through your own means.

“But, I think I had to learn that it wasn’t being a lady that I didn’t want.” Glancing down to her, who now was looking at you with wide eyes. “It was just that I didn’t want to be the kind of lady people like the Queen wanted me to be. I’m nothing like Sansa, but I’m as much a lady as she is.”

Arya looked away quickly, a flash of long hurt in her eyes that you knew stemmed from a sister who didn’t treat her well. “My father wants me to be like her.”

Not even a second hesitation did you spend, “He doesn’t.” Turning to face her properly, you called her name firmly. “Arya. Fathers will always want things for their children, things that they have no way of knowing what we’d like about it or not. He’s not a mind reader, he can’t see the future you want for yourself and sometimes accepting that it’s different then what he envisioned takes time. But he adores you, and he would never tell you to be someone you can’t be.”

Running a hand over her hair, you could feel her trying not to lean into it. Trying to look impassive instead of upset as you continued. “We’re not all going to get the future we dreamed of, but that doesn’t mean your father wouldn’t support your choices no matter how different from Sansa’s they are at the end of the day. He went out of his way to hire Syrio to teach you something he first said wasn’t for girls. He wants you happy, even if it doesn’t lead you to the future he wants or you want.”

“Like how you didn’t get the future you wanted?”

Taken back, you didn’t understand her words but there was no anger or judgment in them as she elaborated. “You didn’t get to marry who you wanted, but every time I see you writing or opening a letter Robb sent you, you still smile in the same way my father does at my mother.”

Not in these open walls would you broach that. Not sure of what she knows or suspected or if you were just projecting onto her. You smiled, and your next words echoed the very thing Jon told you would be what was in store for you. “I’ve known Robb since I was eight. He’s easy to fall in love with.”

Your lips remembering his, and how easy it was to let his touch and his deep words make you lose yourself in him. But also the boyish grins whenever he teased you, the lack of worry you had knowing you could say anything to him and there’d be only support. Even before.

Somewhere in your heart was something far different that needed not thinking of now, or even if you had to think long enough to be real with yourself. But it was locked away for a reason. You couldn’t take that feeling with you, you had to let it go in order to give Robb who you really were. Not just pretend.

That part of your heart, had been captured protectively by the other. That part of your heart now sat heavy alongside that of the wolf who took it with him. That part of love was tucked away safely at the Wall with the one who insisted you not take it with you. You were with Robb now, and no matter what one part of you said, the other part of you yearned to see Robb and actually be happy. You did want it.

“Sometimes the things we want, aren’t the things we originally asked for. But that’s part of duty, how to be just and firm in our choices. Whatever your duty becomes, you have to learn to want it. Otherwise it’ll just eat away at you.”

Glancing up, you saw the little tomcat start to inch away down a stairwell, pulling a smirk as you nodded your chin over to it. “I hope you really want that cat, Arya because he’s about to bolt.”

Her head whipping up, you watched her leap to her feet sprinting down the hall as the little black cat sprinted off faster. As Arya grumbled loudly, you laughed freely.

Much true of words, you didn’t come here wanting to be wrapped in the tendrils of liars and spiders, but as you entered Lord Stark’s room? The very spider sat in the seat across from him, his face somewhat less apprehensive as it was you who entered, not one of mistrust. “My lady.”

“Lord Varys.” You did not sit int he seat beside him, coming to the end of Lord Stark’s desk and leaning back against the wall closest to it, arms crossed as you and him shared a look. His eyes steady and serious as you nodded. “Am I interrupting?”

Cordial and showing no intent, yet he never fooled you. “Not at all, in fact it makes it easier to share such sensitive information while you both are here.”

Lord Stark stared intently at the man, trying to gauge just as you. “Lord Varys seems to think the Kings life is in danger.”

“Oh I don’t think, Lord Stark. I’m afraid I know.”

Your posture couldn’t be more uptight and rigid as your stoned face, but you found no patience in playing nice as Lord Varys did. “Are you speaking of the same kind of danger that killed Jon Arryn?”

A slow nod, his voice was even as if none of this effected him. Despite his very presence and confidence of truth saying otherwise. “If you suspect Lord Arryn was poisoned, it would need to be one that was fast and utterly incapacitating if given the proper dose.”

“If we suspect?” Your emphasis on the doubt of we as in you and Lord Stark had Varys raise an eyebrow to you.

“I assure you my Lady, I don’t act on questions or doubts.” Glancing between you and Lord Stark he settled on what appeared to be the one who relaxed his trust more. “The tears of Lys, they call it. A rare and costly thing, as clear and tasteless as water. It leaves no trace.”

Lord Stark rose, pacing in thought towards the open air of his balcony. Your jaw clenching in consideration of the idea. What Grand Maester Pycelle had said, he seemed confident at first it must have been natural causes. If he didn’t sense a foul attribute then this ran deeply, did it not?

Asking who would give it to him, his voice was muffled as he still looked out to the city. Lord Varys playing such a game that irritated you. Telling you what you already know, but in a riddle to avoid any prying listeners to the subject. Never close to a man who says what he means. “Some dear friend, no doubt. But which one, there were so many. Lord Arryn was a kind and trusting man. There was one boy, all he was he owed to Jon Arryn.”

Squire to Knight upon his masters death, and yet once the master was dead soon was the squire turned knight. Something was tying up it’s loose ends but the ends of what? Lord Varys only saying whoever paid Ser Hugh would’ve been someone able to afford such a price.

His hands pressed against the top of his chair, the same yarns spun in Lord Starks head. You looked from him to Lord Varys. “Jon Arryn was Hand for over twenty years, why kill him now?”

Leaning forward, he spoke of something he knew the answer to and yet still forced you and Lord Stark to form more of that very thing on your own. “He started asking questions.”

There was no way of knowing how haunting this meeting would be to you one day.

The ferocity of your Uncle as he called a meeting of the small council himself told everyone whom didn’t already know the newest update, that something was about to explode. King Robert was the most blatant example of the fury of a Baratheon as any of you living now.

Something akin to madness was in his eyes as you watched him arrive, there was a calmness in both Lord Varys and Renly, a curiousness in Grand Maester Pycelle as he arrived and a difficult to read Lord Baelish who was the only other one present then Pycelle who didn’t know. As Lord Stark finally arrived, walking in you wondered how much of a unified front it appeared to be.

Niece and brother on both sides of the King Baratheon and a horrific message displayed. The only time your King uncle did not mince words, was now. Drenched in anger and vengeance that did not sit comfortably in your stomach. He looked at Lord Stark with all the vitriol he could, spitting out in anger “The whore is pregnant.”

Lord Stark hardly finding it in him to care for hiding his disgust but they fell on the Kings deaf rage.

It was like he didn’t even hear the man speak. “I warned you with would happen. Back in the North, I warned you but you didn’t care to hear. Well hear it now. I want them dead, mother and child both, and that fool Viserys as well. Is that plain enough for you? I want them dead.”

You hadn’t been born until two years after the rebellion ended, you’d never seen him in a place that wasn’t in times of peace and yet he ranted and raved as if all three of them were armed and blooded at the gates. This was not a man you recognized, this was a man who spoke of an unborn child with the same he did of Rhaegar Targaryean.

Lord Stark’s tone was deep, cracking with a shocked twinge at who this man was. “You will dishonour yourself forever if you do this.”

The fury grew louder as he spoke. “Honour? I’ve got seven kingdoms to run. One king, seven kingdoms. Do you think honour keeps them in line? Do you think it’s honour that’s keeping the peace? It’s fear. Fear and blood.”

Your father had a similar idea but never in a lifetime would it be in a manner like this. Lord Stannis felt that if people don’t fear you they won’t follow you. That if you can’t scare the wicked away then the good will not stick around to be picked off by what you refuse to pluck out. If you don’t pull the weeds out by their roots with determined force, then they will overtake the garden and nothing good will stay to grow between the rot.

Your voice was rough, as if your throat was scratched in need of water but it was hissed out without much care for hiding the feeling building. “Fear and blood isn’t far from fire, now is it?”

The King turned to his left to look at you, but you did not flinch back at the rage nor the spitting words from his mouth as he said your name. “Careful now. You’re my niece but you watch that.”

“You’re chasing shadows twenty years removed, shadows you can’t even be sure are real.”

Lord Varys far calmer then the other member still glaring your way. “My lady, you wrong me. Would I bring lies to the king and his council?” You both stared at one another, and in just a brief moment so quick you could’ve imagined it, there was a flash of something in his eyes.

Something like what he found in yours unsettled him. The way you know for a fact, he had looked at Lord Stannis many times over. Lord Stark asked who even provided the information. The spider’s answer did nothing but leave the wolf and little stag unconvinced. Or you supposed, given the calm manner which Renly refused to challenge and the true fury in the other?

Perhaps the two unconvinced members of this council, were indeed two wolves.

“Jorah Mormont. He is serving as advisor the Targaryeans.” You huffed a breath of disbelieving laughter at such a spy. As Lord Stark looked as unimpressed, he himself having much more direct reason to press to them that he wasn’t to be relied on.

“Mormont? You bring us the whispers of a traitor half a world away and call it fact?” Lord Baelish trying to reason that being a slaver is not the same as a traitor and yet only traitors would betray their loyal family and flee across the sea to escape whatever sentence justice demanded from him. You took no part in entertaining slave traders.

“And if he’s right?”

Glaring once more at your king, “And if she miscarries, if the child dies in infancy? We do not plan murders based on a whispers of what if, your grace.” Your name spat once more but you did not hear. “You mean to fear someone who doesn’t even exist yet so much, that you’d murder it in their mothers womb and call that anything but that of a coward?”

King Roberts face almost red from fury as he once again hissed your name. “I told you to watch yourself or have you forgotten who is king here?”

You stared at him as still as possible, not recognizing this as your uncle. This King was a stranger.

“No, your grace. Have you?”

Lord Stark speaking up before the King took a chance to raise his voice so loud it booms through the seven kingdoms. “The Narrow Sea still lies between us. I’ll fear a Targaryean child the day the Dothraki teach their horses to run on water.”

Looking in shock between you both, he yelled at the others to talk sense into you two.

Lord Varys took his chance, looking to Lord Stark notably as opposed to you both. “I understand your misgivings, my Lord. It brings me no joy delivering this news to the council. It is a terrible thing we must consider, a vile thing. Yet we who presume to rule, must do vile things for the good of the realm, however much it pains us.”

Grand Maester Pycelle took his reasoning, a rational approach to a fruitless endeavour. “I bear this girl no ill will, but should the Dothraki invade, how many innocents will die? How many towns will burn? Is it not wiser, kinder even, that she should die now to tens of thousands live?”

Tell that to the unborn child you refuse to give a chance, you thought to yourself.

Renly finally spoke, and you felt that weight in your chest plummet down and slam you hard into the floor. “We should have had them both killed years ago.”

Your eyes blazed as you looked at him, across the table. His were with no guilt even. Of course, the brother handed everything he did not earn nor deserve by the brother he now sat beside advocating for what he sees as the least amount of effort for the most unfair of results. Lord Baelish spoke somewhere to your left but you did not break your eyes from Renly.

“When you find yourself in bed with an ugly woman, best close your eyes and get it over with. Cut her throat, be done with it.”

The men here all sickened you but none as vile as Lord Baelish. Not even King Robert’s rage made you feel as if you were covered in the slime from a swamp from his voice alone.

Lord Stark looked his old friend right in the eye. “I followed you into war, twice. Without doubts, without second thoughts, but I will not follow you now. The Robert I grew up with didn’t tremble at the shadow of an unborn child. I will have no part in it.”

“You’re the Kings Hand, Lord Stark. You’ll do as I command or I’ll find me a hand who will.”

Lord Stark’s only action, was to look his friend in the eye as he pulled off the pin of his position, and tossed it onto the table as it landed with a clunk. “And good luck to him. I thought you were a better man.”

The yelling went on for some time. Not a single one of you with the capability to have him calm his fury and the unravelling of what once made him a King fell before your eyes. As some finally begun to leave, you sat in your seat before projecting loudly. “Your grace? A word?”

Room emptied out, he turned to you. His voice quieter but not without it’s rage. “You have a lot of gall to speak to your king like that, girl.”

Not moving an inch your eyes blazed towards him with a narrowed brow. “Speak to you like what? Like you’re a coward afraid of an unborn infant?”

“A coward-”

Slowly pushing yourself up, you braced your palms on the long table. “Tell me, your grace. What happened the last time a half Targaryean babe was murdered along with their mother? How well did that serve us in the long run, or I am I just supposed to assume that House Martell has forgiven all of that?”

King Robert stormed closer, leaning his fists much like you did your palms. With a tilt of his head you felt as if he somehow still towered over you. “They were that son of a bitch’s own children or did you forget that too? You’d have them alive now and walking around doing gods know what just beacuse doing what needs to be done isn’t honourable?”

“This isn’t about honour,” Your own voice finally rose to a proper shout and your uncles head jolted back as his eyes widened for a moment. “I’m talking about justice. You aren’t an honourable King for doing this, but you’re certainly not giving Lyanna justice by murdering women and children who’ve done nothing.”

“She hasn’t been done right by until every member of that family is dead-”

He leaned forward and so did you. “You served her justice. You killed Prince Rhaegar at the Trident, you were the jury and executioner for his crimes and blaming those who weren’t even there or alive for it has nothing to do with Lyanna and you can’t serve a just sentence for something that isn’t even close to have happened yet.”

You weren’t fool to think you got through to him, but he was lost in thought for just long enough for you to find the limit of your handling be reached. “Don’t do anything to people who haven’t proved a harm to you. That unborn child is someone you’ve never met, you have no idea what they could grow up to become, uncle.”

Passing by, he was simmering down as you were when you stopped beside him. “I’m not even telling you what to do about the girl. You choose to kill her, and just her I will not argue. But you cannot punish an infant just beacuse they have drops of Targaryean blood somewhere in their veins. You have no idea what that child could turn into, and if they are a threat? Then we serve out that justice. But only when justice is required.”

You got to the door before he spoke, voice raised to catch the distance as he turned to look at you.

“It doesn’t matter what you two do. If I won’t give it to him, I won’t give it to you.”

You shook your head, a sad sigh breathing from your lips. “I wasn’t asking for it, your grace. And with all due respect, I’m not just your niece. I’m his daughter. Not yours. I wasn’t raised to think you were ever in the right towards him.”

The door which closed behind you sealed you and Lord Stark inside. You have to admit, there was nothing more of a bizarre shock to the day this had been, then being told Lord Arryn and Lord Stannis had visited this brothel together. You father alone being here was enough to conjure an image of him that you wondered how rigid and emotionless you came across to these woman as he likely did.

Lord Baelish had urged you and Lord Stark to visit his establishment, to see the last person Jon Arryn visited before his death.

The girl in front of you, her name Mhaegen, was little more then a child. Younger then you, but you doubted with your heart that were you to ask Lord Baelish how old she was, that he’d give you an honest answer. In her arms, was a stunning baby girl.

Bright green eyes, already the makings of a strong face of dark hair and once more a ping inside you clung. Two actually, but the first one was how much of a Baratheon this little girl was. “She looks like him, don’t she, My lady? She has his nose, his black hair?”

You stood slightly in front of Lord Stark, running your finger down the girl’s cheek. She looked so much like Shireen did at that age, you wondered if you held her, would she yank at a stand of your hair until your head was leaning cuddled against hers. Something your new baby sister had loved to do when you could still hold her at that time.

But this baby wasn’t just a reminder of your sister, it wasn’t even a clue of mystery about how this all connected to Lord Arryns death. No, you were looking at this baby girl, your raging Uncle’s bastard daughter and you were stunned by this was your cousin.

This small girl was your cousin like Joffery was, and yet this girl smiled weakly as you tickled the side of her neck with a coo and a smile. How many of them were in this city alone? How many of them didn’t have a clue that they belonged to a family that could give them life outside of the poverty of flea bottom?

Lord Stark stepped up beside you, as the no doubt teenage girl looked to him. “I named her Barra. Tell him when you see him, my lord. If it pleases you, tell him how beautiful she is?”

Lord Stark said he would, but you both knew it would not matter. The King barley had any love in his heart shown towards his own children, for as many faults as Queen Cersei had no one could doubt the love for her children was a real as her hair was blonde.

Children, babies, that meant nothing to the man your uncle had become.

“And tell him I’ve been with no one else. I swear it my lord. By the old gods and the new. I don’t want no jewels or nothing, just him. The King was always good to me.”

The gods have mercy what a web of lies King Robert had played this girl up to, to think he’d ever entertain her as more then something to warm his bed and little Barra as anything but a bastard to cast out beacuse highborns like the King had no use for anything that didn’t bear his name or his house’s titles.

Perhaps becoming a Stark was the final nail hammered in that deemed you not one of him anymore.

Lord Stark asked what it was Jon Arryn wanted, and to the only amusement you found that day, she looked almost worried she painted the wrong idea of him. “He wasn’t that sort of man, my lord. He just wanted to know if the child was happy. And healthy.”

He looked at the glee on the young mothers face at her babe, the longing and tragedy deep within your eyes barley hidden by a steel mask that weight you down. He ran his hand over the baby’s foot gently as he spoke, “She looks healthy enough to me. She’ll want for nothing.”

He didn’t have to pull you physically, but it seemed like tearing away from the girl was a cruel task. Just an infant who had a lifetime of poverty and neglect in front of her all beacuse your King Uncle had no taste for self decency. You thought too of the one in the armoury, Gendry. How learning of who his father was, would come as no comfort considering the sort of man Robert Baratheon was proving himself to be.

No child deserved to grow up fatherless, but perhaps knowing who they are could hurt or disappoint then thinking they were just a no one. Joining Lord Stark into the next room where Lord Baelish looked as relaxed as ever and you felt as rigid as ever.

It wasn’t such a place that bothered you, but it certainly was the eyes and ears of who owned it and for what. You wondered if there was even any women in this establishment who didn’t fuck just to fill Lord Baelish’s need for information.

“What do you know about King Robert’s bastards?” Lord Stark had asked him.

With a sly grin, it was impossible to tell which he looked at more. The proper Stark, or you. “Well, he has more then you for a start.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you pushed it down as far as it could go.

“How many?”

Lord Baelish glanced at you with no doubt this time, before sliding them back to Lord Stark. “Does it matter? If you fuck enough women, some of them will give you presents.”

Presents being children who will never feel like their apart of a world that respects them.

Lord Baelish gave you no answer as he walked slowly to you, Lord Stark, and the accompanying Jory to the door. Something inside you was screeching and yelling, like it had the answer to something you weren’t quite at yet. It made your heart pound, but it also set your blood alight like it burned. You didn’t know why, and yet what arrived outside for you was it’s own present that intended to ruin.

Members of the Lannister guard surrounded the area, standing two to one of the Stark’s own household guard their spears at the ready. All three of you slowly wandering into the streets slowly, your lips parted as galloping came forth until a horse with Jaime Lannister sat atop came by. “Such a small pack of wolves.”

He was not a foe you could beat, nor were you prepared for such at all kind of fight. Not truly. Jory using a calm reason to such aggression. “Stand back, Ser. This is the Hand of the King.”

The eyes on him were glinting with smugness but anger. “Was the Hand of the King. Now I’m not sure what he is, Lord of somewhere very far away.” Climbing off the horse, he paced every so slowly with a bravado only a true dangerous fighter could pull off like he could. “I’m looking for my brother. You remember my brother, Lord Stark? Blond hair, sharp tongue, short man.”

Lord Stark steady and calm as you were with a heart that wanted to strangle your lungs from within, “I remember him well.”

Looking to the side at nothing, there was as smirk that seemed to think the northerners cared to play such a game, or you for that matter. “It seems he had some trouble on the road. You wouldn’t know what happened to him, would you?”

He had done none of that, but Lord Stark did not go against his wife’s actions even for a single second as he declared, “He was taken at my command. To answer for his crimes.”

Lannister men shaking their amour as some reached for a better hold on their weapons as the lion pulled his. “Come, Stark. I’d rather see you die sword in hand.”

Moment of anger, or naivety, or just a helpless love you stepped forward with sharp narrowed eyes, “If you threaten my lord again-”

Lord Stark held a hand out, gently keeping you in place and by his side despite the lion pointing his sword with a smirk. “Threaten? As in, I’m going to open your lord from balls to brains and see what Stark’s are made of?”

“You kill me, your brother’s a dead man.”

It all happened so fast, Jaime turning to his own, “Take them both alive, kill his men.”

You had little on you, a small blade that you pulled from a pocket that fit in the palm of your hand almost. You sliced it at the weak softness on the Lannister armour of the one who approached you, crying out as blood split from the cut and you ducked to avoid his counter.

You were fast but it was against too many and a woman whom had no armour, only a dress, and no real weapons to speak off as the Stark guardsmen were taken out most by surprise. As you moved, almost punching into the neck of a Lannister one it punctured a wound enough to have him sputter up and fall to the side as Jaime Lannister shoved a small dagger of his own into Jory’s eye.

Stood in shock for just long enough that the rest were overwhelmed until it was them against the two of you. Lord Stark pulling his own sword, you were suddenly hauled backwards by two arms which didn’t feel like armour was behind them.

Lord Baelish’s voice in your ear as you fought against him was a whisper, “You’re far more useful alive then dead, my dear.”

You were not strong, something Jon, Robb and your father all trained to to keep in mind. Even a man like Lord Baelish could keep you as long as he tried harder then your muscles did, but you couldn’t. You watched the two men clash swords, Jaime confident and Lord Stark desperate. You had hardly seen the Lannister fight in person, but he must have been quite good as for the briefest of seconds?

Lord Starks sword pushing him backwards, his eyes flickered between the man and the weapon worried that there might be a possibility that he loses. Just as Jaime lost the upper hand, one of the Lannister guards stepped forward.

With a harsh push, stabbed his spear into Lord Stark’s leg bringing him to his knees. Already shaking, you gasped with what little breath remained as the hold keeping you from the fight loosened. Enough to slip your arm just enough to lunge back into the middle of his chest.

Jaime standing back in hesitation, watching as you rushed to his side, uncaring of the sweat and blood staining your arms and dress as you grabbed Lord Stark to keep him from collapsing entirely. He shook from the pain and blood loss, you shook from the shock and pathetic cry of how useless you were in a place like this gods forsaken city.

Jaime Lannister climbed atop his horse, turning in place as he gave you both one last look that radiated of both anger and something like a sympathy that you wished you could snatch away and shove down his throat until it choked him. “My brother, Lord Stark. I want him back.”

The City Watch had found you like that, a barley conscious Eddard Stark with a spear in his leg as you looked to the dead around you. Killed for what? In retribution of a man who tried to have a ten year old boy murdered twice?

The weakening look in Lord Stark’s eyes as he grew weaker, your lungs did not breathe nor did it feel like your heart ever stopped threatening to explode from your chest.

For a reason you could not explain, the sight or the light and angle making his appearance remind you so close to that of his son, you for a brief second imagined Robb in his place.

You didn’t understand why your mind conjured such an image, but you knew it horrified you all the same.

#jon snow x reader #robb stark x reader #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #jon snow x you #robb stark x you #jon snow imagine #robb stark imagine #jon snow #robb stark #ned stark

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acourtofthought · 2 months

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I know the Lucien and Jesminda relationship is always described as a big and unconditional love story but I think it was most likely a severe case of young Lucien being a dumb bitch. No matter how toxic the Vanserra family is, he was definitely a spoiled and pampered high lord son to a certain degree. He slept around and then met someone who teased him and probably gave him attitude and he fell head over heels, but daddy I love her. And he convinced himself that she was his mate because young love is often very exaggerated us against the world type of stuff. Then she was killed and he had spent the rest of his life consumed by guilt for being a dumb romantic prince

"Did you think it was mere hatred that prompted my brothers to do their best to break and kill me?" "It would explain why his father and brothers detest him so much - why they have tormented him his entire life." I think I'm missing where you're getting "spoiled and pampered" from. While a HL's son might be afforded certain luxuries such as excellent food and clothing, having to look over your shoulders at all times to avoid being bullied or worse is definitely going effect a person. Yes, he mingled with females but I'm definitely not getting the impression that anyone pampered him. It's written that he chose to mingle with those who were not of the nobility of the Autumn Court, that he was willing to leave behind his title for Jesminda which means he did not care for that sort of lifestyle. If Lucien were spoiled and pampered his personality would have reflected it and those who are used to being spoiled and pampered are not so quick to walk away from it because they feel they deserve to be treated as such. I'm sure he appreciated how different Jesminda was compared to the females that were in the noble house of the Autumn Court, that she was not fixated on marrying someone for power or overly concerned with the frivolous gossip as those in court are typically written as engaging in. I'm sure he loved her wild and free spirit when he'd grown up surrounded by expected formality and structure. And yes, I'm sure that he was somewhat guilty of over exaggerating young love as most people who are new to love are, however that doesn't mean what he felt for her wasn't authentic. It doesn't mean that the loss of her, of what he believed to be true love, wasn't absolutely devastating to him. He's centuries old and if he'd never felt for anyone (until the new emotions brought about by Elain came into play) what he felt for Jesminda in all that time than I don't think we can say the love he had for her wasn't real. Does that mean he would have loved Jesminda in the same way had he met her when he was centuries old rather than as a youth? Maybe not, Lucien is someone different than who he once was and might want different things for himself even outside of love than what he did back then.. But I don't think it's a "But Daddy I love Her" situation. I think it was as real / healthy as any young could be, probably similar to the Celeana / Sam setup.

#lucien vanserra #jesminda acotar

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yandere-writer-momo · 1 year

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baki yarems in royal au?? I personally think, yn would be a princess, katsumi as a prince. Maybe hector as her personal stylist? idk about the others tho... What do you think?

You are the fifth and only unmarried princess in your family. You are incredibly naïve and innocent of the world because you’ve been locked up for most of your life. So you don’t quite understand how dangerous words and actions are in society. Perhaps that’s why you caught so many troublesome men’s eyes?

Hector Doyle is your personal butler. He picks out the best outfits, and he always knows the juiciest gossip about your suitors. He is very good at protecting you, and he is still an assassin on the side. You two have been together since childhood and he knows everything about you… so why don’t you just accept his barely concealed feelings for you?

Hanayama Kaoru is a tyrant king from the north. He is a very cold and war hardened man. He has interest in you after you stood up to the other nobles who were slandering his name. How could a stranger have such kind words to say about him? Unless they had a crush on him… he’s the first to ask your father for your hand in marriage.

Matsumoto Kozue is your lady in waiting! She has known you since childhood and she is your best friend. She loves being able to be as close to you as possible. She knows her feelings for you are ‘wrong,’ but she just can’t help herself. After her engagement was broken off with her lover, you consoled her and she has been attached to ever since.

Orochi Katsumi is the crown prince of a neighboring country. He is a very beloved prince and revered for his kindness. He was shocked when you didn’t acknowledge him and instead chose to dance with your lady in waiting at the ball. You spent your time at the food table and joking with servants. He eavesdropped on your conversation and heard you asking about their children. He fell for you at first sight. He was second to ask your father for your hand and he wouldn’t take no for an answer! He believes you two are soulmates! (You haven’t even spoken to him).

Jack Hanma is your personal knight. He was a child born from conquest (he has no idea he’s half royalty) and abandoned in the streets to die, but you urged your father to take him in. You were his savior and for that, he would devote his life to you. Jack would protect you from anyone or anything. He’s working hard to earn a title so he can ask for you hand in marriage… if not, he will convince you to run away with him. Once he finds out he’s Half royalty, he fights to become a prince. He’d do anything to be with you… he wants to be with you

Baki Hanma is a Duke from the West. He is Kozue’s ex and he is known to be quite pretty. But he is extremely power hungry. You are the only one unfazed by his looks and his power. You don’t like him but he’s intrigued by you. You were once very kind to him in his youth (big sister energy) and he fell for you. You’re the reason why he broke off his engagement to Kozue. So why won’t you accept him?

Kaioh Retsu is a diplomat from the East. He is very kind and chivalrous. You were the only one who warmly greeted him in the castle and held conversation with him. The two of you share knowledge about each other’s cultures and you two drink tea together a lot. Retsu is actually a prince from a foreign country disguising himself as the diplomat. And you were the perfect candidate to unite your respective countries…

Shinogi Kureha is the high priest. His word is law. He might have even more power than your father, the king. So when he heard about his precious childhood friend being pursued by so many people, he immediately spread the word that you’re meant to be the saintess! He completely made it up but no one needed to know that… after all, who would question the word of the almighty? Didn’t Kureha deserve happiness after devoting so much of his life to a higher power already?

#baki hanma #baki the grappler #baki son of ogre #baki x reader #baki the grappler x reader #yandere baki #yandere #yandere imagine #yandere fic #female reader #baki hanma x reader #baki gaiden #Baki #baki headcanons #baki dou #grappler baki #baki au #baki fanfic #baki fanfiction

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septemberlikestea · 2 months

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big shadow of the erdtree final boss spoilerful thoughts. really long and rambly read!

a problem i have is that i LOVED how miquellas story unfolded and how well it fit in with most of my previous thoughts about him. like that hes kind and has truly noble and good intentions but doesnt completely refuse to use force if pushed (his charm to subdue any ill intent towards him, malenia serving to enact violence on his behalf), the curse extending beyond eternal youth to twist his fate into dangling his full potential just out of reach all the time (failing to save malenia from the scarlet rot, failing to either revive or fully kill godwyn, the haligtree failing to grow into a new erdtree, failing to bring in a new age because we kill him, etc) and that he truly does tend to make others do work for him (likely because of his eternal youth and therefore fragility). it was so compelling to me.

the fresh revelations about him i also enjoyed so thoroughly (how his charm actually works, st trina, how he truly sees the world the way a child does - there is injustice and thats unfair, everyone should be kind to everyone) and the way the messages of the crosses slowly went from him abandoning his flesh to abandoning aspects of his very being... i havent played dark sauce three but making him act as the lothric of the final boss is also very interesting because i do very much enjoy how these games take old concepts and play with them like dolls. its very fun and a unique way of storytelling that fromsoft can do with how rich their game history is.

somehow i did not find myself terribly upset with the lack of mentions of malenia (even though its still a bit.. hmm the way malenia cannot be mentioned without miquella but miquella... can. and is mentioned without malenia) due to how miquellas journey seems to have taken him to the rauh ruins and romina, who accepted and embraced the rot? im a little confused about how dryleaf dane is a summon for her even though hes on miquellas side but tbh the followers of miquella do some pretty misguided things because they want to be closer to him. im still inclined to believe romina could be an ally to miquella or at least agree with his philosophy - she guards the sealing tree that protects him in enir-ilim. she is compassionate, reaching out to the abandoned pests and aeonian butterflies to comfort them. miquellas statements on the order he intends to bring (the age of compassion and love) doesnt say anything about the rot, because the rot itself isnt inherently cruel or loving. it just is. and there isnt any obvious sign of conflict between miquella and romina that i found - and it ties in interestingly to how miquellas cut dialogue for malenias phase transition says "let all things flourish, whether graceful or malign." which always read to me like he is accepting that he cant help malenias scarlet rot beyond what he already did, now choosing to love and embrace her even as she becomes something other than herself. of course, cut dialogue is cut dialogue, but i find that it does offer some insight into the direction miquellas story could have taken and possibly did take.

...but i just cant get over how much of an asspull radahn 2 was like 😭 i did the questlines and i suspected he was going to be there from the dialogues (i still believed the leaks were fake because lets be real. he did look very modded) and i can KIND OF look back and see that there were things that MAYBE served as foreshadowing in the main game... like the st trina items in caelid or the lilies by redmane castle and that the true reason for the battle of aeonia was never wholly clear. i wont count the trailer whisper because that could have been anything. like i KIND OF can get behind the fact that radahn, being a sorcerer and a son of the greatest sorceress to ever live #1 queen rennala, would have a primal glintstone and therefore a soul that is quite friendly to being moved from body to body. we have at least two examples of this occurring, from characters with stories that involve quite a bit of body hopping and also are related to radahn being slain - ranni (his SISTER!!) and sellen (who is the character that introduces the concept of properly switching bodies).

so rannis body is made in her mentors image (though likely the face isnt the snow crones) but even if it wasnt - its a manmade puppet that can be made into anything. it also doesnt look anything like rannis empyrean body, being small and blue. sellens bodies are also puppets and we see that they dont suddenly morph in appearance to fit her soul - her old and new body have different hair colors and facial features. they look like her because they were made to look like her!

so why!! does radahn 2 look absolutely nothing like mohg!! the tiny horns on his arms are the least mohg thing he could have - mohg didnt have horns there!! where are mohgs horns that poked out his eye? where are the wings?? why is he so yassified. like.. hello... we established with ranni and sellen that the newly inhabited body doesnt change to look like the soul. if anything the soul itself might change to fit the body - rannis spirit face doesnt match up with her empyrean bodys face. what the hell happened there.

miquella was not established to be able to give makeovers to people, i dont think. like thats not a thing he was ever stated to be able to do in main game? but he can do that now? what happened? the intent seems to be that radahn 2 is a younger version of radahn but why is that... is it miquellas eternal youth applying to him now too? is he doing some twin prince curse sharing that makes his and radahns age even out? why is he wearing his old armor though.. and if radahn 2 is the idealised version of radahn from miquellas childhood memories im just a little confused why that is. was war enthusiast radahn really so reclusive that miquella never saw him since then? was miquella too busy to go to caelid? were all paintings of radahn property of rykard, even though rykard also seems to have interacted with miquella to some degree? i feel like the reason why radahn 2 looks the way he does is very much lost on me.

i feel like the already bad perception of radahn 2: electric boogaloo i got from having the buildup be so scarce in comparison to the other final boss (elden beast admittedly is a little twist boss but radagon is VERY well established through your whole journey, you learn so much about him as you go) combined with the fact that hes literally being dragged from the grave of his pretty complete story to be here... was made so much worse with his design. wouldnt it have been so much more enjoyable if he was a little... you know... fromsoft freaky. like good ole ludwig the horse-man abomination. or the one reborn. or godrick. or putrescent knight. ???

like even the fact that shamans had flesh that had the property of being able to fuse with others contributes little to explaining why radahn 2 looks the way he does - there shouldnt be any radahn flesh? alexander ate it armor and all? its just his soul in there? argh.

and the fact that omen horns disappear on death (sometimes! aka with morgott, mohgs literal twin. doesnt seem to work this way for other cruicible horned beings?) doesnt seem to be related here because radahn 2 HAS horns. and also two eyes. did he just... always have little horns under all his armor? why is this being revealed now.

also what kind of kindness did radahn have... kindness towards sellia? towards his horsey? the cut description of his cat? he is described as a general, his armies love fighting and war. hes godfreys #1 stan, and godfrey killed soooo many giants for being.. giants. waging war was so central to godfreys being that losing the opportunity to fight made him worthless to marika. he is loving towards dead morgott and that doesnt make him a kind person. radahn being a person and capable of experiencing love doesnt make him a kind person!! what did i miss!! i dont really think there was a retcon but i definitely think that something is really really lacking with this specifc bit.

to close this off ill say that initially i full-on hated the boss reveal. both how it worked as our first meeting with miquella and radahn 2. my feelings have settled a lot since then! but while reviewing miquellas story made me feel satisfied with his arc, i am really really struggling to enjoy radahn being... there. and he definitely is just There. he exists. doesnt say anything. with how little influence he has on the dlc plot i feel like they could have just cut the middleman and kept mohg around. would have honestly worked well enough with the formless mother influence everywhere. though frejya would probably have to go with radahn and that would suck. is it worth having an unsatisfying boss in order to have a very enjoyable npc? i dont know what to think.

also the vessel and lord thing is really adding a new layer of "???" with godfrey. is he also possessing a body that wasnt his??? is there some deep lore about how godfrey is the soul but hoarah loux is the body??? god. i dont know. i dont know.

i do expect that my opinions will inevitably change somehow as time goes on and i find more connections between things... but after 2 weeks of digesting the lore im still not liking how this all turned out.

TL;DR: i love miquella but why is radahn there.

#elden ring spoilers #er spoilers #shadow of the erdtree spoilers #sote spoilers #closing my eyes. looking at the sunrise #please point me towards some item descriptions or dialogues if you believe they would alleviate my troubles and many miseries #god i feel like so many of my trains of thought go absolutely nowhere but i think some of it makes a small amount of sense

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